[ill WHS' 1 itlll^l^tl) ' ft V cWra/erf /(^/(JAyunaA../ -vV /-/>., /vvA .-.,■,>,. 1 / ./„•,,■/.■•. |,, /jy., ; SENECA's MORALS; BY WAY OF ABSTRACT : To which is added A DISCOURSE, UNDER THE TITLE OF AV AFTER-THOUGHT. BY Sir ROGER UESTRANGE, Knt. A NEW EDITION. Consort: PRINTED BY J. CUNDEE, TVY TAKE, TOR T. HURST, PATERNOSTER ROW; T. Gibbons, and C. Smith, Bath ; T. Richards, Plymouth ; J. and E. Lpham, fcxeter; J. Dingle, and J. Deck, "Bury ; T. Combe, Leicester; C. Woodward, Liverpool j and A. Borhamley, Leeds. 1803. GIFT OF w< ZM 0%& <&£ !w\rx ADVERTISEMENT. In this enlightened age, when every day brings forth something new on the subject of education and morality, it is matter of considerable surprise, that Writings of such intrinsic value as the present should so long have lain dormant. The talents of Seneca were justly estimated by his contemporaries, and long after his decease; and as modern times cannot boast of similar works of superior merit, the proprietors, anxious to restore to society every thing valuable and essential to the interests of the present generation, have been induced to bring forward a new, being the sixteenth edition, of Seneca's Morals, differ- ing only from the former editions in some arrange- ments relative to the typographic department, parti- cularly in affixing to the head of each page a Hem title, which, they trust, wftl be considered not only as a matter of improvement, but of utility; as the head-lines will, in a great measure, guide the reader in finding out whatever subject he may want. How far they have claim to the encouragement of an impar~ tial, but indulgent public, the success of the present edition can alone determine; but they presume, in bringing forward a work, printed in a size the most convenient to readers in general, and calculattd not only to " raise the genius," but, "to mend the heart," they will contribute much to the entertainment and improvement of the gentleman, the man of letters, and youth in particular,* Impressed with this idea, they offer this edition, with some degree of confidence, to the attention of the public. * This Edition is expressly intended for the younger branches of society, and for the use of schools, and semina- ries of education in general. — Tliere is another Edition, printed in a still superior style, in two volumes, small octavo, intended as an elegant library booh, 32 796284 TO THE READER. 1 T has been a long time in my thought to turn Seneca int* English, but whether as a translation, or an abstract, was She question. A translation I perceive it must not be, at last, for several reasons. First, it is a thing already done to my hand, and above sixty years standing ; though with as little credit, perhaps, to the author, as satisfaction to the reader. Secondly, there is a great deal in him that is wholly foreign to my business : as his philosophical Treatises of Meteors, Earthquakes, the Original of Rivers, several frivolous Disputes betwixt the Epicureans and the Stoics,. &c. to say nothing of the frequent repetitions of the same thing again in other words, (wherein he very handsomely excuses himself, 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 extraordinary hints and notions than in any regulated method of dis- course ; so that to take him as he lies, and so to go through with him, were utterly inconsistent with the order and' brevity which I propound ; my principal design being only to digest and common-place 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 ab- solute necessity for the tacking of them together. Soma other man in my place would, perchance, make you twenty apologies, 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 wel- come 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 pre- sents that ever any private man bestowed upon, the public, and this too, even in the judgriient 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, to- gether with the manner of handling 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 OF SENECA's WRITINGS. IT appears that our author had, amort;* 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 pro- pounded even the suppression of Homer himself; and of casting Virgil and Livy out of all public libraries. The next was Fabius, who tasks him for being too bold with the eloquence of former times, and failing in that point him- self; and likewise for being too quaint and finical in his expressions: which Tacitus imputes, in part, to the free- dom of his own particular inclination, and partly to the hu- mour of the time*. 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 inven- tion, and well read in all sorts of literature, a severe re- prover of vice, most divinely sententious, and well worth the reading, 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 adver- sary is Agellius, who falls upon him for his style, and a kind of tinkling in bis sentence, hut yet commends hirn for his piety and good counsels. On the other side, Columello 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; Dto 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 further than by lights to them from other authors ; as we find them cited much to his honour, and we may reasonably compute them to be the greater part of bis works. That he wrote several Poems, in his banish- vni raent, may be gathered partly frora himself, but more ex- pressly out of Tacitus, who says — " that he was reproached with his applying himself to poetry, after he saw that Nero took pleasure in it, out of a design to curry favour," St. Jerome refers to a Discourse of his concerning Matrimony. Lactantius takes notice of his History and his books of Moralities, St. Augustine quotes some passages of his out of a book of Superstition ; some references we meet with to his books of Exhortations. Fabius makes mention of his Dialogues : and he himself speaks of a Treatise of his own, concerning Earthquakes, which he wrote in his youth. But the opinion of an Epistolary Correspondence that he had with St. Paul, does not seem to have much colour for it. Some few fragments, however, of those books of his that are wanting, are yet preserved in the writings of other emi- nent authors; sufficient to shew the world how great a trea- sure they have lost, by the excellency of that little that is left. 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." Moreover, 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 nature, in the order- ing; of the government of the world, though he was himself all in all, yet he substituted other subordinate ministers, fis 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 t 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 we can pretend to that is good. And again $, Seneca says very well in his Morals— - " They worship the images of the gods," says he, " kneel to them, and adore them ; they are hardly ever from tliem, 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 Exhorttaions, "is the master-piece of most of our. philoso- *Dmn. Inst. lib. 1. cap. 1. + Cap. 2. * Lib. 31. cap. 8. I Lib. 3. Cap. L5. others, for the ground-work of my first Essay. We are fallen into an age of vain philosophy (as the holy apostle calls it), and so desperately over-run with drolls and Sceptics, that there is hardly any thing so certain, or so sacred, that is not exposed to question, or contempt. Insomuch, that betwixt the hypocrite and the Ati.t-ist, the very foundations of religion and good manners are shaken, and the two tables of the Decalogue dashed to pieces, the one against the other : the laws of government are sub- jected to the fancies of the vulgar, public authority to the private passions and opinions of the people, and the super- natural motions of grace confounded with the common 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 begin withal, as an earnest of the rest, and a lecture ex- pressly calculated for the unthankfulness of these times, the foulest, undoubtedly, and the most execrable of all others, since the very apostacy 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 favour 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 for- feiture. And to carry the resemblance yet one point far- ther, 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 the 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 pretended 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 de- nounced so many woes, and redoubled so many cautions against hypocrites, plainly intimating, at once, how dan- gerous a snare they are to mankind, and no less odious to God himself: which is sufficiently denoted in the force of that dreadful expression — " And your portion shall be with, hypocrites." You will find, in the Holy Scriptures, (as I have formerly observed) that God has given the grace of repentance to persecutors, idolators, murderers, adulterers, &c. but I am mistaken, if the whole Bible affords you any one instance of a converted hypocrite. VI To descend now from truth itself, to our own experience, have we not seen, even in our days, a most pious (and al- most faultless) prince brought to the scaifold 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 enslaved ? 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 honour 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 faithful ministers ? This project succeeded so well against one government, that it is now again set on foot 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 majest3''s feet. It is a wonderful thing, that libels and libellers, the most infa- mous of 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 parly : but it would be still more wonderful, if the same trick should pass twice upon the same people, in the same age, and from the very same impostors. This contempla- tion 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 bottom of it the highest opposition imaginable, of ingrati- tude and obligation. The reader will, in some measure, be able to judge bj 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 }et, I could wish that it might be as delightful to others, upon the perusal, as it has been to me in the speculation. Next to the gospel itself, I do look upon it as the most sovereign remedy against the mi- series of human nature, and I have ever iound 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 Preface, concerning the authority of his writings, and the circumstances of his life, as I have extracted them out of Lipsius. IX pliers; 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 gally-pots in an apothecary's shop, aud have re- medies without, and poison within." Lactantius* still. He that would know all things, lei him read Seneca, the most lively describer of public vice* and manners, and the smartest reprehender of them. And again f, as Seneca has it in the books of Moral Phi- losophy—" He is the brave man, whose splendour and au- thority is the least part of his greatness ; that can look death in the face without trouble, or surprize ; 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 omnis- cient, and to him nothing can be a secret." It is an ad- mirable sentence that Seneca concludes his Exhortation 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 Christian have spoken more to the purpose in this case, than this divine Pagan ? And in the beginning of the same work, says Se~ neca — " Wliat is it rhat v.:e do ?. to what end is it to stand contriving, and to hide ourselves? We are under a guard, and there is no escaping irom our keeper. One man may- be parted from another by travel, death, sickness; but there is ao dividing us irom ourselves. It is to no purpose to creep in'o a corner, where nobody shall see us. Ridi- culous madness ! Make it the case that no mortal eye could find us out ; he that has a conscience, gives evidence agaist himself. It is truly and excellently spoken of Seneca, says Lac- tantius || once a^ain.---" 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 innocent creatures, or the worship of bloody sacrifices ? let us purge our minds, and lead virtu- ous and honest lives. His pleasure lies not in the magni- ficence of temples made wiih stones, but in the piety and devotion of consecrated hearts." * Lib. 3. cap. 9. + Lib. 6. cap. 17. $ Lib. 6. cap. 14.. tiLifi. 6. cap. 25. In the book that Seneca wrote against Superstitions, treating of images, says St. Austin*, he writes thus. — " They represent the holy, the immortal, and the inviolable gods, in the basest matter, and without life, or motion: in, the forms of men, beasts, fishes, some of mixed bodies, and those figures they call deities ; which, if they were but ani- mated, 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 objec- tion against himself—" Somebody will, perhaps, ask me, would you have me then to believe 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 God 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, and Hos- tilius, who caused, among other deities, even fear and paleness to be worshipped? The vilest of human affections ; the one being the motion of an affrighted mind ; and the other, not so much the disease, as the colour of a disordered body. Are these the deities that you will rather put your faith in, and place in the heavens r" And, speaking after- wards of their abominable customs, with what liberty doe* 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 afrenay is this, to imagine, that the gods can be delighted with such cruelties, as even the worst of men would make a consci- ence to inflict ! The most barbarous and notorious of ty- rants, some of them have, perhaps, done it themselves, or ordered the tearing of men to pieces by others, but they never went so far as to command any man to torment him- self. We have heard of those that have suffered castra- tion, 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 misbe- coming 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 justifi- cation, and their protection. * De Civ. Dei. lib. 6. cap. 10. XI «* When he comes to reflect," saj's St. Augustine, " upoa those passages which he himself had seen in the capitol, he censures them with liberty and resolution : 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 the loss of Osiris ? and then, what jov for the finding of him again ? which he himself makes 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 maybe 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, awhile after, " a wise man will observe for the law's sake, more than for the gods ; and all this rabble of deities, which the superstition 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 illustrious senator worshipped what he reproved, acted what he disliked, and adored what be con- demned. Xll SENECA's LIFE AND DEATH, J_T has been an ancient custom, to record the actions and She writings of eminent men, with all their circumstances-; and it is but a right that we owe to the memory of our famous author, Seneca was, by birth, a Spaniard, of Cor- dova, (a Roman colony, of great fame and antiquity). He was of tire family of Annaeus, of the order of knights; and the father, Lucius Annaeus Seneca, was distinguished from the son, by the name of the orator. His mother's name was Helvia, a woman 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 Annaeus Novatus, Lucius Annaeus Seneca, and Lucius Annaeus Mela. The first of these changed his name for Junius Gallio, who adopted him : to him it was that he dedicated his Treatise of Anger, whom he calls ^Novates too ; and he also dedicated his discourse of a Happy Life, to his brother Gallio. The youngest brother (Annaeus Mela) was Lucan's father. Seneca was about twenty years of age in the fifth year of Tiberius, when the Jews were expelled Rome. His father trained him up to rhetoric, but his genius led him rather to philosophy, and he applied his wit to morality and virtue. He was a great hearer of the celebrated men of those times, as Attalus, Sotion, 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 ail pleased with his humour of philo ophy, but forced him upon the law, and for a while he practised pleading. After which he would need put him upon public employment, and he came first to be quaestor, then praetor, and some will have it that he was chosen consul ; but this is doubtful. Seneca finding that he had ill offices done him at court, and that Nero's favour began to cool, lie went directly and Xlll 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, shunned company, 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 went well, so long as Nero followed his counsel. His two chief favour- ites, were Burrhus and Seneca, who were both of them ex- cellent in their ways : Burrhus in his care of military af- fairs, and severity of discipline; Seneca for his precepts and good advice in the matter of eloquence, and the gen- tleness of an honest mind ; assisting one another in that slippery age of the prince (says Tacitus), to invite him, by the allowance of lawful pleasures, to the love of virtue. Seneca had two wives, the name of the first is not men- tioned, 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 lie was banished into Cor- sica, when Julia, the daughter of Germanicus, was ac- cused 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 favour 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. Dido reports him to have had 250,0001. sterling at interest, in Britany 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 custom, lies still, without a word speaking, and then do I recollect all that 1 have said or done that day, and take myself to shrift. And why should I con- ceal, or reserve any thing, or make any scruple of enquir- ing 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-denying, than this pas- sage in one of his epistles ?t — Believe me now, when I tell you the very bottom of my soul : in all the difficulties 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. *DeIr», lib. 3. + Epist. 9€, XIV Here follows now, says Tacitus, the death of Seneca, («» 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 lie could not effect by poison. For, it is reported, that Nero had corrupted Cleonicus, a freeman of Seneca's, to give his master poison, 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 lie 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 Se- neca made answer, that frequent meetings and conferences betwixt them, could do neither of them any good ; but that he had a great interest in Piso's welfare. Hereupon Gra- nius Sylvanus, a captain of the guard, was sent to examine Seneca, upon the discourse that passed betwixt him and Natalis, and to return his answer. Seneca, either by chance, or on purpose, came that day from Campania, to a villa of his own, within four miles of the city, and thither the officer went the next evening, and beset the place. lie 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 ex- cused himself by reason of his want of health, and his de- sire to be quiet and private ; and that he had no reason to prefer another man's welfare before his own. Ca-sar him- self, he said, knew very well that he was not a man of compliment, having received more proofs of his freedom than of his flattery. This answer of Seneca's was delivered in the presence of Poppaia and Tigellinus, the intimate confidents of this barbarous prince : and Nero asked him, whether he could gather any thing from Seneca, as if he intended to make himself away ? The tribune's answer was — that he did not find him one jot moved by the mes- sage : but that he went on roundly with his tale, and never so much as changed countenance for the matter. "Go kack to him then," says Nero, " and tell him, that he is condemned to die." 1'abius 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 Cas- 4 ■ar'a orders, asking his advice, whether he should obey them, or not; who bade him by all means do as he was ordered. Which want of resolution was fatal to them all ; for Silvanus also, that was one of the conspirators, assisted now to serve and to increase those crimes, which he had before comploted to revenge. And yet he did noC think fit to appear himself iivthe business, but sent a cen- turion to Seneca, to tell him his doom. Seneca, without any surprize, or disorder, calls for his will; which being refused him by the ollicer, 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 reputa- tion both of constancy and friendship, if they would but imitate it; exhorting diem to a firmness of mind, some- times by good counsel, otherwhile by reprehension, as the occasion required. Where, says he, is all your philosophy now ? all your premeditated resolutions against the vio- lences of fortune ? Is there any man so ignorant of Nero's cruelty, as to expect, after the murder of his mother and brother, that he should ever spare the life of his governor and tutor? After some geneial expressions to this pur- pose, he took his wife in h : s arms, and having somewhat fortified her against the present calamity, he besought and conjured hereto moderate her sorrows, and betake herself to the contemplations and comforts of a virtuous life, which would be a fair and an 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 exe- cutioner to do his office. « Well," says Seneca, "if, after the sweetness of life, as I have represented it to thee, thou hadst rather entertain an honourable death, I shall not envy thy example." Consulting, at the same time, the fame of the person he loved, and- his own tenderness, for fear of the injuries that might attend her when he was gone. " Our Ecsolutions," 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 tor- ments, he desired his wife to remove into another chamber, lest the agonies of the one might work upon the courage of tiie other. His eloquence continued to the last, as appears) b2 XVI by the excellent things he delivered ar 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 mean time, who had no particular spite to Paulhra, 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, which they did accordingly ; but whether she was sensible of it or not, is a question. For among the common people, who are apt to judge the worst, there were some of opinion, that as long as she despaired of Nero's mercy, she seemed to court the glory of dying with her husband for companv, but that, upon the likelihood of better quarter, she was prevailed upon to outlive him. And so, for some years she did survive him, and with all piety and respect to hig memory ; but so miserably pale and wan, that every body might read the loss of her blood and spirits in her very countenance. Seneca, finding his death slow and lingering, desires Statius Annreus, his old friend and physician, to give him a dose of poison, which he had provided beforehand, bein» the SHme preparation which was appointed for capital of- fenders in Athens. This was brought him, and he drank it up, but to little purpose ; 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 Jupiter, the deliverer." The fume of the bath soon dispatched him, and his body was burnt, without any funeral solemnitv, as he had directed in his testament: though this will of his was made in the height of his prosperity and power. There was a rumour, that Subrius Fiavius, in a private consulta- tion with the centurions, had taken up this following reso- lution, 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 Seneca, as one that well de- «erved it, for his integrity and virtue. CONTENTS. BENEFITS in general Several sorts of benefits A son may oblige his father, and a servant his master 4 It * the intention, not the mailer, that makes the benefit II «- There must be judgment in a benefit, as well as matter and in- tention ; and especially in the choice of the person ^ The matter of obligations, with its circumstances l8 03 ' The manner ot obliging oq - 1 lie difference and value of benefits An honest man cannot be outdone in courtesy 36 The question discussed, whether or no a man may give or re- turn a benefit to himself How fur one man may be obliged for a beuefit done to another 45 The benefactor must have no by ends 47 There are many cases wherein a man may be minded of a benefit, but it is very rarely to be challenged, and never to be up- braided • • • b "[ How far to oblige, or requite, a wicked man 65 A general view of the parts and duties of the benefactor 73 How the receiver ought to beluv e himself. 79 ss Of gratitude Gratitude mistaken * Of ingratitude There can be no law against ingratitude KM Of a happy life, and wherein it consists 1M Human happiness is founded upon wUdom and virtue; and first, of wisdom ' 4 There can be no happiness witboul virtue 121 X Efeilosophj is the guide of life J 3 * * xvhi CONTENTS. rPage 1 hi force of precepts 145 No felicity like peace of conscience 156 A good map can never be miserable, nor a wicked man happy 103 The due contemplation of divine Providence is the certain care of all misfortunes ifi9 Of levity of mind, and other .impediments of a. happy life 179 He that sets up his rest upon contingencies, shall never be quiet 189 A sensual life is a miserable life 197 Avarice and ambition are insatiable and restless 207 Hope and fear are the bane of human life 215 It is according to the true or false estimate of things, that we are happy, or miserable 221 The blessings of temperance and moderation '2Ui Constancy of mind gives a man reputation, and makes him hap- py in despite of all misfortunes 257 Our happiness depends in a great measure upon the choice of our company 251 The blessings of friendship ...... ......... 257 He that would be happy must take an account of his time 263 Happy is the man that m iy chuse his own business 273 The contempt of death makes all the miseries of life easy to us.. 281 Consolations against deafh from the providence and necessity of it 294 Against immoderate sorrow for the death of friends 301 Consolations against banishment and bodily pain .. . 509 Poverty, to a wise man, is rather a blessing than a misfortune. . 314 Anger described; it is against nature, and only to be found in man 321 The rise of anger -. 325 Anger may be suppressed 3*8 It is a short madness, and a deformed vice 533 Anger is neither warrantable, nor useful 33t> Anger in general, with the danger and effects of it........ 349< The ordinary grounds and occasions of anger 362 Advice in the cases of contumely and revenge 370 Cautions against anger in the matter of education, converse, 3i»d other general means of preventing it, both in ourselves and others 37fr Against rash judgment 385 Take nothing ill from another man, until you have made it your o*n case 391 (_C»f cruelty f 391 CONTENTS. xi* Pa;e CIc:nr:vy 401 — Certain general directions for the government of lie voice 423 Of styles, compo.-itions, and t!>e choice of words '2$ Against all softs of affectation in discourse 435 Business, a' d want of new?, are no excuse among friends for not writing W> Seneca gives an account of himself. 4.'<* The blessings of a virtuous retirement 43ft Of impertinent studies and impertinent men iC<6 Against singularity of manners and behaviour 47A The blessings of a vigorous mind 473 Custom is a g. eat matter, either in good, or evil 473 We are divided in ourselves, and confound good and evil 4S2 We arc moved at ihe novelty of things, for want of understand- ing the reason of them 487 Every man is the artificer of his oun fortune.--Of justice and injustice 491 Of trust in friendship, prayer, and bodily exercise 495 The danger of flattery, and in what cases a man may be al- lowed to commend himself 4; 5 A general dissolution of manners, with a censure of corrupt magistrates 501 The original uf all men is the same, and virtue is the only nobili y 509 We are juster to men than to God.— Of life and death. —Of good and evil 513 Of true cvura^e 5 1 9 The advantages of a private life, and the slavery of a public. . . . 5_'3 The two blessings uf life are a sound body and a quiet mind 5','9 Man is compounded of soul and body, and has naturally a civil war within himself 535 We abuse God's blessing?, and turn them into mischiefs 540 A discourse of God's providence in the mi=fortunes of good men 547 A wise and a good man is a proof against all accidents of fate. . 555 AH things are produced out of cause and matter 560 Some traditions of the ancients concerning thunder and lightning, with the author's contemplation thereupon. jC<5 A contemplation of heaven and heavenly things. — Of God, and the soul 569 -. Postscript 577 After-thought , . 579 SENECA's MORALS. BENEFITS IN GENERAL. IT is, perhaps, one of the most pernicious errors of a rash and inconsiderate life, the common ig- norance 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 ac- tion, that delights the giver, in the comfort it brings to the receiver. It will be hard to draw this subject, either into method or compass; the one, because of the infinite variety and complica- tion of cases; the other, by reason of the large extent of it, For the whol? business (almost/ oi & SENECA S MORALS. Benefits nrcxsv.u y, profirable, and delightful. Bianklnd n Society falls under this bead: the duties of kings and subjects; husbands and wives; parents and children; masters and ser- vants; natives and strangers ; high and low; rich and poor; strong and weak; friends and enemies. The very meditation of it breeds good blood and generous thoughts, and instructs us in all the parts of honour, 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 nature, and of every in- dividual, as the very cement of all communities, and the blessing of particulars. He that does good to another man, does good also to himself: 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 cannot live; others, without 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 apprehensions of death: and the favour is rated according 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 ut the 4- se^eca's morals. .Absolute and vulgar. question of liberty, modesty, and a good con- science. In the third place follow those things which custom, use, affinity, and acquaintance have made dear to us ; as husbands, wives, chil- dren, friends, &C which an honest man will preserve at his utmost peril. Of things profit- able there's a large field : as money, honour, kc. 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. SEVERAL SORTS OF BENEFITS. We shall divide benefits into absolute and vulgar : the one appertaining to good life ; the other is only matter of commerce. The former are the more excellent, because they can never be made void; whereas all material benefits are tossed back and forward, and change their master. There are some offices that look like benefits, but are only desirable conveniences, as wealth, &c. 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, burn- ing, 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 b2 SRNECAS MORALS. Benefits common and personal. of ignorance, or perverseness, as their care and tenderness 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 after- wards to severity and punishment, without which we should never have come to good. There are matters of great value, many times, that are but of small price; as instructions from a tutor, me- dicines from a physician, &c. And there are small matters again, which are of great consider- ation to us: the gift may be small, and the conse- quence great; as a cup of cold water in a time of need may save a mans life; some things are of great moment to the giver ; others to the receiver, one man gives me a house ; another snatches me out, when 'tis 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 offices 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 neces- sity ; 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 obligation lies upon the commu- nity, 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 SENECA S MORALS. A S in mav oblige his Father. cherishing of strangers is one of the duties of hos- pitality, and exercises itself in the relief and pro- tection of the distressed. There are 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 cd*****^' a third, consolation. To say ^tiling of negative benefits : for there are, that reckon it an obliga- tion if they do a body no hurt; and place it to accompt 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 ca- pable of giving and of receiving benefits. A SON MAY OBLIGE HIS FATHER, AND A SERVANT 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, b 3 seneca's morals. Filial Benefits 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, 1 had never been begotten: or, if I stand indebted for all that I am, to my beginning, my acknowledge- ment must run back to the very original of all human beings. My father gave me the benefit of life, which he had ne^cr done, if his father had not first given it to him. lie gave me life, not knowing to whom, and when 1 was in a con- dition 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 appre- hension of death. It is true, that without a fa- ther I could never have had a being ; and so with- out a nurse, that being had never been improved ; but I do not, therefore, owe my virtue either to my nativity, or to her that gave me suck. The generation of me was the least part of the be- nefit: for, to live, is common with the brutes; but, to live well is the main business; and that virtue is all my own, saving 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 Seneca's morals. Of Sciuio and /Eneas. 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 continuance of his life, than the son in the be- ginning 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 parti- cipant 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 mv fortune are advanced by my virtue. Scipio (as yet in his minority) rescued his father in a battle with Hannibal, and afterward from the practices and prosecution of a powerful fac- tion ; covering him with consular honours and the spoils of public enemies. He made himself as eminent for his moderation, as for his piety, and military knowledge; he was the defender and the establisher of his country; he left the empire without a competitor; and made himself as well the ornament of Rome, as the security of it: and did not Scipio, in all this, more than requite his father barely for begetting of him ? Whether did Anchises more for .Eneas, in dand- ling the child in his arms; or jEneas for his fa- SENECA S MOTIAI.S. Of T. Manilas, Socrates, &c. ther, 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 dis- coursed 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 yo ur 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 extraction, let it be ever so mean; and gives inestimable reputa- tion to his parents. We should never have heard of Sophroniscus, but for his son Socrates ; nor of Ariosto and Gryllus, if it had not been for Xeno- phon and Plato. This is not to discountenance the veneration we owe to parents > nor to make children the seneca's moiials. 9 A Servant mav oblige his Master. worse, but the better ; and to stir up generous emulations. For, in contests of good offices, both parts are happy ; as well the vanquished, as those that overcome. It is the only honourable dispute that can arise betwixt a father and a son, which of the two shall have the better of the other in the point of benefits. Jn the question betwixt a master and a servant, we must distinguish betwixt benefits, duties, and actions ministerial. By benefits, we understand those good offices that we receive from strangers, which are voluntary, and may be foiborn without blame. Duties are the parts of a son and wife, and incumbent upon kindred and relations. Of- fices ministerial belong to the part of a servant. Now, since it is the mind, and not the condition, of the person that prints the value upon the be- nefit, 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 «s 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 lie 10 sexeca's morals. Examples of obliging Servants. may both need the help and service, and stand in fear of the power and unkmdness, even of the meanest of mortals. One servant kills his mas- ter; another saves him, nay, preserves his mas- ter'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 bene (it 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 hrm, that at last he was prevailed upon to give him a potion; which, it seems, was an innocent opiate, and Domitius outlived it. Csesar took the town, and gave Domitius his life; but it was his ser- vant that gave it him first. There was another town besieged, and when it was upon the last pinch, two servants made their escape, 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 barbarousiy 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 fcfc&y gave their mistress her life, and she gave seneca's morals. li Beneiiis cemer in the Will. them their freedom. This was not the action of a servile mind, to do so glorious a thing, under an appearance 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) 1 shall conclude this chapter. In the civil wars of Rome, a party coming to search for a person of quality that was proscribed, a servant put on his master's -clothes, gmd de- livered himself 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 glorious 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 sav, than so exalted a virtue, as rather to chuse death for the reward of his fidelity, than the greatest advantages he might otherwise have had for the violation of it? 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 cur- 12 seneca's morals. All Benefits are ^ood. rent. Some there are, I know, that take the matter for the benefit, and tax the obligation by weight and measure. When any thing 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 obligation rests in the mind, not in the matter; and all those advantages which we see, handle, or hold in actual posses- sion, by the courtesy of another, are but several modes, or ways of explaining, and putting the rrnod will in execution. There needs no great subtiltv to prove, that both benefits and injuries receive 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 acknowledges 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 mis- chief that you barely meant him. 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 indiffer- ently be applied either to the one or to the other. The benefit is immortal, the gift perishable: for, the benefit itself continues, when we have no SEXECA S MORALS. 13 Valuable when well-timed. longer either the use or the matter of it. He that is dead, was alive ; he that has lost his eyes, did see; and, whatsoever 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 free- dom. And so, if I save a man from any one misfortune, and he falls into another ; if I give him a sum of money, which is afterward 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 inviolable. 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, works contrary effects, even to the dif- ference of life, or death ; and that which is one body's cure, proves another body's poison. Be- side that, the timeing of it alters the value; and a crust of bread, 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 ene- my ? 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 designed to cut off my head? or, with a ma- licious blow upon my stomach, breaks an impost- c 14 SENECA S MORALS. Good will not always a benefit. hume? or, what if he saves my life with a draught that was 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 itself: it is not the incense, or the offering, that is acceptable to God, but the purity and devotion of the worshipper. Nei- ther 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 hue, 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 ac- comDanied with government and discretion, those offices, which we call benefits, are but the works of passion, or of chance; and, many times, the greatest of all injuries. One man does me good by mistake, another i.norantly, a third upon force, but none of these cases do I take to be an obligation; for they were neither directed to me, nor was there any kindness of intention. We do not thank the seas for the advantages we receive by navigation, or the rivers for supplying us with fisb, and flowing of our grounds; we do not thank SENECA S MORALS. 2 .*> Choice of the Person a main Point. the trees, either for their fruits or shades ; or the winds for a fair gale: and what's the difference 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's the difference now betwixt the obligation of one, and of the other ? A man falls into a river, and the fright cures him of an ague ; we may call this a kind of lucky mischance, but not a remedy. And so it is with the good we re- ceive, either without, or beside, or contrary to intention. It is the mind, and not the event, that distinguishes a benefit from an injury. THERE MVST BE JUDGMENT IN A BENEFIT, AS WEIL AS MATTER 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 it is the judgment that perfects it : which depends upon so manv cri- tical niceties, 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 mam point ; for, we are to give by choice, and not by hazard. My inclination bids me oblige one man; 1 am bound in duty and justice to serve another; here c 2 16 SENECA'S MORALS. Danger of misplacing; a Benetir. it is charity, there it is pity ; and elsewhere, per- haps, encouragement. There are some that want, to whom I would riot 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 money to more profit, than that which we bestow; and it is not to our friends, our acquaintances, 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 occasion 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 answerable for what we give, as for what we receive. Nay, the misplacing of a be- nefit 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 favour ill-placed is rather a profusion than a benefit. It is the most shameful of losses, an inconsiderate bounty, I will cb use a man of integrity, sincere, consider- ate, 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 cha- nty; the absent, the sick, the captive, and the senega's morals. \7 Grati'ude not certain. needy. When we oblige those that can never pay us again in kind, as a stranger upon his last fare- wel, or a necessitous person upon his death-bed, we make Providence our debtor, and rejoice in the conscience even of a fruitless benefit. So long as we are affected with passions, 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 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 doing good also to a person that is known to be ungrateful; only with this difference, that I will serve the one in all extremities with my life and fortune, and the other, no further than stands- with my convenience. But what shall 1 do, you will say, to know whether a man will be grateful or no ? I will follow probability, and hope the best. He that sows is not sure to reap r nor the seaman to reach his port, nor the soldier to win the field; he that weds is not sure his wife shall be honest, or his children dutiful. But, shall we, therefore, neither sow, sail, bear arms, nor mar- ry ? Nay, if I knew a man to be incurably thank- c 3 18 seneca's morals. A Benefit a common tye. iess, 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 be- nefit 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. THE MATTER, OF OBLIGATIONS, WITH ITS CIRCUMSTANCES. Next to the choice of the person follows that of the matter, wherein a regard must be had to time, place, proportion, quality, and to the very nicks of opportunity and humour. One man va- lues his peace above his honour; another his ho- nour 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 construction. Some take themselves to be obliged, when they are not; others will not believe it, when they are; and some again take obligations and injuries, the one for the other. For our better direction let it be noted, that a benefit is a common tye betwixt the giver and the receiver, with a 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 sen"ECa's morals. 10 — ■-■■■■' ■ To be suited to the Receiver's condition. neither too much for the one, nor too little for the other, the excess being every jot as bad as the defect. Alexander bestowed a city upon one of his favourites, who modestly excusing himself, that it was too much for him to receive, " Well, but/' says Alexander, M it is not too much forme to give." A haughty, certainly, and an impru- dent speech ; for that which was not fit for the one to take, could not be lit for the other to give. Jt 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 1 will have no holes in it; let it. be bountiful with judgment, but 1 will have nothing to 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 fortunes. No man esteems of any thing that comes to him by chance, but when it is governed by reason, it brings credit both to the giver and receiver; whereas those favours are, in some sort, scandalous, that make a man ashamed of his patron. It is matter of great prudence, for the bene- factor to suit the benefit to the condition of the receiver, who must be either his superior, his in* 20 senega's morals. Benefits of Princes ^ncl poor Men. ferior, or his equal; and that which would be the highest obligation imaginable to one, would per- haps be as great a mockery and affront to the other. As a plate of broken meat (for the pur- pose) to a rich man, were an indignity; which, to a poor man, is a charity. The benefits of princes, and of great men, are honours, orifices, monies, profitable commissions, countenance, and protection. The poor man has nothing to pre- sent, but good-will, good advice, faith, industry, the service and hazard of his person, an early apple, peradventure, or some other cheap curio- sity. Equals, indeed, may correspond in kind j but whatsoever the present may be, or to whom soever we offer, this general rule must be ob- served : that we always design the good and sa- tisfaction of the receiver, and never grant any thing 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 pre- vailed 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 advantage 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 most senega's morals. 21 a S.TTT— ■ ■ • ■■ ■ , ,■ r - — - — . . ' r Acceptable Presenis. pernicious bount}\ Never give any thing that shall turn to mischief, infamy, or shame. I will consider another man's want and 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, lie that lends a man money to carry him to a bawdy-house, or a wea- pon for his revenge, 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 no where else, and which few have, or at least not in that place and 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. However, let it not be improper, as arms to a woman, books to a clown, toys to a philosopher. 1 will not give to any man that which he cannot receive : as if I threw a ball to a man without hands ; but 1 will make a return, though he cannot receive it ; for my business is not to oblige him, but to free myself. Nor any thing that may be a reproach to his vice, or in- 22 seneca's morals. A singular present to Alexander. 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 um- brella in winter. It enhances the value of the present, if it was never given to him by any body else, nor by me to any other ; for, that which we give to every body, is welcome to nobody. N The particularity does much, but yet the same thing may receive a different estimate from several persons; for, there are ways of marking and re- commending 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 thou- sand sweethearts, will persuade every one of them that she loves him best. But this is rather the artifice of conversation, than the virtue of it. The citizens of Megara sent ambassadors to Alexander, in the height of his glory, to offer him, as a compliment, the freedom of their city, Upon Alexander's smiling at the proposal, they told him, that it was a present which they had never made, but to Hercules and himself. Where- upon Alexander treated them kindly, and ac- cepted of it ; not for the presenters' sake, but be- cause they had joined him with Hercules, how unreasonably soever : for Hercules conquered nothing for himself, but made it his business to vindicate and protect the miserable, without any senega's morals. 23 Gifis ihouid be made cheerfully. private interest or design. But this intemperate young man (whose virtue was nothing else but a successful temerity) was trained up from his youth in the trade of violence ; the common 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 dread- ful 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. THE MANNER OF OBLIGING. There is not any benefit so glorious in itself, but it may yet be exceedingly sweetened and im- proved by the manner of conferring it. The vir- tue, I know, rests in the intent ; the profit in the judicious application 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 accompanied with all the charms and delicacies of humanity, 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 2-4 senega's morals. We are to give as we would receise. modesty of the receiver. If we cannot foresee the request, let us, however, immediately grant it, and by no means suffer the repeating of it. It is so grievous a thing to say, i beg, the very word puts a man out of countenance ; and it is a double kindness to do the thing, and save an ho- nest man the confusion of a blush. It comes too late, that comes for the asking ; for nothing 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 the fairest, we chuse rather to present them in secret ejacula- tions, than by word of mouth. That is the last- ing and acceptable benefit, that meets the receiver half way. The rule is, we are to give as we would receive, chearfully, quickly, and without liesitation ; for there's no grace in a benefit that sticks to the ringers. Nay, if there should be occasion for delay, let us not, however, seem to deliberate : for demurring is next door to deny- ing ; and, so long as we suspend, so long are we unwilling. It is a court-humour, to keep people upon the tenters; their injuries are quick and sudden, but their benefits are slow. Great mi- nisters love to rack men with attendance, and ac- count 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 accept- able by all possible means, even to the end that Seneca's morals. 25 Not wait to be errtreated. 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 be any occasion for so much as an admo- nition, let it be referred to another time. ' We are a great deal apter to remember injuries than benefits ; and it is enough to forgive an oMigation that has the nature of an offence. There are some that spoil a good office after it is done, and others in the very instant of doing it. There must be so much entreaty and importunity: nav, if we do but suspect a petitioner, we put on a sour face, look another way, pretend haste, com- pany, business, talk of other matters, and keep him off with artificial 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 not so properly the giving of a bounty, as the quitting 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 stoney piece of bread; it is necessary D 26* senega's morals. Good Deeds should be with good Words. 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 bestowing of benefits ; no insolence of behaviour, but a modesty of mind, and a di- ligent care to catch at occasions, 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 accompanied with state, haughtiness and elation of mind in the giving of it. Some have the 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's too much," says he, " For a cynic to ask/' When he fell to a penny, — u That is too little/' says he, " for a prince to give." lie might have found a way to have com- pounded 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 chearful countenance: a man must not give with his hand, and deny with his looks, lie 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 any body else? — I take it ill Ehat you should bring me a recommendation.— seneca's morals. 57 ...... . . Delay is worse than Denial. 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 lias this been to me ! — never was any thing done so generously, so tenderly, with so good a grace ! — What is it 1 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 man- ner of conferring it is yet the noblest part. Where there is harshness of language, countenance, or behaviour, a man had better be without it. A flat denial is infinitely before a vexatious delay ; as a quick death is a mercy, compared with a lingering torment. But to be put to waitings and intercessions, after a promise is past, 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 wants 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 inti- mation of that want. It is not the value of the present, but the benevolence of the mind, that we arc to consider. Pie gave me but a little, but it was generously and frankly done; it was a d2 28 .seneca's morals. . 1 ' .1, ■ „^ Favours, public and private. little out of a little. — lie gave it me without ask- ing; he prest it upon me ; he watched the oppor- ■ty, and took it as an obligation upon him- '. On the other side, many benefits are great hew, but little or nothing perhaps in effect, when they come hard, slow, or at unawares. That which is given with pride and ostentation, is rather an ambition than a bounty. Some favours are to be conferred in public, others in private. In public, v the rewards of great actions, as honours, charges, or whatso- ever 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 who have the benefit of them. Nay, not to them neither, if we can handsomely conceal it from whence the favour came; for the secrecy, in many cases, is a main part of the be- nefit. 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 ra- ther to find than receive it. Provided .1 know that 1 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 iv ver relieve a man in the dark. It would be too seneca's morals. 29 Value of Benefit? 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. THE DIFFERENCE 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 inconvenience 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 dif- ference in the obligation. I may do it with ha- zard, 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 mo- ney, and yet not the same benefit : the one had P3 -30 seneca/s morals. Different Obligations. it of his own, and it was but a little out of a great deal; the other borrowed 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 rinding him } the other falls to play with his companions at the wheel of fortune, sees him by chance passing by, delivers him his errand, and brings him. He thatt found him by chance deserves 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 labour 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 their professions. If we buy things cheap, it matters not, so long as it is a bargain; it i,s no obligation from the seller, if nobody else will give more for it. What would not a man give to be set a shore in a tempest? for a house in a wilderness ? a shelter in a storm ? a fire, or a bit of meat, when a man's pinched with hunger and 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 car- penters and bricklayers do their work by the day. Those are many times the greatest obligations, in 2 seneca's morals. 31 -•Escliines's Gift to hig Master. truth, which in vulgar opinion are the smallest. As comfort to the sick, poor, captives; good counsel, keeping of people from wickedness, mon ; 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 contrary, 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, because he was forced to 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 him- self. The unchangeable good-will is an indispen- sable obligation ; and, to say that nature cannot go out of her course, does not discharge us of what we owe to Providence. Shall he be said to SENECA 9 MORALS. 35 Man not ihe work of Chance. 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 upon one an- other ? must the sun stand still in the middle of his course, and heaven and earth drop into con- fusion? must a devouring lire 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 convince the world of their audacious and im- pertinent follies ? It is not for us to say, that — " these heavenly bodies are not made for us ;" for in part the}- are so, and we are the better for their virtues and motions, whether we will or no; though, undoubtedly, the principal cause is the unalterable law of God. Providence is not moved by any thing from without ; but the Divine Will is an everla-ling law, an immutable decree, and the impossibility of variation proceeds from God's purpose of preserving ; for he never repents of his first counsels. It is not wit-h 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 flight of fortune, and naturally aspires to the con- templation of heaven, and divine mysteries. How desperate a phrensy is it now. to undervalue, nay, 36' senega's morals. Virtuous emulation. to contemn and to disclaim these divine blessings, without which we are utterly incapable of enjoy- ing any other ! AN HONEST MAN CANNOT BE OUTDONE IN COURTESEY. It passes in the world for a generous and mag- nificent saying, that — " It is a shame for a man to be outdone in courtesy :" and it is worth the while to examine both the truth of it, and the mistake. First, there can be no shame in a vir- tuous emulation; and, secondly, there can be no victory without crossing the cudgels, and yielding the cause. One man may have the advantages of strength,, of mean?, of fortune ; and this will un- doubtedly operate upon the events of good pur- poses, but yet without any diminution to the vir- tue. 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 the good intention in execution. And the other has barely a good-will, without either the means, or the occasion of a requital, if he does but affectionately wish it, and endeavour it; the seneca's morals. 37 The ^iver and receiver may be on equal terms. 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 partial, 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 any thing shameful can befal him. The Spartans prohibited all those ex- ercises where the victory was declared by the confession of the contendent. The 300 Fabii were never said to be conquered, but slain; nor Re- gulus to be overcome, though he was taken pri- soner by the Carthaginians. The mind may stand firm under the greatest malice and iniquity of for- tune, and yet the giver and receiver continue upon equal terms : as we reckon it a drawn battle, when two combatants are parted, though the cue 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 1 can only receive. What advantage now has your chance over my virtue ? But there are some men that have philosophized themselves almost out oi the sense of human affections, as Diogenes, that walked naked and unconcerned through the mid- dle of Alexander's treasures, and was, as well in 38 seneca's morals. - .1, . . . No matter though things given and received are unequal. others mens' opinion, 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 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 instance of an immoveable mind, and there is hardly airy 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 incom- bustible body, nor a sword ever a whit the 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 ine- quality 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 to overtake a man, if we follow him as fast as we can. That tumour 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 notliing 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; SENECA S MORALS. 3<) A wise friend the noblest present. 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 Ma- cedon, invited Socrates to his palace ; but he ex- cused himself, as unwilling; to receive greater be- ne/its than he was able to requite. This, perhaps, was not pride in Socrates, but craft; for he was afraid of being forced to accept of something which might possibly have been unwortlry of him : beside that, he was a man of liberty, and loth 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 na- ture to him, and shew him thelieht at noon-dav; 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, 1 eay, to deliver him from his apprehensions, and to expound the 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 Archelaus's bounty, or So- crates's philosophy, would have been the greater present. He does not understand the value of wisdom and friendship, that does not know a wise friend to be the noblest of presents. A rarity E 2 40 senega's morals. , Question of Self-Benefits. scarce to be found, not only in a family, but in an age; and no where more wanted than were there seems to be the greatest store. The greater a man is, the more need he has of him ; and the more difficulty there is both of finding, arid 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 conversa- tion, wherein he may take both delight and profit ; freedom of discourse, without flattery ; kind at- tention, where he deliberates; and faith inviola- ble, 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 distin- guish betwixt friends and parasites. THE QUESTION DISCUSSED, WHETHER OR NO A MAN MAY GIVE OR RETURN 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 no a man may give or return a benefit to him- self? For, say they, if I may hurt myself, I may oblige nivself; and, that which were a benefit to another body, why is it not so to myself? and why am not I as criminal in being ungrateful to sexeca's morals. 41 No man can oblige hin^elf. 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 my- self ; and if I chide myself, I may as well com- mend 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 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 somebody may receive ; 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 nothing 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. E 3 42 SENECA S MORALS. To serve one's self is a thing necessary- 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 voluntary thing ; but to do good to myself is a thing neces- sary. Was ever any man commended for getting out of a ditch, or for helping himself against thieves ? or, what if I should allow, that a man may 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 so requisite in so many respects ? Giving and receiving must go back- ward 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 con- traries. 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 the receiver's sake, but that which a man does for himself, is for the sake of the giver. This is one of those subtilties, which, though hardly worth a man's while, yet it is not labour absolutely lost neither. There is more of trick, 2 seneca's morals. 43 A-*- ' ' ■ ■ SS Second-hand Benefits. and artifice in it, than solidity, and yet there is matter of diversion too; enough, perhaps, to pass •away a winter's evening, and keep a man waking that is heavy-headed. HOW FAR ONE MAN MAY BE OBLIGED FOR A BENEFIT DONE TO ANOTHER. Th e question now before us requires distinc- tion 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 farther 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 far 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 them too ; and so in injinitum. In this case we must have recourse, as is said heretofore, to the intention of the benefactor ; and fix the obligation 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 44 Seneca's morals. The immediate receiver is the debtor. 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 comfort to me, but no obligation. I am as much con- cerned, as I ought to be, in the health, the feli- city, and the welfare of my son, as in the happy 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 obligation, 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 con- sequence, proves the relief of the whole family ; but still the immediate receiver is the debtor for it. For the question is not, to whom it comes afterwards to be transferred, but who is the prin- cipal ? 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 bor- rowed 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 adul- seneca's morals. 45 An unworthy person may be obliged for another's sake. terer. It is a wonderful delight and satisfaction that I receive in his safety ; but still this good is not a benefit. A man may be the better for an animal, a plant, a stone, but there must be a will, an intention, to make it an obligation. You save the son without so much as knowing the fa- ther, nay, without so much as thinking of him ; and, perhaps, you would have done the same thing, even if you had hated him. But without any farther alteration of dialogue, the conclusion is this, if you meant him the kindness, he is an- swerable for it ; and I may enjoy the fruit of it, with- out being obliged by it. But if it was done for my sake, then am I 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 challengerneither, but to entertain as an act of honour and of justice, rather than of gratitude. If a man find the body of my dead father in a de- sart, and give it burial, if he did it as to my father I am beholden to him ; but, if the body was un- known 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 hu- manity. There are, moreover, some cases, wherein an unworthy person may be obliged, for the sake of ethers ; and the sottish extract of an ancient no- 4(5 seneca's morals. Providence gracious to the wicked for their ancestors' sake. -.1 bility may be preferred before a better man, that is but of yesterday's standing ; and it is but reason- able to pay a reverence even to the memory of eminent virtues. He that is not illustrious in himself, ma}^ yet be reputed so in the right of his ancestors : and there is a gratitude to be entailed upon the off- spring of famous progenitors. Was it not for the father's sake that Cicero, the son, was made con- sul ? 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, tbat he spilt blood as greedily a* if he were to drink it; the empire was not given to himself, but to his father Germanicus. A braver man deserved that for him, which he never could 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 three hundred 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 honourable race. The counsels of heaven are guided by wisdom, mercy, and justice. Some men are made kings for their proper virtues, without any respect to their predecessors. Others for their ancestors' sake, whose virtues, though neglected in their lives, come to be afterward re- warded in their issues. And, it is but equality- seneca's morals. 47 Difficulties should not prevent benefactions. that our oratitude should extend as far as the in- fluence of their heroical actions and examples. 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 no 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 the less honest. As who should say — What shall 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 of- fence, &c. My business is to do what I ought to do ; all other considerations are foreign to the of- fice. 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 asainst thieves, for fear of a broken head ? and chuse rather to sit still, the quiet spectator of fraud and violence ? Why will men be just, tem- perate, generous, brave, but because it carries 48 seneca's moUals. Pleasure and Virtue not to be compared. along with it fame, and a good conscience ? and for the same reason, and no other, (to apply it to the subject 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 the servant and vassal of pleasure. " No," says Epicurus, " I am not for pleasure neither, without virtue." But why then for plea- sure, 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 follow, and to be under command. But this, you will say, is no- thing 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 only the 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, ranging of pleasure be- fore virtue, as the very comparing of them ; and the bringing of two opposites, and professed ene- mies, into, any sort of competition. seneca's morals. 49 Interested gifts are dishonourable. The drift of this discourse is to support the cause of benefits, and to prove that it is a mean and dishonourable thing to give for any other end than for giving sake. He that gives for gain, profit, or any by-end, destroys the very intent of bounty. For it falls only upon those who 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 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 measure, and without inter- mission. And what design can the Almighty have upon us, who is in himself full, safe, and inviola- ble ? 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 acknowledg- ments ? It is putting out of a benefit to interest, only to bestow where we may place it to advan- tage. Let its be liberal then, after the example of our greatCreator, and give to others with the same con- sideration that he gives to us. Epicurus's answer v. ill be to this — That God gives no benefits at all, but turn? his back upon the world, and, without F seneca's morals* The bounty of Providence. any concern for us, leaves nature to take her course ; and, whether he does any thing 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 uni- versality of mankind should ever have so unani- mously 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 seasonable mercies. There never was yet any man so insensible as not to feel, see, and understand a Deity in the ordi- nary 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 is true, may appear to be unequally divided ; but, it is na 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? Thosft innumerable delights, for the entertainment of our eyes, our ears, and our understandings ? nay, that copious matter even for luxury itself? For care Is taken, not only for our necessities, but also for SENECA S MORALS. 51 ^ ■ — ■ ■ ■ For which man is unthankful. our pleasures, and for the gratifying of all our senses and appetites. So many pleasant groves, fruitful and salutary plants; so many fair rivers, that serve us both for recreation, plenty, and com- merce. Vicissitudes of season; varieties of food, by nature made ready to our hands ; and the whole creation itself subjected to mankind, for health, medicine, and dominion. We can be thank- ful to a friend for a few acres, or a little monev, and yet, for the freedom and command of the whole earth, and for the great benefits of our being, as life, health, and reason, we look upon ourselves as under no obligation. If a man be- stows upon us a house, that is delicately beauti- fied 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, and the snuff of a candle, and an hundred accidents, to lay it in the dust. And, is it now nothing 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 blood that runs in our veins ? the cattle that feed us, and the fruit of the earth that feed them ? Whence have we the growth of our bodies, the succession of our ages, F 2 £2 seneca's morals. Gi)d and Nature the same power. and the faculties of our minds ? so many veins of metals, quarries of marble, &c. The seed of every thing is in itself, and it is the blessing of God that raises it out of the dark, into action and motion. To say nothing of the charming varieties of music, beautiful objects, delicious provisions for the pa- late, exquisite perfumes, which are cast in over and above, to the common necessities of our jbeing. " All this," says Epicurus, " we are to ascribe to nature/' 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 him the Almighty Jupiter, the Thunderer, the Creator and Preserver of us all, it comes to the same issue. Some will ex- press him under the notion of Fate, which is only a connection of causes, and himself the uppermost and original, upon which all the rest depend. The Stoicks represent the several functions of the Al- mighty Power under several appellations. When lhey speak of him as the Father, and the Foun- tain of all Beings, they call him Bacchus : and, under the name Hercules, they denote him to be indefatigable and invincible; and, in the contem- plation of him in the reason, order, proportion, and wisdom of his proceedings, they call him Mercury. So that which way soever they look, and under what name soever they couch their BfittSCUl's MORALS. 53 His buunty expects no return. meaning, they never fail of finding him : for he is every where, and fills his own work. If a man should borrow money of Seneca, and say that he owes it to Annoeus, or Lucius, he may change the name, but not his creditor; for, let him take which of the three names he pleases, he is still a debtor to the same person. As justice, integrity, prudence, frugality, fortitude, are all of them the goods of one and the same mind, so that which soever of them pleases us, we cannot dis- tinctly 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 any thing in return : so that the end of a benefit ought to be the advantage of the receiver ; and that must be our scope, without any by-regard to our- selves. It is objected to us, the singular caution we prescribe in the choice of the person, for it were a madness, we say, for an husbandman to sow the sand, which, if true, say they, you have an eye upon profit, as well in giving as in plough- ing and sowing ; and then, say they again, that, if the conferring of a benefit were desirable in it- self, it would have no dependence upon the choice of the man, for let us give it, when, or wheresoever we please, it would be still a benefit. This does not at all aftect our assertion; for the person,, the J 3 B4> seneca's morals. All B( r.efi's must be gratuitous-. matter, the manner, and the time, are circum- stances absolutely necessary to the reason of the action ; there must be a right judgment in all re- spects 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 be- twixt 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 a good office? All benefits must be gra- tuitous. A merchant sells me the corn that keeps me and my family from starving, but he sold it for his interest, 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 law- yer 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 culti- vating 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 re- turn. And, in truth, what end should a man honourably propound ? Not profit sure ; that is vulgar and mechanic, and he that does not con- temn it, can never be grateful. And then for seneca's mouals. 56 Ingratitude despised. 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 on it, it is clear gain; and at worst, there is no- thing lost, beside, that one benefit well placed, makes amends for a thousand miscarriages. It is not that 1 would exclude the benefactor neither, for being himself the better for a good office 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 of it, I am obliged to him for it, and glad with all my heart that he had a share in it. Nay, 1 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 the most abominated, the other the most es- teemed. The very story of an ungrateful action puts us out of all patience, and gives us a loath- ing for the author of it. " That inhuman villain," we cry, " to do so horrid a thing." Not that in- considerate fool, for omitting so profitable a vir- tue. Which plainly shews the sense we naturally have, both of the one, and of the other, and that 66 seneca's morals. Gratitude for Benefits procures more. we are led to it by a common 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 is 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. u 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 offices would be my ruin, I would yet pur- sue them. He that visits the sick in hopes of a legacy, let him be ever so friendly in all other cases, I look upon him in this to be no better than seneca's morals. 57 Several sorts of ungrateful men. a raven, that watches a weak sheep, only to peck out the eyes of it. We never give with so much judgment and care, as when we consider the ho- nesty of the action, without any regard to the profit of it ; for our understandings are corrupted by fear, hope and pleasure. THERE ARE MANY CASES WHEREIN A MAN MAY BE MINDED OF A BENEFIT, BUT IT IS VERY RARELY TO BE CHALLENOED, 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 of 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 humour of the person, and the degree of the offence : provided always, that as well in the re-rninding a man of a benefit, as in the bestowing of it, the good of the receiver S8 sexeca's morals. Repeated gifts correct Ingratitude. ■■..■■ ■ — 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 mali- cious ingratitude, and the application must be suited to the matter we have to work upon. A gentle nature may be reclaimed by authority, ad- rice, 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 re- buke. If all fails, I will look upon him as a des- perate debtor, and even let him alone in his in- gratitude, without making him my enemy ; for no necessity shall ever make me spend time in wrangling with any man upon that point. Assiduity of obliging strikes upon the con- science, as well as the memory, and pursues an ungrateful man, until he becomes grateful. If one good office will not do it, try a second, and then a third. No man can be so thankless, but either seveca's morals. 59 Forgotten gifts may some rimes be hinted. shame, occasion, or example, will at some time or other prevail upon him. The very beasts them- selves, even lions and tigers, are gained by good usage. Beside, that one obligation does natu- rally draw on another; and a man would not willingly leave his own work imperfect. — 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 shooting 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 Ca?sar, who, as he was hearing a cause, the defendant finding himself pinched — " Sir," says he, " do you remember a strain you got in your ancle, 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 r" — " I re- member it perfectly well," says Ca?sar, " and that when I was ready to choke with thirst, an honest fellow fetched me a draught of water in his hel- met." — " But that man, and that helmet," says the soldier, " does Caesar think that he could not know them again if he saw them?" — " The man, perchance I might," says Caesar, somewhat of- fended, " but what is this story to my business ? You are none of the man." — u Pardon me, sir," says the soldier, " I am that very man; but Ca> Go seneca's morals. Son e wo' id be frrateful if reminded. sar 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 honour to be cleft with a Spanish blade." Caesar took it as it was intended ; and it was an honourable 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 address to him, with—" You remember, Ca?sar." " No," says Caesar, cutting him short, " I do not remember what I was." Now, 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 like little 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 taught to be thankful, and it is a fair step if we can but bring them to be willing, and only offer at it. Some benefits we have neglected, some we are not willing to remember. He is un- grateful that disowns 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 l senega's MOll.US. 6l A Benefit once out ef sight* 16 buried. 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 like to hear people say — " Alas ! poor man, he has forgotten it ;" as if that were an excuse for ingratitude, 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 al- ways uppermost, and in sight. He that thinks as he ought to do, of requiting a benefit, is in no danger of forgetting it. There are, indeed, some benefits so great, that they can never slip the me- mory; 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 making of us, so long as we are in pos- session of the advantage he has brought us ; but new appetites deface old kindnesses, and we cany our prospect forward to something more, without considering what we have obtained alread\\ 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, that they cannot do a good office, but they are presently boasting of it, drunk or sober; and it goes about in all companies, what wonderful things they have •dune for this man, and what for the other. A G 62 seneca's morals. We should not publish out good offices. foolish and a dangerous vanity ; of a doubtful friend, to make a certain enemy, For these re- proaches and contempts will set every body's tongue a talking, and people will conclude, that these things would never be, if there were not something very extraordinary in the bottom of it. When it comes to that once, there is not any calurnny 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 ; where- as we should do the clean contrary. — It might have been more, but he had a great many to oblige — It was as much as he could well spare ; he will make it up some other time, &c. Nay, we should be so from making publication of our bounties, as not to hear them so much as men- tioned, 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 trium- viral proscription, was saved by one of C aosar'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/'—" Pray you/* says the proscribed, sen'eca's morals. 6*3 osicii.aiion censured. " let me hear no mere of this, or even leave me as you found me. I am thankful enough of myself to acknowledge, that 1 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 misfortune, that I was once a prisoner, without being led in triumph every day of my life." Oh ! the pride and folly of a great fortune, that turns benefits into injuries ! that delights in ex- cesses, 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 prevent our necessities. The benefit is never the greater for the making of a bustle and 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 be otherwise delightful. Tiberius had got- ten a trick, when any man begged money of him, G 2 6*4- seneca's morals. When benefits may be hinted. to refer him to the senate, where all the peti- tioners were to deliver up the names of their cre- ditors. His end, perhaps, was, to deter men from asking, by exposing the condition of their fortunes to a.n examination. But it was, however, a be- nefit, turned into 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 ill 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 ; for to call upon him too soon, reproaches him, as if he would not have done it otherwise. Nor would I recal a benefit from any man, so as to force it ; but only to re- ceive 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 disobedient son, a wife reclaims a dissolute husband, and one friend excites the languishing kindness of another. How many men are lost for want of being touch- ed to the quick ? So long as I am not pressed, I will rather desire a favour, than so much'as men- tion a requital ; but if my country, my family, or my liberty be at stake, my zeal and indignation shall over-rule my modesty, and the world shall SlENECa's MORALS. 65 Good offices done for secondary reasons. then understand, that I have done all 1 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-. HOW FAR TO OBLI-GE, OP. REQUITE, A WICKED MAN. There are some benefits, \vhereof 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, moreover, certain common offices of humanity, which are only allowed him as he is a man, and without any regard either to vice or f virtue. To pass over the first point ; the second must be handled with care and distinction, and not without some seeming exceptions to the gene- ral 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 wicked man. But, to shorten the matter, without these circum- stances 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 e 3 H6 seneca's morals. How to oblige an ungrateful man. company. 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 be- nefactors will supererogate, and do more than they are bound to do. And some men are so lewd, that it is dangerous to do them any sort of good; no, not so much as by way of return, or re- quital. If the benefactor's bounty must extend to the bad, as well as to the good ; put the case, that I promise a good office to an ungrateful man. We are first to distinguish (as is said before) betwixt a common benefit, and a personal ; betwixt what is given for merit, and what for company. Se- condly, whether or no we know the person to be ungrateful, and can reasonably conclude that this vice is incurable. Thirdly, a consideration 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 the single point in question. In the promise of a good office to a wicked, or ungrateful man, I am to blame if I senf.ca's morals. G7 R;^h promises are void. mised it, that is to say, matters continuing in the same state, for no man is answerable for accidents. 1 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 do neither 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 fa- ther, or my brother. I promise to go a journey with him, but there is no travelling upon the road for robbing, my child is fallen sick, or my wife in labour : these circumstances are sufficient to discharge me; for a promise against law or duty is void in its own nature. The counsels of a vase man are certain, but events are uncertain. And yet, if I have passed a rash promise, 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 be 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 pay-master, 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 oX 68 seneca's morals. Anecdote of Thilip, nf Macedon. the kindness he had for him. This soldier puts to sea, and was cast away upon a coast, where a charitable neighbour took him up half dead, carried him to his house, and there, at his own charge, maintained and provided for him thirtj 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 he would do for him in return, so soon as he should have the honour once again to see his master. To court he goes, tells Philip of the wreck, but not a syllable of his preserver, and and begs the estate of this very man that kept him alive. It was with Philip, as it was with many other princes, that give they know not what, especially in a time of war ; he granted the sol- dier his request, contemplating, at the same time, the impossibility of satisfying so many ravenous appetites as he had to please. When the good man 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 just report of the whole story. The king was so in- censed 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 stigmatized, for an example to others. Should Philip now have kept his promise ? First, he sen'eca's morals. 69 We should quit all scores witl^icked men. owed the soldier nothing. Secondly, it would have been injurious and impious. And, lastly, a precedent 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, to 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 man- kind ? 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 1 would quit all scores, that I might have no more? 7$ seneca's morals. Providence kind even to the unthankful. to do with him; but, if he comes once to a delight in blood, and to act outrages with greediness f to study and invent torments, and to take pleasure in them, the law of reasonable nature ha3 dis- charged me of such a debt. But this is an im- piety 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 with 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 bounty. How many are they who enjoy the comfort of the light, that do not deserve it ; that wish they had never been born ; and yet nature goes on quietly 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 sexeca's morals. 71 Ti'.e wicked benefited for the sake of the good. turn Providence from pouring down of benefits, even upon those that question whence they come. The wisdom of heaven does all things with a re - gard to the good of the universe, and the blessings 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 should fare the worse for the wicked. It is true, that a wise prince will confer peculiar honours only upon the worthy, but in the dealing of a public dole, there is no respect had to the manners of the man ; but a thief, or traitor, shall out 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 impossible that the same wind, which favours the one, should cross the other. The common benefits of laws, privileges, com- munities, letters, and medicine, are permitted to the bad, as well as to the good j 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 chusing of a man, and the not excluding him ; the law is open to the rebellious as well as to the obedient : there are some bene- fits, which if they were not allowed to all, could 72 seneca's morals, Tiie opinion of the Stoics confuted. 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 not oblige the wicked and the un- grateful, must resolve to oblige nobody ; for, in some sort or other, 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 ad- vantage, 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 thing as ingratitude in nature. They compare a wicked man's mind to a vitiated stomach ; he corrupts whatever he re- ceives, and the best nourishment turns to the disease. But, taking this for granted, a wicked man may yet so far be obliged, as to pass for ungrate- ful, 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 seneca's morals. 73. Cteanthes Quoted not restoring 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 obligation upon them, and they mav pay one another in their own coin ; the mo- ney is current, whether it be gold or leather, when it comes once to be authorized. Nay, Cleanthes carries it farther, "He that is wanting," says he, " to a kind office, 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, end is already armed and mounted, with a pur- pose to seize it, though he has not yet drawn blood." Wickedness/is formed 'in the Heart; and the matter of fact is onl\ the discovery, and the execution of it. Now, though a wicked man cannot eitiier receive or bestow a benefit, be- cause he wants the will of doing good, and for that he is no longer wicked when virtue has taken posses- ion of him; vet we commonly call it one, as we call a man illiterate that is not learned, and naked that is not well clad ; not but that the one can read, and the other is covered. A GENERAL VIEW OF THE TARTS A-XD DC- TIES OF THE EEXE1ACT0R. The three main points in the question of bene- fits, are, first, a judicious choice in the object; sa- il 74 se^eca's morals. Benefits il! bestowed. condly, in the matter of our benevolence; and, thirdly, a grateful felicity in the manner of ex- pressing 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 in- gratitude of the receiver, which, in truth, is most commonly the levity and indiscretion of the giver; for all circumstances must be duly weighed to consummate the action. Some there are that we find ungrateful ; but, what with our frowardness, change of humour, and reproaches, there arc more that we make so. And this is the business : sre give with design, and most to those that are al >le to give most again. We give to the covetous, and to the ambitious, to those that can never be thankful (for their desires are insatiable), and to those that will not. lie that is a tribune would be a praetor, the praetor a consul; never reflecting upon what he was, but only looking forward to what he would be. People are still computing — 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 deceivecj. in another, let us not be deceived in ourselves too. A charitable man will mend the seneca's morals. 7.* Better never ; receive ihan nu. » b -tow. matter, and say to himself, — Perhaps he has for- got it — perchance he could not — perhaps he will yet requite it. A patient creditor will, of an ill pay-master, in time make a good one; an obsti- nate goodness overcomes an ill disposition ; as a barren soil is made fruitful by care and tillage. But let a man be ever so ungrateful, or inhuman, he shall never destroy the satisfaction of my hav- ing done a good office. But, what if others will be wicked? does it follow that we must be so too ? If others wiil be ungrateful, must we 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 other is, in effect, 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 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 ex- ii 2 7# sensca's morals. Di^a, •. uii tmentsmust not prevent good offices. ample, than that of the Almighty, who neither needs, nor expects any thing from us, and yet he is continually showering; down and distributing his mercies and his grace among us, not only for oar 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 receivers. With what face then can we be mercenary one to another, that have received all things from divine Provi- dence gratis ? It is a common saying — " 1 gave such., or such a man so much money ; I would I had thrown it into the sea/' And yet the mer- chant 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 needs stand still, and do just nothing at all. The plough goes on after a barren year; and while the ashes are yet warm, we niise 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 followed from the seed to the harvest. I will not so much as leave any place for ingratitude. 1 will pursue, and 1 will encompass the receiver with benefits; so that let him look which way he will, his bene- sekeca's morals. 77 We must oblige many to find one thankful. factor shall be still in his eye, even when hs would avoid his own memory. And then I will remit to one man, because he calls for it ; to an- other, 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 1 will requite a good one. The one because it is my duty, the other, that I may not be in his 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 careful. And yet care is not sufficient. For there is no way to escape the hazard of losing a benefit, but not the bestowing of it ; and to neglect a duty to myself, 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 will oblige a great many that are not so. The business of mankind would be at a stand, if we should do nothing for fear of miscarriages in matters of uncertain 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 hu- man weakness — that one man's memory is not H 3 78 senega's morals. -= . , ■ ■ ~ • ■ ■ ■ I 'J . Benefits should not be delayed. sufficient fur all things; it is but of limited capa- city, 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 any tiling beside, and the last benefit ever sits closest to us. Jn 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 return- ing evil for good, and making it dangerous for a man to do his duty. I would no more give a be- nefit to such a man, than I would lend money to a beggarly spendthrift; or deposit 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 in- corrigible impudence; beside that, he watches for ill words, to pick a quarrel with them. As the benefactor is not to upbraid a benefit, so neither to delay it : the one is tiresome, and the other odious. We must not hold men in , hand, as physicians and surgeons do their pati- ents, 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. lie rejoices in the return, and judges favourably of it, whatever it be, and con- seneca's morals. 79 Certain rules bciw;xt the giv. r and receiver. tents himself with a bare thank 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 besought to receive it; so that the author, upon the upshot, 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 to 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 receiv- ed ; which it will certainly be, if we do but observe this rule, never to do any thing for another which we would not honestly desire for ourselves. HOW THE RECEIVER OUGHT TO BEHAYK HIMSELF. There are certain rules in common, betwixt the giver and the receiver: we must do both chearfully, 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 $0 Seneca's morals. The return should exceed the obligation. 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 re- ceiver bind himself. The frankness of the dis- charge heightens the obligation. It is in conver- sation as in a tennis-court : benefits are to be tost like balls; the longer the rest, the better are the gamesters. The giver, in some respects, has the odds, because (as in a race) he starts first, and the other must use great diligence to over- take 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 matter of money, it is a common thing to pay a debt out of course, and before it be due; but \ve account ourselves to owe nothing for a good office, whereas the benefit increases by delay. So insensible are we of the most important affair of human life. That man were doubtless in a mi- serable condition, that could neither see, nor hear, nor taste, nor feel, nor smell: but, how much more unhappy is he then, that, wanting 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 i? grateful. Senf.ca's morals. 81 We must have a care to whom w<- are obliged. 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 be- nefit; that is to say, from those upon whom I would not bestow one. For, why should not I scorn to receive a benefit, where I am ashamed to owe it ? and, I would yet be more tender too, where I receive, than where I give ; for it is a 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 ever so much dis- obliged. It is a pain to an honest and a gener- ous 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 over-borne by the contumacy of their affec- tions. 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 the one case, it is but paying what I had, and the debt is discharged ; in the other, I do not only owe more, but when I have •aid that, 1 am still in arrear : and this law is the ^2 seneca's morals. Question relative to Brutus. very foundation of friendship. I will suppose myself a prisoner, and a notorious villain offers to lay down a good sum of money for my redemp- tion. First, Shall [ make use of this money, or no ? Secondly, If I do, what return shall I make him for it? To the first point, I will take it, but only as a debt, not as a benefit, that shall ever lie me to a friendship with him : and, se- condly, my acknowledgment shall be only cor- respondent to such an obligation. It is a school- question — "Whether or no Brutus, that thought Cassar not fit to live, (and put himself in the head of a conspiracy against him) could honestly have received his life from Cassar, if he had fallen into Caesar's power, without examining what reason moved him to that action? How great a man so- ever 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 ; nr there to hope for liberty, where so great rewards are propounded, 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 no, but W r ho should be their master. He was strangely mistaken sure, in the nature and reason of things, to fancy, that when Julius was gone, somebodr seneca's morals. 83 Punctilious characters. else would not start up in his place, when there was yet a Tarqnin 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 owe my life to every man that does not take it away. Grcecinus Julius (whom Caligula put to death, out of a pure malice to his virtue) had a consi- derable sum of money sent him from Fabius Per- sicus a man of great and infamous example), as a contribution 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 tke 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 r" After this Retilus (a man of the same stamp), sent him a greater sum upon the same score, M You must excuse me," says he 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 coblcr for a pair of shoes, and some three or four days after, going to pay him his money, the shop was shut up, and w hen he had knocked a great whit* *' 84 senfxa's morals. ■' ' ■ — A forced Benefit. at the door, — " Friend," says a fellow, " you may hammer your heart out there, for the man you look for is dead; and when our friends are dead, we hear no more news of them, but your's, that are to live again, will shift well enough ;" (al- luding to Pythagoras's transmigration). Upon this the philosopher went away, with his money chinking in his hano*, and well enough content to save it; at last his conscience 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 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 necessity 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 no ; 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 because a fool, that is not read in coins, refuses to take it If the thing * seneca's morals. 85 -**- ■ • " -i • Requitals not to be pressed. be good for the receiver, and so intended, 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 him a mis- thief: it is the part of an enemy, to save him- self, by doing another man hUrm. But whatever we do, let us be sure always to keep a grateful mind. It is not enough to say, what requital 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 in 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 discharged, but it is nevertheless, a discharge of the conscience. I will yet distinguish betwixt the debtor that be- comes insolvent by expences upon whores and dice, and another that is undone b\v£re or thieves; nor do I take this gratitude for a payment; but there is no danger, 1 presume, of being arrested for such a debt. * In the return of benefits, let us be ready and chearful, but not pressing. There is as much greatness of mind in the owing of a good turn, as I % §<) SEXECa's 'MOUALS. Favours no; 10 be confened or received proudly. in the doing of it; and we must no more force a requital out of season, than be wanting in it. lie that precipitates a return, does as good as say — " I am weary of being in this man's debt/' Not but that the hastening of a requital, as a good office, is a commendable disposition; but it is another thing to do it as a discharge, for it looks like casting oft' a heavy and troublesome burden. It is for the benefactor to say when he will re- ceive it: no matter for 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 re- fuse, and presume 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 chusing his own time for receiving. Borne are too proud in the conferring of bene- fits, others in the receiving of them ; which is, to say the truth, '-{'tolerable. The same rule serves both sides, as in the case of a father and a son, 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 private, nor thank you for it but in your ear, or in a corner ; there must be nothing Seneca's morals. 87 It is safer to affront than under hand and seal, no brokers, notaries, or witnesses in the case: this is not so much a scruple of modesty, as a kind of denying the obli- gation, and only a less hardened ingratitude. Some receive benefits so coldly and indifferently, 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/ 7 Some again so carelessly, as if they hardly knew of any such thing, whereas we should rather ag- gravate the matter—" You cannot imagine how many you have obliged in this act ; there never was so great, so kind, so seasonable a courtesy." Furnius never gained so much upon Augustus, us by a speech upon the getting of his father's par- don for siding with Anthony—" This grace," says he, " is the only injury that ever Caesar did me ; for it has put me upon the necessity of living and dying ungrateful." It is safer to affront some people than to oblige them, for the better a man deserves, the worse they will speak of him ; as if the professing of open hatred to their benefactors, were an argument that they lie under no obliga- tion. Some people are so sour and ill-natured, that they take it for an affront to have an obliga- tion or a return offered them, to the discourage- ment both of bounty and gratitude together. The not doing and the not receiving of benefits, are equally a mistake. He that refuses a new one, i 2 88 seneca's morals. To have the will to be grateful, is to be s-j. seems to be offended at an old one ; and yet some- times 1 would neither return a benefit, no, nor so much as receive it if I might. OF GRATITUDE. He that preaches gratitude, pleads the cause both of God and man ; for without it we can nei- ther 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 therein this world that I would not do to oblige and serve him ?" Where I have not the means of 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 will to be grateful, 1 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 flames, 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 may leave the world fair, and set our minds in order? Without gratitude we can nei- seneca's morals. 89 Gratitude must overcome opposition. ther have security, peace, nor reputation: and, it is not, therefore, the less desirable, because it draws many adventitious benefits along 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 health, fruit?, or seasons; a man could hardly lift up' his eyes towards the heavens without wonder and venera- tion, 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 when we come to consider, that Providence and nature are 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 esteem- ed for their virtue than for their splendour. Their main end and use is matter of life and necessity, though they may seem to ns more considerable' 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 contemplating things that put the common people out of their wits. We must 20 into banishment, lav down our lives, beggar, and expose ourselves to reproaches, i3 90 seneca's moralk. Gratitude preserves and sains friends. nay, it is often seen, that loyalty suffers the pu- nishment due to rebellion ; and that treason re- ceives the rewards 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 smooth way, we must yet prepare, and resolve (if need be) to force our passage to it, even if the way were co- vered with thorns and serpents; and fall back, fall edge, we must be grateful still — grateful for the virtue sake, and grateful over and 'above upon the point/ of interest; for it preserves old friends, and gains new ones. It is not our busi- ness to fish for one benefit with another, and by bestowing a little to get more; or to oblige for any sort of expedience, 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 in- jury, in despite of infamy itself, I would yet be grateful. No man is greater, in my esteem, than he that ventures his fame to preserve the consci- ence of an honest man; the one is but imaginary, the other solid and inestimable. I cannot call him grateful, who, in the instant of returning ope senega's morals. Qi lie i:- grateful that is always ready. 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 expence ; and so easv, that the sluggard may be so likewise without la- bour. 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 an- other thing to return it ; the good will is enough in one case, being as much as the one side de- mands, and the other promises; but the effect is requisite in the other. The physician that has done his best is acquitted, though the patient dies ; and so is the advocate, 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 him- self, though the other be never the better for it. lie is a grateful man that is always willing and ready, and he that seeks for all means and occa- sions of requiting a benefit, though without at- £2 seneca's morals. ■■ r'—rr . The grateful remember what is p:st. taining his end, does a great deal more than the man that without any trouble makes an immedi- ate 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 re- deemed before I come to the place, my gratitude is as much to be esteemed, as if he had been a prisoner; and if I had been taken and robbed myself, it would still have been the same case. Nay, there is a gratitude 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 cheer- ful and confident, and in the possession of a true friendship, delivered from all anxiety. There is this difference betwixt a thankful man and an un- thankful ; 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 benignity in the estimation, even in the smallest offices; and such a modesty as appears to be obliged in whatsoever it gives. As it is indeed a very great benefit, the opportunity of doing a good office to a worthy man. lie that attends to the present, and re- members what is past, shall never be ungrateful. But, who shall judge in the case? For a man may be grateful without making a return, and un- grateful with it. Our best way is to help every skktsCa's morals. 5)3 A m3ti may be over-gratefui thing by a fair interpretation, and wheresoever there is a doubt, to allow it the most favourable 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 accompt, and know what 1 owe, and to whom, though I make my return sooner to some, and later to others, as occasion or fortune will give me leave, yet 1 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 honour, 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 favour, there must be virtue, occasion, means, and fortune. It is a common thing to screw up justice to the pitch of an injury. A man may be over-righte- ous; and, why not over-grateful too? There is a mischievous excess, that borders so close upon ingratitude, that it is no easy matter to distin- guish 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 Gratitude Mistaken. GRATITUDE MISTAKEN. To refuse a good office, not so much becnuse v;e do not need it, as because we would not be 04 seneca's morals. Romaruic ideas of kindness. indebted for it, is a kind of phantastical ingrati- tude, and somewhat akin to that nicety of hu- mour on the other side, of being ungrateful ; 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 still wishing their benefactors such or such a mischief, only, forsooth, that they them- selves might be the happy instruments of' their release. 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 inter- posing to their relief. What difference is there betwixt such wishing and cursing ? Such an af- fection, 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 com- mon people, and no mortal be able to rescue him but myself. Let his life, his liberty, and his re- putation, lie all at stake, and no creature but myself, in condition to succour him; and why all this, but because he has obliged me, and 1 would requite him ? If this be gratitude, to propound jails, shackles, slavery, war, beggary, to 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 it- self, is likewise over-hasty and unseasonable ; for meneca's morals. 05 We must pot commit ev.il to produce good. 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 re- quited. 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 mav relieve him, is, first, to wish him miserable : to wish that he may stand in need of any body, is against him, and to wish that he may stand in need of me, is for myself: so that my business is not so much a charity to my friend, as the cancelling of a bond, nay, it is halfway 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 ra- ther wish him powerful, and happy, and myself indebted to him. By nature we are prone to mercy, humanity, and compassion, may we be excited to be more so by the number of the grate- ful, may their number increase, and may we have no need of trying them. It is not for an honest man to make wav to a j good office by a crime : as if a pilot should pray for a tempest, that he might prove his skill ; or a general wish his army routed, that he might shew himself a great commander in recovering the dav. 06" seneca's morals, Kindnesses must not originate from uiikindne:>sts. It is throwing a man into a river, to take him out again. It is an obligation, I confess, to cure a wound, or a disease; but, to make that wound, or disease, on purpose to cure it, is a most per- verse ingratitude. 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 it be rather a scar, than a wound ; and yet it would be better to have it neither. Rome had been little beholden to Sci- pio, if he had prolonged the Punic war, that he might have the finishing of it at last ; or to the Decii, for dying for their country, if they had first brought it to the last extremity of needing their devotion. It may be a good contemplation, but it is a lewd wish. ./Eneas had never been sur- named the Pious, if he had wished the ruin of his country, only that he might have the honour of taking his father out of the lire. It is the scan- dal of a physician to make work, and irritate a disease, and to torment his patient for the repu- tation of his cure. If a man should openly im- precate 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 difference ; but that 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 seneca's morals. 97 Ingratitude the worst of all crimes. all the banished men home again. " God for- bid/' says he, " for I had rather my country should blush for my banishment, than mourn for my return/' How much more honourable is it to owe chearfully, than to pay dishonestly? 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 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 dees 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 un- shaken 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 miserable, that I may need it. How much more pious is it. and humane, to wish that I may never want the oc- casion of obliging, nor the means of doing it, nor ever have reason to repent of what I have done. OF INGRATITUDE. Ingratitude is, of all crimes, that which we are to account the most venial, in others, and & \ <)8 SENECA^ MORALS. We all Ike unthankt'ully, the most unpardonable in ourselves. It is impi- ous in 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 murderers, tyrants, thieves, adul- terers, 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 thankfulness itself were much the greater of the two. For men are deterred from it by labour, expence, laziness, business, or else diverted from it by lust, envy, ambition, pride, levity, rashness, fear; nay, by the very shame of confessing w'hat they have re- ceived. And the unthankful man has nothing to _say for himself all this while; for there needs nei- ther pains, or fortune, for the discharge of his duty ; beside, the inward anxiety and torment, when a man's conscience makes him afraid of his own thought. To speak against the ungrateful, is to rail against mankind, for even those that complain are gnilty; nor do I speak only of those that do not live up to the strict rule of virtue, but man- kind itself is degenerated and lost. We live tin- thankfully in this world, and we go struggling and murmuring out of it, dissatisfied with our lot; seneca's morals. 99 Pariiculai ly t" Heav.en. whereas we should be grateful for the blessings we have enjoyed, and account that sufficient which Providence has appointed 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 quarrelling at the world, for what we find in ourselves; and v.c are yet more unthankful 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 immor- tal, 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 subdue the strongest of creatures, and overtake the fleetest; we reclaim the fiercest, and out-wit 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 ourselves. Why are we not rather thankful to that goodness, which has sub- jected the whole creation to our use and service? K 2 100 seneca's morals. Causes of Ingratitude. 5 The principal causes of ingratitude are pride and self-conceit, avarice, envy, &c. It is a fa- miliar exclamation, — " It is true, he did this or that for me, but it came so late, and it was so little, I had even as good been without it; if he had not given it to me, he must have given it to some- body else; it was nothing cut of his own pocket/' Kay, we are so ungrateful, 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, the disappointment of his unsalable companions ; and yet he reserved nothing of all that he got to himself, but the liberty of disposing it. There is no benefit so large, but malignity will still lessen it ; none so narrow, which a good inter- pretation 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 ungrateful, for he never thinks he has enough, but without consi- dering what he has, only minds what he covets. Some pretend want of power to make a compe- tent return, and you shall find in others a kind of graceless modesty, that makes a man ashamed of requiting 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 seneca's morals. io>i People tull< then interest. more they owe, the more they hate. There is nothing more dangerous than to oblige those peo- ple, 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 favour, it will be an eternal obligation to me." But, within a while, the note is changed, and Ave hear no more words on it, till by little and little it is all quite forgotten. So long as we stand in need of a benefit, there is nothing dearer to us, nor any thing cheaper when we have received it. And yet a man may as well refuse to deliver up a sum of money that is left to him in trust, with- out a suit, as not to return a good office without a:^king; and when we have no value any further 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 husband for that of his wife, &c. But who can look for gratitude in an age of so many gap- ing and craving appetites, where all people take. ii 3 1C 1 2 bEVECAS MORALS. Ungrateful governors as well as others. and none give ? In an age of license to all sorts of vanity and wickedness, as lust, gluttony, avarice, envy, ambition, sloth, insolence, levity, contu- macy, fear, rashness, private discords and pub- lic evils, extravagant and groundless wishes, vain confidences, sickly affections, shameless impieties, rapine authorized, and the violation of all things, sacred and profane: obligations are pursued with sword and poison ; benefits are turned into crimes ; and that blood most seditiously spilt, for which every honest man should expose his own. Those that should be the preservers of their country, are the destroyers of it ; and it is mat- ter of dignity to trample upon the government: the sword gives the law, and mercenaries take up arms against their masters. Among these turbu- lent and unruly motions, what hope is there of finding honesty or good faith, which is the quiet- est of all virtues ? 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 furget our benefits. The world abounds with examples of ungrateful persons, and no less with those of ungrateful go- vernments. Was not Catiline ungrateful, whose malice aimed, not only at the mastering of his country, but at the total destruction of it, by calling in an inveterate and vindictive enemy from beyond the Alps, to wreak their long- thirst- seneca's morals. 103 Proved Uv example ed-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 Marios ungrateful, that, from a com- mon soldier, being raised up to consul, not only gave the word for civil bloodshed and massacres, but was himself the sign for 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 ungrateful 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 per- fidiously 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 honours 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 any one, might have been allowable for more; dividing and distributing the provinces, and breaking all into a triumvirate, reserving still two parts of the three in his own family. 3 04? Seneca's morals. Every ungrateful man In.-* own enemy. And, was not Caesar ungrateful 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 govern- ments. Was not Cannllus banished ? Scipio dis- missed? and Cicero exiled and plundered? Eut what is all this to those that are so mad as to dispute even the goodness of heaven, which gives us all, and expects nothing again, but continues giving to the most unthankful and complaining? THERE CAN BE NO LAW AGAINST INGRATITUDE. Ingratitude is so dangerous to itself, and so detestable to other people, that nature, one would think, had sufficiently provided against it, without need of any other law. For every un- grateful man is his own enemy, and it seems su- perfluous to compel a man to be kind to himself, and to follow his own inclinations. This, of all wickedness imaginable, is certainly the vice which does the most divide and distract human nature. Without the exercise and the commerce of mu- tual offices, we can be neither happy nor sale; for it is only society that secures us : take us one by one, and we are a prey* even to brutes, as well as to one another. Nature has brought us seneca's morals. 10.5 f lis punuliment remitted to divine justice. into the world naked and unarmed ; we have not the teeth or the paws of lions and bears, to make ourselves terrible, but by the two blessings of rea- son and union, we secure and defend ourselves against violence and fortune. This it is that makes a man the master of all other creatures, who other- wise were scarce a match for the weakest of them. This it is that comforts us in sickness, in age, in mi- sery, in pains, and in the worst of calamities. 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 : but we cannot say yet, that it escapes unpunished, for a public hatred is certainly the greatest of all pe- nalties ; over and above that, we lose the most valuable blessing of life, in- the not bestowing and receiving of benefits. If ingratitude were to be punished by a law, it would discredit the obli- gation; for a benefit is to be given, not lent. And if we have no return 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, poison, sacrilege, and rebellion ; but ingratitude (here upon earth) is only punish- ed 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 coun- tenance, the ungrateful man is never without a 10fj seneca's m«rals, ■ ■-■■ .'» *- There can be no Ittal puni-hmerr, canker at his heart; his mind and aspect is sad and solicitous, whereas the other is always chear- ful and serene. As there are no laws extant against ingratitude, so it is utterly impossible to contrive any, that in all circumstances should 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 themselves, 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 and 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, un- der these differing degrees ? It must not be said in benefits as in bonds — " Pay what you owe." How shall a man pay life, health, credit, security, in kind ? There can be no set rule to bound that in- finite variety of cases, which are more properly the subject of humanity and religion, than of law and public justice. There would be disputes also about the benetit itself, which must totally de- pend upon the courtesy of the judge, for no law imaginable can set it forth. One man gives iut seneca's morals. lo7 As none can be adequate. an estate, another only lends me a sword, and that sword preserves my life. Nay, the very same thing several ways done, changes the qua- lity 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 docs not depend upon the fact itself, but upon the force and intention of it ? Some things are reputed be- nefits, not for their value, but because we desire them ; and there are offices of much greater va- lue, that we do not reckon upon at all. If in- gratitude were liable to a law, we must never give but before witnesses, which would overthrow the dignity of the benefit. And then the punishment must either be equal, where the crimes are un- equal, or else it must be unrighteous : so that blood must answer for blood. He that is ungrate- ful for my saving his life, must forfeit his own. And, what can be more inhuman, than that be- nefits should conclude in sanguinary events ? A man saves my life, and I am ungrateful for it : shall 1 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 of a IDS seneca's mohal*. Generosity is lessened by caution. :. * ■ , . , == law : so that it is much more equitable to punish none, than to punish all alike. What if a man follows a good office with an injuiy ; 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 own 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 clamour without reason. 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 man 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, what 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 seneca's morals. 109 Like money lent upon security. to this, men will be careful enough whom they oblige, without a law; nor is it possible for a judge ever to set us right in it, or indeed any- thing else, but the faith of the receiver. The honour of a benefit is this way preserved, which is otherwise prophaned, when it comes to be mer- cenary, and made matter of contention. We are even forward enough of ourselves to wrangle, without unnecessary provocations. It would be well, I think, if monies 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 T there must he bonds, witnesses, counterparts, powers, &c. 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, betw T ixt the benefactor and an usurer, save only that in the benefactor's case, there is no body stands bound ? 110 senega's morals. The readiest way to Happiness A HAPPY LIFE. Or A HAPPY LITE, AND WHEREIN IT CONSISTS. THERE is not any thing in this world, perhaps, that is more talked of, and less understood, than the business of a happy life. It is, every man's wish and design, 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 farther we are from our journey's end. Let us, therefore, first consider — What it is we would be at. And, secondly, which is the readiest way to compass it. If we be right, we shall find every day how much we improve; but if we either fol- low 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 and error. Where- fore it highly concerns us to take along with us a skilful guide , for it is not in this, as in other voyages, where the high-way 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 the most dangerous, and the people, instead seneca's morals. Ill Wherein consists true felicity. of helping us, misguide us. Let us not therefore follow like beasts, but rather govern ourselves by reason than by example. It fares with us in hu- man life as in a routed army, one stumbles first, and then another falls upon him, and so they fol- low, one upon the neck of another, until the whole field comes to be but one heap of miscar- riages. 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 be- lieve than to judge, and content themselves with what is usual, never examining whether it be good or no. By the common people is intended the man of title, as well as the clouted shoe, for I do not distinguish 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 bet- ter than those he prayed for. The true felicity of life is to be free from per- turbations, to understand our duties toward God and man, to enjoy the present, without any an- xious dependence upon the future. Not to amuse ourselves with either hopes or fears, but to rest l2 112 seneca's morals. A sound mind makes a happy man. satisfied 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 we search for, without finding it. Tran- 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, mea- sure, a decorum in all his actions ; he has a be- nevolence in his nature; he squares his life ac- cording to reason, and draws to himself love and admiration. Without a certain and an unchange- able j udgment, 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 necessarily ensue upon the master- ing of those things which either allure or affright us, when, instead of those flashy pleasures (which even at the best, are both vain and hurtful toge- gether), we shall find ourselves possessed of joys 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 seneca's morals. 113 'I he be:ii of (rue joy is wit! :r,. of this world, but without trouble; and such an indifterency for the bounties of fortune, that either with them, or without them, we may live con- tentedly. There must be neither lamentation nor quarreling, 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 conditions, his thoughts are chearful and quiet. As it never came in to him from without, so it will never leave him; but is born within him, and inseparable from him. It is a solicitous life that is egged 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 en- joyment of lawful pleasures, or to the gentle flat- teries of reasonable expectations, but, on the ._ contrary, I would have men to be always in good hurnpm*, 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 seren^and sober motion; and they are miserably out, that take laughing for rejoic- ing ; the seat of it is within, and there is no chearfulness like the resolution of a brave mind, that has fortune under its feet. He that can look death in the face and bid it welcome, open his L3 114 seneca's morals. Definition of wisdom. 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 superfi- cial; but the other 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 conscience, 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 conformity of the will to that knowledge. HUMAN HAPPINESS IS FOUNDED UPON WISDOM AND VIRTUE; AND PIRST, OP WISDOM. Taking for granted, that human happiness is founded upon wisdom and virtue, we shall treat upon these tw r o points in order as they lie; and, first, of wisdom; and not in the latitude of its various operations, but only as it has a regard to good life, and the happiness of mankind. Wisdom is a right understanding, a faculty of discerning good from evil, what is to be chosen and what rejected, a judgment grounded upon the. seneca's morals. 115 The truly wise are truly happy. value of things, and not the common opinion of them; an equality of force, and a strength of re- solution. It sets a watch over our words and deeds, it takes up with the contemplation of the works of nature, and makes us invincible, by either good or evil fortune. It is large and spacious, and requires a great deal of room to work in; it ransackp heaven and earth; it has for its object things past and to come, transitory and eternal. It examines all the cir- cumstances 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 no it passes from one form to another, or serves only one, and wanders when it leaves us ; where it abides in the state of separation, and what the action of it; what use it makes of liberty, whether or no it re- tains the memory of things past, and comes to the knowledge of itself. It is the habit of a per- fect mind, and the perfection of humanity raised as high as nature can carry it. It differs from philosophy, as avarice and money; the one de- sires, and the other is desired; the one is the ef- fect and the reward of the other. To be wise, is the use of wisdom, as seeing is the use of eyes, and veil-speaking the use of eloquence. He that is perfectly wise is perfectly happy ; nay, the very beginning of wisdom makes life easv. Neither is it enough to know this, unless we print it in our llo seneca's morals. Wisdom renders easy every situation. minds by daily meditation, and so bring a good will to a good habit, And we must practise 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 r we cannot be safe without it, for every hour gives us an occasion to make use of it. It informs us in all the duties of life, piety to our parents, faith to our friends, charity to the miserable, judgment in counsel; it gives us peace by fearing nothing, and riches by coveting nothing. There is no condition of life that excludes a wise man from discharging his duty. If his for- tune 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 reclaim- ing the fiercest of beasts, they will make a lion embrace his keeper, a tyger kiss him, and an ele- phant kneel to him. This is the case of wise men in the extremest difficulties ; let them be ever so terrible in themselves, when they come to him once, they are perfectly tame. They that ascribe the invention of tillage, architecture, na- seneca's morals. 117 She teaclies what are gocJand evil things. vigation, &c. to wise men, may perchance be in the right, that they were invented by wise men ; but they were not invented by wise men, as wise men; for wisdom does not teach our fingers, but our minds. Fiddling and dancing, arms and for- tifications, were the works of luxury and discord, but wisdom instructs us in the way of nature, and in the arts of unity and concord ; not in the instru- ments, but in the government of life; nor to make us live only, but to live happily. She teaches us what things are good, what evil, and what only appear so ; and to distinguish betwixt true greatness and tumour. She clears our minds of dross and vanity — she raises up our thoughts to heaven, and carries them down to hell — she dis- courses the nature of the soul, the powers and faculties of it, the first principles of things, the order of providence — she exalts us from things corporeal to incorporeal, and retrieves the truth of all — she searches nature, gives laws to life, and tells us — " That it is not enough to know 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 re- pentance — she allows nothing to be good, that will not be so for ever ; no man to be happy, but he that needs no other happiness than what he has within himself; no man to be great, or powerful, 118 SENECA S MORALS. Right reason the peirection of human nature. that is not master of himself. This is the felicity of human life ; a felicity that can neither be cor- rupted nor extinguished. It enquires into the na- ture of the heavens, the influence of the stars, how far they operate upon our minds and bodies ; which 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 unmoveable, 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 it- self. There can be no happiness without con- stancy and prudence; for a wise man is to write without a blot, and what he likes once he ap- proves for ever. He admits of nothing that is either evil or slippery, but marches without staggering or stumbling, and is never surprized — he lives al- ways true and steady to himself, and whatsoever befalls him, this great artificer of both fortunes turns to advantage. He that demurs and hesi- tates, is not yet composed : but wheresoever vir- tue interposes upon the main, there must be con- cord 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 lie is, will 9ENJ-.CA S MORALS. ]1Q Arts are but wisdom's servants. be still happy, for he subjects all things to himself, because he submits himself to reason, and governs his actions by counsel, not by passion. He is not moved with the utmost violence of fortune, nor with the extremities of lire and sword: whereas a fool is afraid of his own shadow, and surprized at ill accidents, as if they were all levelled at him. lie 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 he has not; though of the two, he had rather abound than want. The great business of his life, like that of nature, is performed without tumult or noise : he neither fears danger, nor provokes it ; but it is his caution, not any want of courage ; for captivity, wounds, and chains, he only looks upon as false and lymphatical terrors. He does not pretend to go through with whatever he under- takes ; 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 pros- perity temperate, and resolute in adversity ; still making the best of every condition, and improv- ing all occasions to make them serviceable to his 120 seneca's morals. Three degrees of proficients in wisdom. fate. Some accidents there are, which, I con- fess, 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 the sight of it, but not up to it: they have learned what they ought to do, but they have not put their knowledge 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 disease, I do not understand an obsti- nacy 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 appetite for a season, but are yet in fear of falling back. A third sort, are those that are clear of many vices, but not of all. They are not covetous, but perhaps they are choleric; not lustful, but perchance ambitious; they are firm enough in some cases, but weak in others: there are many that despise death, and yet shrink at pain. There are diversities in weak men, but no inequalities; one is more affable, another more ready, a third a better speaker, but seneca's morals, !?1 Virtue is an invin ess of mind. the ieucity of them all is equal. JU is m 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 plnsician. an advocate, a solicitor, but, in greater matters, the blessing of wise men rests in the joy they take in the communication of their virtues. If there were nothing else in it, a man would apply himself to wisdom, because it settles him in a perpetual tranquillity of mind. THERE CAN BE NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIRTUE. Virtue is that perfect good which is the com- plement of a happy life, the only immortal thing that belongs to immortality; it is the knowledge both of others and itself, it is an invincible great- ness 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 grammarian, without being a good man; so that ail things from without are only acces- saries, 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 u 1Q2! SF.NEC.v's MORALS. Virtue soars above difficulties. change colour 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 judg- ment 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 indiffer- ent, 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 we suffer the latter with honour, and enjoy the 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 yet be greater than his conqueror. When we come once to value our flesh above our honesty, we are lost: and yet 1 would not press upon dangers, no not so much as upon inconveni- ence, unless where the man and the brute come in competition ; and, in such a case, rather- than make a forfeiture of my credit, my reason, or my faith, I would run all extremities. They are great blessings to have tender parents, dutiiul 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 over-run by a barbarous enemy ? There is a great difference betwixt the simple loss of a blessing, and the succeeding of a great mischief into the place of seneca's morals. 123 Her glories are not to i>e obscured. it over and above. The loss of health is followed with sickness, and the loss of sight with blindness, but this does not hold in the loss of friends and chil- dren, where there is rather something to the con- trary 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 stopt or no, 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 nei- ther 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 5 in the choice itself, and not in the subject matter of it. It is not a despicable body, or condition, not poverty, infamy, or scandal, that can obscure the glories of virtue; but a man may see her through all op- positions, 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 our- selves are only the more expensive fools. m 2 124" senega's morals. '1 lie dignity o' virtue. 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 vt aeration, would cot 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 af- fected with it. There is so wonderful a grace and authority in it, that even the worst of men ap- prove it, and set up for the reputation 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 ail men have a reverence for virtue: they know it, and they have a respect for it, though they do not practise it ; nay, for the countenance of their very wickedness, they miscal it virtue. Their injuries they call benefits, and expect a man should thank them for doing him a mischief; they cover their most notorious iniquities with a pretext of justice. He that robs upon the highway, had rather find his booty than force it. Ask any of them that live upon rapine, fraud, and oppression, if they had not rather enjoy a fortune honestly gotten, and their consciences will not suffer them to deny it. Men are vicious only for the profit of villainy ; for at the same time that they commit it, they seneca's morals. 1*25 Winch overcomes ill f. rtune, and moderates good. condemn it. Nay, so powerful is virtue, and so gracious is Providence, that every man has a light set up within him for a guide," which we do all ot us both see and acknowledge, though we do not pursue it. This is it 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 is that which overcomes ill fortune, and moderates good; for it marches betwixt the one and the other, with an equal con- tempt of both. It turns (like fire) all things into itself, our actions and our friendships are tinctured with it, and whatever it touches becomes 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 the sickly man as m 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 virtues, I confess, which a good man cannot be without, and yet he had rather have no occasion to employ them. If there were any dif- ference, I should prefer the virtues of patience before those of pleasure; for it is braver to break through difficulties, than to temper our delights. But, though the subject of virtue may possibly be m 3 126" seneca's MORALS. The s!>K)(i-will accepted for the deed. t — - against nature, as to be burnt, or wounded, yet the virtue itself, of an invincible patience, is ac- cording to nature. We may seem perhaps to pro- mise 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 gener- ous, the very adventure of being good, and the bare proposal of an eminent course of life, though beyond the force of human frailty to accomplish. There is something of honour yet in the miscar- riage, 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 1 be rich or poor, whether I oet or lose in the world ; what I have, I will not either sordidly spare, or prodigally squander away; and! will reckon upon benefits 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 per- son. What I do, shall be done for conscience, not ostentation. I will cat and drink, not to gra- tify my palate, or cnly v to fill and empty, but to satisfy nature. I will be chearful to my friends, mild, and placable to my enemies. I will prevent seneca's morals. 127 Contemplation and action. 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 consci- ence ; that I never invaded another man's liberty, and that I preserved my own. I will govern my life, and my thoughts, as if the whole world were to see the one, and to read the other ; for, what does it signify, to make any thing a secret to my neighbour, when to God (who is 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 con- sists in discipline, the other in exercise ; for we must first learn, and then practise. 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 the contemplation of a soul which is advanced into the possession of wisdom and virtue. It it was so great a comfort to us, to pass from the subjection of our childhood into a state of li- berty and business, how much greater will it be, when we come to cast off the boyish levity of our 12 know, or 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 docs, which inspires us with seneca's morals. 157 It tortilie- Ihe mind. great thought?, 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, un- tainted 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 mor- tal body. And this is it that carries us to the disquisition of things divine and human ; what the state of the world was before the distribution of the first matter into parts ; v. hat power it was that drew order out of that confusion, and gave laws both to the whole and every particle there- of; 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 universe, so many scattered parts and qualities wrought into one mass, such a medley of things, which are vet distinguished ; the world enlight- ened, and the disorders of it so wonderfully re- gulated, and, shall he not consider the author and disposer of all this, and whither we ourselves shall go, when our souls shall be delivered from the slavery of our flesh ? The whole creation, we see, conforms to the dictates of Providence, p 158 sent.ca's morals. A good conscience the greatest blessing in nature. 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 flesh, and may be the blessing of a slave, as well as of a prince ; it came from heaven, and to heaven it must re- turn ; and it is a kind of heavenly felicity, which a pure and virtuous mind enjoys, in some de- gree, even upon earth : whereas temples of ho- nour are but empty names, which probably owe their beginning either to ambition, or to violence. I am strangely transported with the thoughts of eternity, nay, with the belief of it, for I have a profound 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 immortality of the soul, it goes very far with me, a general consent to the opinion of a future reward and punishment, which medi- tation raises me to the contempt 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 ignorant : 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 be bestow upon himself. The body is but the clog and prisoner 4 seneca's morals. 159 ]t :<-ar no wii:ie.-ses. 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 matter for opinion: let me deserve well, though 1 hear ill. The common people take stomach and audacity for the marks of magnanimity and honour; 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 have him in esteem and admiration. For there is no man but ap- proves 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 over-value that which we must quit to obtain it. A good con- science fears no witnesses, but a guilty consci- ence is solicitous, even in solitude. If we do nothing but what is honest, let all the world know it ; but if otherwise, what docs it signify to have nobody else know it, so long as 1 know it myself? Miserable is he that slights that wit- ness ! Wickedness, it is true, may escape the law, but not the conscience. For a private con- viction is the first, and the greatest punishment of offenders ; so that sin plagues itself, and the P2 100 SEN EC AS MORALS. Conscience haunts the guilty. 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 tor- ments 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 apprehension yet that he may be so. His sleeps are painful, and never secure; and he cannot speak of another man's wickedness, with- out thinking of his own ; whereas a good consci- ence is a continual feast. Those are the only certain and profitable delights, which arise from the conscience 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 excesses of wine, or of women, nor in the largest prodigalities of fortune ; what she has given 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 thai EOA*S M0P.AL3, l6l Id ex unine ourselves every nk 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 exa- mine, watch, observe, and inspect our own heart?, for we ourselves are our own greatest flatterers. We should every night call ourselves to an ac- count — What infirmity have I mastered to-day? what passion opposed ? what temptation resisted ? what virtue acquired ? 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 y liberty, and greatness cf that mind, that is a spy upon itself, and a pri- vate censor of its own manners ! It is my cus- tom (says our author) every night, so soon as the candle is out, to run over all the words and ac- tions of the past da\-, and I let nothing escape me ; for, why should I fear the sight of my own errqrs, when I can admonish and forgive myself? I was a little too hot in §uch a dispute : my opi- nion 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 f3 1&2 skuecVs morals. Virtue an antidote against calamity. every man would but thus look into himself, it would be the better for us all. What can be more reasonable than this daily review of a life that we cannot warrant for a moment ? Our fate is set, and the first breath we draw, is only the first mo- tion toward our last : one cause depends upon another, and the course of all things, public and private, is but a long connection of provi- dential 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 the universe ; the heavens themselves are mortal as well as our bodies ; nature has made us passive, and to suifer is our lot. While we are in the 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. seneca's morals. 16*3 Reason the perfection of mankind. A GOOD MAN CAN NEVER KE MISERABLE, NOR A WICKED MAN HAPPY. There is not in the scale of nature a more in- separable connection of cause, and effect, than in the case of happiness and virtue : nor any thing that more naturally produces the one, or more necessarily presupposes the other. For, what is it to be happv, but for a man to content himself with his lot, in a chearful and quiet resignation to the appointments of God ? All the actions of our lives ought to be governed with a respect to good and evil : and it is only reason that distin- guishes, by which reason we are in such a 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 «' agks, or the sagacity of hounds ; nor if we had, ■jould 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 propor- tion with an holy mind, that illustrates all our actions, and yet adheres to its original. Why do we not as well commend a horse for his glorious trappings, as a man for his pompous additions ? kow much a braver creature is a lion (which by I«4 seneca's morals. r ' ' • ■ ■ »' ■• It is our duty to sett ankind; nature ought to be fierce and terrible), how much braver, I say, in his natural horror than in his chains ? so that every thing in its pure na- ture pleases us best. It is not health, nobility, or 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 any thing else, and him that wants it contemptible,, thou uh he had all the world besides. Jt is not the painting, gilding, or carving, that makes a good ship, but if she be a nimble sailer, tight and strong, to endure the seas, that is her ex- cellency. 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 make a man considerable, but his virtue. It is every mans duty to make himself profitable to mankind, if he can, to many, if not, to fewer;, if not to neither, to his neighbours, 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 r 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 seneca's morals. Io\5 He that spends his time well, gives a great example. 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 pul- pit; if he be silenced abroad, let him give coun- sel 1 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 whole world is his country, and human nature never wants matter to work upon : but, if no- thing wiii 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 encou- ragement, his voice, and stands his ground even when he has lost his hands, and does service too with his very clamour ; 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 ty- rants, where it was capital to be honest, and the senate house was turned into a college of hang- men ' never was any government so wretched and lt)6 senega's morals. The injuries of fortune affect not the mind. so hopeless ; and yet Socrates at the same time preached temperance to the tyrants, and courage to the rest, and afterwards died an eminent ex- ample 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 bare- faced, for he is sufficiently convinced that she can do him no hurt. She may take away his servants, possessions, and dignity; assault his body, put out his eyes, cut off his hands, and strip him of ail the external comforts of life. But what does all this amount to, more than the re- calling of a trust, which he has received, with condition to deliver it up again upon 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 thins that is committed to him in trust. When- soever he that lent me myself, and what 1 have, shall call for all back again, it is not a loss, but a restitution, and I must willingly deliver up what most undeservedly was bestowed upon me. And it will become me to return my mind better than I received it. Demetrius, upon the taking of Megara, asked Stilpo, the philosopher, what he had lost. " No- thing," says he, " for I had all that I con 1 /] M U seneca's MORALS. 1 67 An instance of magnanimity. my own, about me/' And yet the enemy had tiien made himself master of his patrimony, his iidren, and his country, but these he looked n only a? adventitious 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 military intemper- ance and fury, what violence, or provocation 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 en- gine that can subvert a steady mind. " I have made my way," says Stilpo, " through fire and blood ; what is become of my children I know not; but these are transitory blessings, and ser- vants that are condemned to chance their mas- lets ; 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 the bonds and securities, but, Demetrius, for my part, I have saved all : and $o not imagine, after all this, either that Demetrius is a conqueror, or that Stilpo is over- come; it is only thy fortune has been too hard for mine/' Alexander took Babylon, Scipio took Carthage, the capital was burnt, but there is no fire or violence, that can discompose a generous mind: and let us not take this character neither l6S senega's morals. A brave mind is unmoved by accidents. 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 ever so painful, so hazardous, or ever so great a loss to him ; and it is not all the money, the power, and the pleasure in the world, no, not any force or ne- cessity 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 torments in the way. And in this instance of Stilpo, 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, and my prudence:" accounting nothing his own, or valuable, and shewing 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 a 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 pronounces upon the man, whether he be happy or miserable. But, though sacrilege and adultery be generally seneca's morals. l6\<) Resignation is the part of a generous man. condemned, how many are there still that do not so much as blush at the one, and, in truth, glory in the other ? For nothing is more common 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. THE DUE CONTEMPLATION OF DIVINE PRO- VIDENCE IS THE CERTAIN CURE OF ALL MISFORTUNES. Whoever observes the world, and the order of it, will find all the motions in it to be only vicissitude of failing and rising, nothing extin- guished, and even those things which seem to us to perish, are in truth but changed. The sea- sons go and return, day and night follow in their courses, the heavens roll, and nature goes on with her work : all things succeed 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 v/ithout repining. It is the part of a cowardly soldier to follow his com- mander groaning, but a generous man delivers himself up to God without struggling ; and it is only for a narrow mind to condemn the order of Q 170 Seneca's morals. Fortune has no weapon thai roaches the mind. 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 superfi- cial, and they are only vanity and delusion : they are rather the goods of a dream, than a substan- tial possession ; they may cozen us -at a distance, but bring them once to the touch, they are rotten and counterfeit. There are no greater wretche* an the world, than many of those which the peo- ple take to be happy ; those are the only true and incorruptible comforts, that will abide all trials, and the more we turn und 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 Providence are certain, -and perma- nent 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 people covet. In the very methods of nature, we cannot but ob- serve the regard that Providenoc had to the good of mankind, even in .the disposition of the world, in providing so amply for our maintenance and 5 sf.nilCa's morals. }7l Afflictions aiv Lnt ui.ils. 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 arc dis- covered, but infinitely the greater part of it lies hid. We are all of us, however, thus far agreed, first, in the acknowledgment 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 labour under af- fliction and adversity, and wicked men enjoy themselves in ease and plenty r" 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. As the master gives his most hopeful scholars the hardest lessons, so does God deal with the most generous spirits ; and the cross en- counters of fortune we are not to look upon as cruelty, but as a contest. The familiarity of daggers 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 perpetual winter, in extremity of frost and penury, where a cave, a lock of straw, or a few Q 2 172 seneca's morals. We are apt to murmur without cause. leaves, is all their covering, and wild beasts their nourishment; all this, by custom, is not only made tolerable, but when once it is taken up upon necessit}*-, by little and little, it becomes pleasant to them. Why should we then count that condition of life a calamity, which is the lot vf many nations ? There is no state of life so mi- serable, but there are in it remissions, diver- sions, nay, and delights too, such is the benig- nity 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 beside 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 appoint- ment. 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 nei- ther to wish, nor to ask, nor to hope to escape them ; for it is a kind of dishonesty to pay a tri- bute unwillingly. Ami troubled with the stone, ©r afilicted with continual losses ? nay, is mf sexeca's morals.' 173 Only in adverse fortune we find great examples body in clanger ? all this is no more than what L 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 warfare, and what brave man would not rather chuse to be in a tent, than in a shamble; fortune does like a swordman, she scorns to encounter a fearful man. There is no honour m the victory, where there is no danger in the way to it : she tries Mueius by fire, Rutilius by exile, Socrates by poison, and Cato by death. It is only in adverse fortune, and in bad times, that we find great examples. Mu- cins thought himself 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 de- licacies of luxury and expense. Shall we call Rutilius miserable, whom his very enemies have adored ? who, upon a glorious and a public prin- ciple, chose rather to lose his country, than to return from banishment; the only man that de- nied any thing to Syila, the dictator, who re- called him. Nor did he only refuse to come, but drew himself farther 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 Q 3 174 seneca's morals. Providence df luxury. wrathful, the contentious, the ambitious, though the distemper be great, the offence has yet some- thing in it that is manly. But, the basest of prosti- tutes 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 of little expence ? 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 wickedness; and, in conclusion, we delivered up our minds to our bodies, and so be- came slaves to our appetites, which before were our servants, and are now become our masters. What was it that brought us to the extravagance of embroideries, perfumers, tire-women, &c. We passed the bounds of nature, and launched out into superfluities, insomuch, that it is now a-days only for beggars and clowns to content themselves with what is sufficient; our luxury makes us insolent and mad, We take upon us like princes, and fly out for every trifle, as if there were life and death in the case. What a madnes6 is it for a man to lay out an estate upon a table, or a cabinet ; a patrimony upon a pair of pendents ; and, to in- flame the price of curiosities, according to the hazard either of breaking or losing them. To ivveca's MOKA'^. 205 ■» We eat nut to s.ni t\ 1 ittfigei'i l)ui .niiuition. wear garments that will neither defend a wo- man's body, nor her modesty ; so thin, that one would make a conscience of swearing she were not naked : for she hardly shews more in the pri- vacies of her amour, than in public. How long shall we covet and oppress, enlarge our posses- sions, and account that too little for one man, which was formerly enough for a nation r 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, nor a mountain escapes us. Oh that there should be such boundless desires in our little bodies ! would not fewer lodoinw, serve us? We lie but in one, and where we are not, that is not properly ours. What with our hooks, snares, nets, dogs, &c. we are at war with all living creatures ; and nothing comes amiss, but that which is either too cheap, or too common ; and all this to gratify a fantastical palate. Our avarice, our ambition, our lusts, are insatiable; we.enlarge our possessions, swell our families, we rifle sra and land for matter of ornament and luxury. A bull contents himself with one mea- dow, and one forest is enough for a thousand ele- phants, but the little body of a man devours more than all other living creatures. We do not eat to satisfy hunger, but ambition; we are dead T £05 seneca's morals. A voluptuary cannot be a ?< o:l man. 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 con- sidering, that the lot of man is the law of nature. A good man (like a good soldier) will stand his ground, receive wounds, glory in his scars, and in death itself, love his master for whom he falls ; with that divine precept always in his mind — u Follow good/' Whereas he that complains, la- ments, 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 chuse rather to Le lugged, than to follow, and vainly to con- tend with the calamities of human life ? Whatever 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. lie that does this shall be free, safe, and quiet: ail his actions shall suc- ceed to hub wish ; and what can any man desire more, than to want nothing from without, and to have all things de^rabie within himself? Plea- sures do but weaken our minds, and send us for our support to fortune, who gives us money only as the wages of slavery. We must stop our eyes a&d our ears. Ulysses had but one rock to fear, 2 seneca's morals. 207 Riches do not make us 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 su- perstition of taking those things which are light and vain, for felicities! AVARICE AND AMBITION ARE INSATIABLE AND RESTLESS. Til e man that would be truly rich, must not increase his fortune, but retrench his appetites : for riches are not only superfluous, but mean, and little more use to the possessor than to the looker on. What is the end of ambition and ava- rice, when, at best, we are but stewards of what we falsely call our own? All those things which we pursue with so much hazard, and expence of blood, as well to keep, as to get; for which we break faith and friendship : what are they, but the mere deposit a of fortune ? and not ours, but already inclining toward a new master. There is nothing our own, but that which we give to our- selves ; and of which we have a certain and an inexpugnable possession. Avarice is so insatia- ble, 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 solicit- ous for the increase of wealth, we lose the true use of it, and spend our time in putting out, call- 208 seneca's morals. Old men act like children. ing inland passing our accounts, without any substantial benefit either to the world or to ourselves. What is the difference betwixt old men and children ? the one cries for nuts and ap- ples, and the other for gold and silver. The one sets up courts of justice, hears and determines, acquits and condemns in jest, the other in ear- nest ; 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 silver, but as to judgments and statutes, procuration and counte- nance money, these are cnly 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 mere: just so do we with the splits of fortune, down they* gg without thew- ir.y. and we are immediately ready for another cl p. But what has avarice now to do with gold and silver, that is so much out-done by curio- sities of a far greater value ? let us no Ionizer tomphain, that there was not a heavier load upon those precious metals, or that they were not buried deep enough^ when we Lave found out ways by wax and parchments* and by bloody seneca's morat.s. 209 Avar ce punishes itself. usurous 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 instruments of blood and slaughter, and the price of it), nature- has hidden in the bowels of the earth. There is no avarice without some punishment, over and above that which it is to itself. How miserable is it in the desire ! how miserable even in the attaining 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 di- rect loss at all, the covetous man loses what he does not get. It is true, the people call the rich man a happy 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 cf his fortune, his herds of cattle, his number of slaves, his lands and palaces ; for, comparing that which he has, to that which he farther covets, he is a beg- . gar. No man can possess all things, but any man may contemn 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 turned merchants, aiui look not into the qua- T 3 210 Seneca's morals. A va rice makes us rrulevo Vnt. lity of tilings, but into the price of them ; for re- ward we are pious, and for reward again we are impious. ^Ve are honest, so long as we may thrive upon it; but if the devil himself give bet- ter wages, we change our party. Our parents have trained us up into an admiration of gold and silver, and the love of it is grown up with us to that degree, that when we should shew our gratitude to heaven, we make presents of those metals. This is it that makes poverty look like a curse, and a reproach, and the poets help it for- ward; 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 dues avarice make us only unhappy in ourselves, but malevolent also to mankind. The soldier wishes for war, the husbandman would have his corn dear, the lawyer prays for dissen- sion, the physician for a sickly year; he that deals in curiosities for luxury and excess, and makes up his fortune out of the corruptions of the age. High winds and public conflagrations make work for the carpenter and bricklayer, and one man lives by the loss of another ; some few, per- haps, 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 sexeca's morals. Qll I he ill eflect> wf ambition. living. Demades, of Athens, condemned a fel- low that sold necessaries for funerals, upon proof that he wished to make himself a fortune by his trade, which could not be but by a great morta- lity. But, perhaps, he did not so much desire 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 honour, 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 gieat- ness : all those acquisitions that dazzle the eyes of the vulgar, are but false pleasures, slippery and uncertain. They are achieved with labour, 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 no body 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 212 seneca's morals, All superfluities are hurtful. yet satisfied with what he had ? Every man wants as much as he covets; and it is lost labour to pour into a vessel that will never be full. lie that had subdued so man}* princes and nations, upon the killing of Clytus (one friend), and the loss of Hephestion (another), delivered himself up to anger and sadness ; and when he was mas- ter of the world, he was yet a slave to his pas- sions. 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 impossible, when it has once arrived at things be- yond expectation. It is a kind of dropsy, the more a man drinks, the more he covets. Let any man but observe the tumults, and the crowds that attend palaces ; 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 upcn 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 superfluities are hurtful. A rank crop lays the corn, too great a burden of fruits breaks the bough, and our minds may be as well overcharged with an immodtrate happiness. Nay, though we our- senega's morals. 213 The arnhiiion of Pompey, Caesar, and Marius. selves would be at rest, our fortune will not suffer it: the way that leads to honour and riches leads to trouble; and we find the causes of our sorrows in the very objects of our delights. What joy is there in feasting and luxury, in ambition and a crowd of clients, in the arms of a mistress, 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, with the nauseous and sad repentance of many. Ambition is like a gulph, every thing is swallowed up in it, and buried ; besides the dan- gerous consequences of it, for that which one hath taken from all, may be easily taken away again by all from one. It was not 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 Caesar, who could not, even then, brock a superior himself, when the commonwealth had submitted unto two already. Nor was it any instinct of virtue that pushed on Marius, who, at the head of an army, was himself yet 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 14 seueca's morals. The nominally great are miserable. filled to others. We impose upon our reason, when we suffer ourselves to be transported with titles, tor we know that they are nothing but a more glorious sound ; and so for ornaments and gildings, though there may be a lustre to dazzle our eyes, our understanding tells us yet, that it is only outside, and that 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, toy the dust he raises upon the way, and it is be- come a point of honour to over-run 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 exercise a power profitable to himself, and grievous to nobody else, let him practise it upon his passions. They that have burnt cities, otherwise invincible, driven armies before them, and bathed them- selves in human blood, after that they have over* come all open enemies, they have been vanquish- ed by their lust, by their cruelty, and without any resistance. Alexander was possessed with the madness of laying kingdoms waste. — lie be- gan with Greece, where he was brought up, and there he quarried himself upon that in it which seneca's morals. 215 *• ■ = Of hope and fear. was best; he enslaved Lacedcmon, 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. Feli- city is an unquiet thing ; it torments itself, and puzzles the brain. It makes some people ambi- tious, 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 pros- perity carries a man never so little beyond his poise, it over- bears 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. H.ow many cf the nobi- lity 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. HOPE AND TEAR ARE THE BANE 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 any thing. For hope and fear, how distant soevet 2l6 seneca's morals. The misery of anticipation. they may seem to be the one from one another, they are both of them yet coupled in the same' chain, as the guard and the prisoner; and the one treads upon the heel of the other. The rea- son of this is obvious, for they are passions that look forward, and are very solicitous for the fu- ture; only hope is the more plausible weakness of the two, which, in truth, upon the main, are in- separable, 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 un- derstand, whether our disputes are vain or no, if we do but consider, that we are either troubled about the present, the future, or both. If the present, it is easy to judge, and the future is un- certain. It is a foolish thing to be miserable be- iore-hand, for fear of misery to come ; for a man loses the present which he might enjoy, in expec- tation of the future : nay, the fear of losing any tiling is as bad 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 in- conveniences may happen, before 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 jet a frequent sexeca's morals. 21T Tin* miseries of indulging fe r. admittance of it runs into a habit. It is a shame- ful and unmanly thing to be doubtful, timorous, and uncertain ; to sot one step forward, and an- other backward, and to be irresolute. Can there be any man so fearful, that had not 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 pal- liate a misfortune, though not to cure it. There is not any thing 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 op- pose our credulity when it begins 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. Suppose it to be death itself, why may it not prove the glory of my life ? Did not poison make Socrates famous ? and, was not Cato's sword a great part of his ho- nour ? Do we fear any misfortune to befal us ? we are not presently sure that it will happen. How many deliverances have come unlooked 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 ourselves the best. What do I know, but some- thing or other may delay or divert it ? some have U 318 seneca's morals. We should prepare for the worst. escaped out of the fire, others, when a house has fallen over their head, have received no hurt; one man has been saved when a sword was at his throat; another has been condemned, and out- lived his headsmen : so that ill fortune, we see, as well as good, has her levities — peradventure it will be, peradventfire not — and until it comes to pass we are not sure of it ; we do many times take words 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 appre- hensions 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 approaching 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 m the case of a weak mind, it fan- cies misfortunes, and makes a man wretched be- fore his time. Why should 1 torment myself at present, with what perhaps may fall out fifty years hence ? This humour is a kind of voluntary disease, and an industrious contrivance of our own unhappiness, to complain of un affliction that 5 sext.ca's morals. 219 The things most to be feared. we do not feel. Some are not only moved with grief itself, but with the mere opinion of it, as children will start at a shadow, cr at the sight of a deformed person. If we stand in fear of vio- lence 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 enrages them, makes them tremble too ; a shadow, a voice, an unusual odour, rouses them. The things most to be feared I take to be 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 incommodities of poverty and diseases are most natural, and steal upon us in silence, with- out 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 empale 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 most dreadful to us, that presents itself in so many uncouth shapes, and by the very so- lemnity is rendered the most formidable. The more instruments of bodily pain the executioner u 2 520 Seneca's morals. . . ■' j. • , ■ ; ■ ■■■ ,«g False courage. shews us, the more frightful he makes himself : for many a man that would have encountered death, in any generous form, is yet overcome with the manner of it. As for the calamities of hun- ger and thirst, inward ulcers, scorching 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 dangers at a distance, but (like cowards) when the executioner comes to do his duty, and shews us the fire, the axe, the scaffold, and death nt hand, their courage fails them at the very pinch, when they have most need of it. Sickness, (I hope) captivity, and fire, are no new things to ns ; the falls of houses, funerals, and conflagra- tions, are every day before our eyes. The man that I supped with last night is dead before morn- ing ; why should I wonder then, seeing so many fall about me, to be hit at last myself; what can Le 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 fol- lowed with banishment, disgrace, and extreme contempt ; that kingdom that may not suddenly fall to ruin, change its master, and be depopulat- ed ; that prince that may not puss the hand of a sekbca's morals. 221 Effect!) of fancy. common hangman r That which is one man's fortune may be another's, but the foresight of calamities to come, breaks the violence of them. IT IS ACCORDING TO THE TRUE OR FALSE ESTIMATE OF THINGS, THAT WE ARE HAPPY, OR MISERABLE. I low many things there are that the fancy makes terrible by night, which the day turns into ridiculous ? what is there in labour, 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 wc are iirst afraid of them. Pains, and other violences of fortune, are the same thing to us that goblins 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 compe- titors. We make a false calculation of matters, because we advise with opinion, and not with na- ture; and this misleads us to a higher esteem for riches, honour, and power, than they are worth ; we have been used to admire and recommend them, and 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 u 3 222 Seneca's morals. We shtukl be content with our lot. 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, but they are made so by our infirmities; but we consult rather what we hear, than what we feel, without examining, op- ' posing, 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 olust, took a flock of sheep for the eneuvy. When the body and mind are corrupted, it is no wonder that all things prove intolerable ; and not because they are so in truth, but because we are dissolute and foolish : for we are infatuated to such a degree, that betwixt the common mad- ness of men, and that which falls under the care of the physician, there is but this difference — the one labours of a disease, 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 discourse 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 thing* i rouble us more than they should, other things sexf.ca's morals. 2 i 23 What is one man's evil is an< thert good. sooner; and some things again disorder us, that ought not to trouble us at all: so that we either enlarge, or create, or anticipate, our disquiets. For the first part, let it rest as a matter in con^ troversy, for that which 1 account light, another perhaps will judge insupportable; one man laughs under the lash, and another whines for a Philip. How sad a calamity is poverty to one man, which to another appears rather desirable, than inconvenient? 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 people are extremely dejected with sickness and pain, whereas Epicurus blessed his fate with his last breath, in the acutest tor- ments of the stone imaginable. And so for ba- nishment, which to one man is so grievous, and yet to another is no more than a bare change ot place: a thing that we do every day for our health and pleasure, nay, and upon the account even of our common business. How terrible is death to one man, which to another appears the greatest providence in nature, even towards 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- 224 Seneca's morals. Our prayers are often curses. much, that life itself were punishment without it. "When I see tyrants, tortures, and 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 esti- mate of things, that we have hardly done any thing that we have not had reason to wish un- done; 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 again 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 the other does us mischief by mis- take. So that it is no wonder if mankind be miser- able, when we are brought up from the very cradle under the imprecations of our parents. We pray for trifles, without so much as thinking of 8E1T£CA's morals. 225 ^ e are vain, and will not believe it. the greatest blessings; and we are not ashamed, many times, to ask God for that, which we should blush to own to our neighbour. It is with us, as with an innocent that my fa- ther 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 be- lieve they are sick. We are ashamed to admit a master, and we are too old to learn. Vice still soes before virtue, so that we have two works to do ; we must cast off the one, and learn the other, l'v one evil we make way to another, 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 fe- licity 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 it to be but low, when we come at it. And the business is, we do not understand the true state of things ; we are de- 226 seneca's morals. Nasure u limited, but fanc - y boundless. ceived by rumours, when we have gained the thing we aimed at, we find it to be either ill, or empty, or perchance less than we expect, or otherwise perhaps great, but not good. THE BLESSINGS OF TEMPERANCE AND MODERATION. There is not any thing that is necessary to us, but we have it either cheap, or gratis; and this is the provision that our heavenly father hath 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 sufficient,, and all the rest is but superfluous. He that lives ac- cording 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 bound- less. 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, with- out gaping at superfluities, a cook would be found as needless as a soldier : for we may have neces- sities upon very easy terms, whereas we put our- selves to great pains for excesses. When we are cold we may cover ourselves with the skins of beasts, and against violent heats we have natural grottos, or with a few osiers, and a little clay, we may defend ourselves against all seasons, sexeca's morals. 22) The moderation of pas a ;■>•. Providence has been kinder to us than to leave us to live by our wits, and to stand in need of in- vention and arts. It is only pride and curiosity that involves us in difficulties: if nothing will serve a man but rich clothes and furniture, sta- tues and plate, a numerous 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 con- dition 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 makes poverty grievous to us ; for it is a very small matter that does our business, and when we have provided against cold, hunger, and thirst, all the rest is but va- nity and excess; and there is no need of expence 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 no; and that which a man cannot do, looks many times as if he would not. When 1 look back into the moderation of past ages, it makes me ashamed to discourse, as if 228 senega's morals. A lutle suffices a temperate man. poverty 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 por- tion out of the common treasury, for their father left them not worth a penny : how happy were their husbands that had the people of Rome for their father-in-law? Shall any man now contemn poverty, after these eminent examples, which are sufficient not only to justify, but to recommend it ? Upon Diogenes' only servant running away from him, he was told where he was, and per- suaded to fetch him back again. " What," says he, " can Manes live without Diogenes, and not Diogenes without Manes V and so let him go. The piety and moderation of Scipio has made his memory more venerable than his arms, and more yet, after he left his country, than while he de- fended 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 recom- mended themselves, but in virtuous actions, and the sweat of honest, military^ and of manly la- tours. senega's morals. 229 The state of innocence. 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 that to themselves 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 themselves with their lot, there was no violence, no engrossing, or hiding cf those benefits for particular advantages, which were appointed for the community ; but every man had as much care for his neighbour as for himself. No arms, or bloodshed, no war, but with wild beasts, but under the protection of a wood, or a cave, they spent their days without cares, and their nights without groans ; their in- nocence was their security and their protection. There were as yet no beds of state, no orna- ments of pearl, or embroidery, nor any of those remorses that attend them ; but the heavens were. x 230 seneca's morals. It is a kind of an to become good. 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 rusling 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 drest up in their native beauty, and such cottages as were according to nature, and wherein they lived contentedly, without fear either of losing or of falling. These people lived without either soli- tude or fraud, and yet I must call them rather happy than wise. That men were generally bet- ter 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 innocent, because they were ig- norant ; and there is a great difference betwixt not knowing how to offend, and not being willing to do it. They had, in that rude life, certain seneca's morals. 231 A temperate life is a happy one. images and resemblances of virtue, but yet they fell short of virtue itself, which comes only by institution, learning, and study, as it is perfect- ed 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 instructed, 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 a contention for the other. It is \re 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 those 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 wants 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, X 2 232 Seneca's morals. Eating and drinking end in satiety. and provides for use and necessity, not for osten- tation and pomp. Let us curb our appetites, en- courage virtue, and rather be beholden to our- selves for riches than to fortune, who, when a man draws himself into a narrow compass, has the least mark at him. Let my bed be plain and clean, and my clothes so too ; my meat without much expence, or many waiters, and neither a burden to my purse, nor to my body, nor to go out the same way it came in. That which is too little for luxury, is abundantly enough for na- ture. 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 a-thirst ? Epicurus, that limits pleasure to nature, as the Stoics do virtue^ is undoubtedly in the right ; and those that cite him to authorize their voluptuousness, do exceed- ingly mistake him, and only seek a good autho- rity for an evil cause : for their pleasures of sloth, gluttony, and lust, have no affinity 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 philosophers do not live at the rate they talk, for they can flatter their superiors, gather estates, and be as much concerned at the loss of fortune* seneca's morals. 233 Philosophers do not live as they preach. or of friends, as other people, as sensible of re- proaches, as luxurious in their eating and drink- ing, their furniture, their houses ; as magnificent in their plate, servants, and officers; as profuse and curious in their gardens, 6:c. 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 vet 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 ob- jected to Plato, Epicurus, Zeno; nor is any virtue so sacred as to escape malevolence. The Cynique Demetrius was a great instance of seve- rity and mortification, and one that imposed upon himself, neither to possess any thing, 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 x 3 £34 seneca's MOitAis. We are loth u> n-Miv.in ourselves. 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 dis- honest. They that demolish temples, and over- turn altars* shew 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 waist 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 lock upon other men's virtues 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 bounds and restraint upon ourselves, though we know that many times a greater evil is cured by the less ; and the mind that will not be brought to virtue by precepts, comes to it fre- quently by necessity. 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 fcr. Occasional experi- ■ v seneca's morals. 235 Let us practise frugality in plenty. ments of our moderation, give us the best proof of our firmness and virtue. A well-governed appe- tite 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 may all of us forbear desiring what we have not. It is the office of temperance to over-rule us in our pleasures : some she re- jects, 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 au- thor) by one journey, how many things we have that are superfluous, and how easily they may 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 my friend and I have travelled together, one waggon 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 shews 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 236* seneca's 'morals. '] here is nothing ill t!,.>t is well taken. seen in a mean condition, would be proud of a splendid one. I value myself upon what passen- gers think of me, and tacitly renounce my prin- ciples; whereas I should rather lift up my voice, to be heard by mankind, and tell them — You are all mad ; your minds are set upon superflui- ties, and you value no man for 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 1, for I will stay till it is better; that is to say, until my stomach be glad of worse, it is discretion sometimes to practise temperance, and wont ourselves to a little, for there are many difficulties, 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, before we will trust him with a penny : such a man, we cry, has a great estate, but it is shrewdly incumbered; a very 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, vasfc seneca's morals. 237 Moderation of Fabricius. 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 carving or gilding of the cha- riot ; is the master ever the better for it ? We cannot close up this chapter with a more generous instance of moderation than that of Fa- bricius. Pyrrhus tempted him with a sum of money to betray his country ; and Pyrrhus, his physician, offered Fabricius, for a sum of money, to poison his master: but he was too brave, either to be overcome by gold, or to overcome by poison ; so that he refused the money, and advised Pyrrhus to have a care of treachery, and this in the heat too of a licentious war. — Fabri- cius valued himself upon his poverty, and was as much above the thought of riches as of poison. 11 Live Pyrrhus," says he, " by my friendship, and turn that to thy satisfaction, which was be- fore thy trouble ;" that is to say, that Fabricius could not be corrupted. CONSTANCY OF MIND GIVES A MAN REPU- TATION, AND MAKES HIM HAPPY IN DESPITE OF ALL MISFORTUNES. The whole duty of man may be reduced to the two points of abstinence and patience, tem- perance in prosperity, and courage in adversity. 238 senega's morals. A wise man is above injuries. 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, \vhich Epicurus calls so. Now, betwixt these two, 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 any one to part them. An injury cannot be re- ceived, 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 shot be levelled at us, it may so happen that a man may miss his aim, or some accident inter- pose, that may divert the mischief. That which is hurt is passive, and inferior to that which hurts it; but you will say that Socrates was con- demned, 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 that steals any thing from me, and hides it in my own house, though I have not lost it, yet he has stolen it. lie 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 seneca's morals. 239 * __ ■ The excellency of a great mind. * enough to kill me; his guilt is never the less for the disappointment. 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 in- tention, not the effect, that makes the wicked- ness. 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 vio- lent hands upon holy things. If a philosopher be exposed to torments, the axe 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 honour, so that he only makes 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 no- thing, 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 any thing good that is not honest, runs gaping after casualties, spends his days in anxiety and vain expectations : 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 destroy- ed \ We have examples, in all ages, and in all 240 SENECA'S MORALS. Cato's constancy. cases, of great men that have triumphed over all misfortunes. Metellus suffered exile resolutely, Rutilius chearfully. Socrates disputed in the dungeon, and though he might have made his escape, refused it, to shew 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 Mucius Scacvola, a man only of a mi- litary 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 enemies* Porsenna did more easily pardon Mucius for his intent to kill him, than Mucius forgave himself for missing of his aim. He might have done a luckier thing, but not a braver. Did notCato, 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, on 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 my own, and only that I might live free among freemen; but the cause is now lost, and Cato SENECA 3 MORALS. 241 A great mind can only jud^ of grejt things 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 open again, and so expired with the same great- ness of soul that he lived. But these are the ex- amples, you will say, of men famous in their generations. Let us but consult history, and we shall find, even in the most effeminate of nations, and the most dissolute of times, men of all de- grees, ages, and fortunes, nay, even women .themselves, that have overcome the fear of death: which, m truth, is so little to be feared, that duly considered, it is one of the greatest be- nefits in nature. It *as as great an honour for Cato, when his party was broken, that he him- self 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 manage a good one. The day he was repulsed, he played ; and the niMit 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 very 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, wound- ed, killed, or shackled, though in some cases he may. It is only for a great mind to judge of ble deed-. left you in the world." Whereupon the tyrant cut the throats of his own guards. He is the happy man that is the master of himself, and tri- umphs over the fear of death, which has overcome the conquerors of the world. OUR HAPPINESS DEPENDS IN A GREAT MEASURE UPON THE CHOICE OF OUR COMPANY. The comfort of life depends upon conversa- tion. Good offices and concord, and human so- cietv, is like the working of an arch of stone, all would fall to the ground, if one piece did not sup- port 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 hun- gry, which is but the doing of good to ourselves; for we are only several members of one great body. Nay, we are all of a consanguinity, form- ed 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 re- gard to equity and justice. The love of society is natural, but the choice of our company is mat- ter of virtue and prudence. Noble examples stir us up to noble actions; and the very history of large and public souls, inspires a man with generous 252 seneca's morals. Ill example (he great corrupter of manners. thoughts. It makes a man long to be in action, and doing of something that the world may be the better for; as protecting the weak, delivering the oppressed, punishing the insolent. It is a great blessing, the very conscience of giving a good example ; beside, that it is the greatest obli- gation 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 lasci- vious ; and the way to secure a man from wick- edness, 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 horses' hoofs : the mountaineer makes the best soldier ; the miner makes the best pionier, 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 con- temned both. Those 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 privilege to be licentious, and where lux- ury and dissolution of manners seem to be law- ful; for great examples give both authority and stneca's mohals. 253 We should avoid places of licentiousness. excuse to wickedness. Those places are to be avoided as dangerous to our manners. Hannibal himself was unmanned by the looseness of Cam- pania, and though a conqueror by his arms, he was overcome by his pleasures. I would as soon live among butchers as among cooks ; not but that a mun may be temperate in any place, but, to see drunken men staggering up and down every where, and only the spectacles of lust, luxury, and excess, before our eyes, it is not safe to ex- pose ourselves to the temptation. If the vic- torious Hannibal himself could not resist it, what shall become of us then that are subdued, and give ground 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 plea- sure, I must also yield to grief, to poverty, to labour, ambition, anger, until 1 am torn to pieces by my misfortunes and my lusts. But, against all this, philosophy propounds a liberty, that is to say, a liberty from the service of acci- dents and fortune. There is not any thing that does more mischief to mankind, than mercenary masters of 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 fortu- z £54 senega's morals. Practical philosopher* the best company. Date course, when the pilot lies wallowing in his own vomit ? It is an 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 wickedness 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 compa- nion. For the example has the force of a pre- cept, and touches the heart with an affection to goodness. And not only the frequent hearing and seeing of a wise man delights us, but the very encounter of him suggests profitable con- templations; such as a man finds himself mov- ed with, when he goes into a holy place. J will take more care with whom I eat and drink, than what; for without a friend, the tabic is a manger. Writing does well, but personal dis- course and conversation does bettei ; for men give great credit to tl\eir ears, and take stronger impressions from example than precept. Cleanthes had never hit Zeno so to the life, if he had not been with him at all his privacies, if he had not seneca's morals. $55 One bad example may do mud watched and observed him, whether or not he practised as he taught. Plato got more from Socrates' s manners than from his words ; and it was not the school, but the company and fami- liarity of Epicurus, that made Metrodorus, Her- machus, and Polyasnus so famous. Now, though it be by instinct that we covet society, and avoid solitude, w r e should yet take this along with us, that the more acquaintance the more danger. Nay, there is not one man of an hundred that is to be trusted with himself. Jf company cannot alter us, it may interrupt us ; and he that so much as stops upon the wav, 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, Lrelius, 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 and luxury. One voluptuous palate makes a great many. A wealthy neigh- bour stirs up envy, and a sneering companioia moves ill nature wherever he comes. What will Z a 256 seneca's morals. The danger of a numerous acquaintance. become of those people then, that expose them- selves to a popular violence ? which is ill both ways, either if they comply with the wicked, because they are many, or quarrel with the mul- titude, because they are not principled alike. The best way is to retire, and associate only with those that may be the better for u«, 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 never go abroad, that I come home again the same man that 1 went out. Some thing or other that I had put in order is discomposed : some passion that I had subdued 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 exposes us to a relapse. And it is no wonder if a numerous conversation be danger- ous, where there is scarce any single man, but by his discourse, example, or behaviour, does ekher recommend to us, or imprint in us, or by a kind of contagion, insensibly infect us with one vice or other ; and the more people the greater is the peril. Especially let us have a care of pub- lic spectacles, where wickedness insinuates 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 whining and complaining, there may be faith and seneca's morals. Qj7 Friendship the most char mi ag of all felicities. kindness 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 ; especi. the imprudent, who are still contriving of mis- chief, either for others, or for themselves, in che- rishing their lusts, or forming their designs. So much for the choice of a companion, we shall now proceed to that of a friend. 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 extremities. Nay, if there were no other com- fort 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 yet 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 Graccus, and after him Livius Drusus, were the men that in- troduced among the Romans the fashion of sepa- rating their visitants : some were taken into their closets, others were only admitted into the anti- chamber, and some again were fain to wait in z 3 258 Seneca's morals. Of ihe choice of a friend. 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 these 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 great mistake, that either seeks for a friend in a palace, or tries him at a feast. The great difficulty rests in the choice of him* that is to say, in the first place, let him be vir- tuous; for vice is contagious, and there is no trusting of 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 love of goodness, it is not either hope or fear, or any private inte- rest, that can ever dissolve it, but we carry it with us to our graves, and lay down our lives for if- with satisfaction. Paulina's good and mine (says our author) were so wrapt 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 of myself. Some people make it a question I seneca's morals. 2Ji True friends are the whole world to one another. — whether is the greater delight, the enjoying of an old friendship, or the acquiring of a new one? but, it is in preparing of a friendship, and in the possession of it, as it is with a husbandman in sowing and reaping, his delight is the hope of his labour 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 dignifies the prospect ; but they are effectually, in a great measure, absent, even when they are present. Consider their nights apart, their pri- vate studies, their separate employments, and necessary visits, and they are almost as much together, divided, as present. True friends are the whole world to one another ; and he that is a friend to himself, is also a friend to mankind. Even in my very studies, the greatest delight I take in what I learn, is the teaching of it to others : for there is no relish, methinks, in the possessing of any thing without a partner; nay, if wisdom itself were offered me, upon condition only of keeping it to myself, I should undoubtedly refuse it. 4 c6*0 senega's morals. ■ ■ - . . ' — » There must be no reserves in friendship. Lucilius tells me, that he was \vritttn to bv a friend, but cautions me withal, not to say any thing to him of the affair in question, for he him- self stands upon the same guard. What is this, but to affirm and to deny the same thing, in the same breath ; in calling a man a friend, ivhom we dare not trust as our own soul ? for there must be no reserves in friendship : as much deli- beration as you please before the league is struck, but no doubtings or jealousies after. It is a pre- posterous weakness, to love a man before we know him, and not to care for him after. It re- quires time to consider of a friendship, 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 confident of my most se- cret cares and counsels. It goes a great way to- ward making a man faithful, to let him under- stand that } t ou 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 him. When I am with my friend, methinks I am alone, and as much at liberty to speak any thing, as to think it ; and as our hearts are one, so must be our interests 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 SENfcCA 8 MORALS. 20 I ' ' - ■ ' ' i ■ ■ " • • Temporary friends never stand the test. propriety, but as the father and the mother have two children, not one a piece, 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 itself, that friendship will be bought and sold. He dero- gates from 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 another. Pie that loves a man for his own sake, is in an error. A friendship of interest cannot last any longer than the inte- rest itself; and this is the reason that men in prosperity are so much followed ; and when a man goes down the wind, no body comes near him. Temporary friends will never stand the test. One man is forsaken -for fear or profit, another is betrayed. It is a negotiation, not a friendship, that has an eye to advantages : only through the corruption of times, that which was formerly a friendship, is now become a design upon a booty; alter your testament, 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 $62 sen-eca's morals. Tlie loss of a friend is hard to be repaired. life I would chearfully lay down my own ; taking this along with me, that only wise men can be friends ; others are but companions, and that there is a great difference also betwixt love and friend- ship; the one may sometimes do us hurt, the other always does us good ; for one friend is helpful to another in all cases, as well in prospe- rity as affliction. We receive comfort, even at a thstance, from those we love, but then it is light and faint; whereas presence and conversation touches 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 was Au- gustus's case. He was forced to banish his daughter Julia, for her common and prostituted impudence, and still, upon fresh informations, was often heard to say — " If Agrippa, or Meca> nas, had been now alive, this would never have been." But yet, wh'ere the fault lay, may be a question, for, perehanee, 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 la- mented his whole life after. Xerxes (a vain and foolish prince), when he made war upon Greece, sen ec a's 'morals. 2(v3 On tiie sacrifice of time. 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 num- bers ; and they all concurred to puff him up to his destruction. Only Demaratus advised him not to depend too much upon his numbers, for he would rather find them a burden to him, than an advantage, and that 300 men in the straits of the mountains would be sufficient to give a check to his whole army, and that such an accident 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 truth. HE THAT WOULD EE _ HAPPY MUST TAKE AN ACCOUNT OE HIS TIME. In the distribution of human life, we find, that B great part of it passes away in evil-doing; a greater yet, in doing just nothing at all ; and ef- fectually the whole, in doing things beside our business. Some hours we bestow upon ceremony, and servile attendances; some upon our plea- sures, 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 in- } .6i SESECa's MORA*LS. Life rendered shorter hv idlent terests, suing for offices, soliciting of causes, and slavish flatteries! The shortness of life, 1 know, is the common complaint, both of fools and phi- losophers ; as if the time we have were not suffi- cient 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 hand of a prodigal, it is gone in a moment. 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 squander it away in avarice, drink, sleep, lux- ur} 7 , ambition, fawning addresses, envy, rambling voyages, impertinent studies, change of councils, and the like ; and when our portion is spent, we find the want of it, though we give no heed to it in the passage : 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 precious mornings do we spend in consultation with barbers, taylors, and tire-women, patching, and painting, betwixt the comb and the glass ? 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 4+ senega's morals. 265 It should be our care to live well. 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 ne- gotiations, frivolous amours, domestic brawls, saunterings 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 thoughts of human frailty; when yet the very moment we bestow upon thie man, or thing, may peradventure be our last. But the greatest loss of time, is delay and ex- pectation, which depends upon the future. We let go the present, which we have in our own power, we look forward to that which depends upon fortune, and so quit a certainty for an un- certainty. We should do by time, as we do by a torrent, make use of it while we may 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 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 terrible. It should be our care, before we are old, to live well, and when we are so, to 2 A 2(76 senega's morals. The duty of life is to prepare for deaih. ■die well, that we may expect our end without sadness; for it is the duty of life to prepare our- selves 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 time is set, and none of us know how near it is; but we are all of us agreed, that the decree is un- changeable. Why should we wonder to have that befal us to-day, which might have happened to us any minute since we were born? Let us there- fore live as if every moment were to be our last, and set our accounts right every day that passes over our heads. Wc 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 4 seneca's morals-. QGf Time, though valuable, is disregarded. business the day before, and so prepared himself for the next, that if it be not his last, he knows yet that it might have been so. No man enjoys the true taste of life, but he that is willing and ready to quit it. The wit of man is not able to express the blind- ness of human folly, in taking so much care of our fortunes, our houses, and our money, than we do of our lives; every body 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 peo- ple share our time with us at pleasure ; so pro- fuse are we of that only thing whereof we may be honestly covetous. It is a common 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 tilings : but be- cause they do not see it, they reckon upon it as nothing, and yet these easy men, when they come to die, would give the whale world for those, hours again, which they so inconsiderately cast away before, but there is no recovering of them. U they could number 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 hundred 2 a 2 26s SENECA S MORALS, No man tajces care to live well, bin long. 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 our- selves the worse. Our time is set, and day and night we travel on; there is no baiting by the way, 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 exclamations against the folly of their mis-spent time ? and yet, if they re- cover, they relapse. No man takes care to live well, but long; when it is yet in everybody'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 Seneca's morals. 269 Time present, pas', and fuiu.e. we are young, we may learn ; our minds are tractable, and our bodies fit for labour and studv, but when age comes on, we are seized with lan- guor and sloth, afflicted with diseases, and at last we leave the world as ignorant as we come into it : only we die worse than we were born, which is none of nature's fault, but our's; for our feais, suspicions, perfidy, &c. 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 only to instruct me, how 1 may leave the stage with honour. Jn the division of life, there is time present, past, and to come. What we do is short, what we shall do 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 backward to see it: and in that re- trospect he has all past ages at a view. But the present gives us the slip unperceived. It is but a moment that we live, and yet we are dividing it into childhood, youth, man's estate, and old age, all which degrees we bring- into that narrow com- pass. If we do not watch, we lose our opportu- nities ; if we do not make haste, we are left be- hind ; our best hours escape us, the worst are to come. The purest part of our life runs first, and 2 a 3 270 seneca's morals. We can call nothing, but time, our own. 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 da- mages so irreparable? 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 therefore 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 neglect of all things else ; for we are so far from having 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 u& out of it, that has a mind to it. If a man bor- rows a paltry sum of money, there must be bonds- and securities, and every common civility is pre- sently charged upon account; but he that has my time, thinks lie owes me nothing for it, thou gk SEX EC ,\'* MO HALS. C~ I Company, ivc. great devourers of lime it be a debt that gratitude itself can never repay. I cannot call any man poor that has enough still left, be it ever 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 mis- carriage. 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 r without any regard at all to our own particular. 1 do not speak of such as live in notorious scan- dal, but even those men themselves, whom the world pronounces happy, are smothered in their felicities ; servants to their professions and cli- ents, and drowned in their lusts. V\ r e are apt to complain of the haughtiness of great men, when ' yet there is hardly any of them 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 bargain. Why do we not rather com- plain of ourselves, for being, of all other, even to ourselves, the most deaf and inaccessible? Company and business are great devourers of time, and our vices destroy our lives, as well a» 272 senega's morals. Man consumes hi* life i-iy. our fortunes. The present is but a moment, and perpetually in flux; the time past we call to mind when we please, and it will abide the examina- tion and inspection. But the busy man has not leisure to look back, or, if he has, it is an un- pleasant thing to reflect upon a life to be repent- ed 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 wicked 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 no, 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 rang- ing of our guests, our servants, and our dishes, as if we were to eat and drink not for satiety, but ambition? 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 plea- sures, and this vexatious thought in the very height of them— that they will not last always : Seneca's morals. 173 The blessings of privacy. which is a canker in the delights even of the greatest arid the most fortunate of men. HAPPY IS THE MAN THAT MAY CIIUSE HIS OWN BUSINESS. On ! 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 mid- dle of all the tumults and hazards that attend greatness. It was Augustus's prayer that he might live to retire, and deliver himself from public business ; his discourses were still pointing that way, and the highest felicity which this mighty prince had in prospect, was the divesting himself of that illustrious state, which, how glo- rious soever in show, had at the bottom of it only anxiety and care. But it is one thing to retire for pleasure and another for virtue, which must be active, even in that retreat, 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, born offices, or given laws; which in truth they did, not to one city alone, but to all mankind : their quiet contributed more to the common benefit than the sweat and labour of other people. That re- 274 seneca's morals. Philo ophy is a quiet study; treat is not worth the while, which does not af- ford a man greater and nobler work than busi- ness. There is no slavish attendance upon great Officers, no canvassing for places, no making of parties, no dissappointments in my pretension to this charge, to that regiment, or to such or such a title, no envy of any man's favour 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 contemplation of God, and the works of nature. lie withdraws himself to attend tie service 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 so- vereign antidotes, or balsams. He that is well employed in study, though he may seem to do nothing at all, does the greatest things yet of all others, in affairs both human and divine. To suppJy a friend with a sum of money, or give my voice for an office, these are only private and particular obligations; but he that lays down precepts for the governing of our lives and the moderating of our passions, obliges human na- ture, not only in the present, but in all succeed- ing generations. He that would be quiet, let him repair to his philosophy, a study that has credit with all sorts u niLii. The eloquence of the hax 3 Q* whats. Seneca's morals. 27 •> But nm-t be handled mo{1e>il)'. ever else addresses to the people, is never with- out enemies: but philosophy minds its own busi- ness, 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 philosopher shall still conti- nue venerable and sacred. And yet philosophy itself must be handled modestly, and with cau- tion. But what sha.ll we say of Cato then, for his meddling in the broil of a civil war, and in- terposing himself in the quarrel betwixt two en- raged princes? he, that when Rome was split into two factions, between Pompey and Ca?sar, declared himself against both. I speak this of Cato's last part, for in his former time the com- monwealth was made unfit for a wise man's ad- ministration. 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 prison. There are some things which we propound originally, and others that fall in as accessary to another pro- position. If a wise man retire, it is no matter whether he does it because the commonwealth was wanting to him, or because he was wanting to it. But, to what republic shall a man betake himself? Not to Athens, where Socrates was condemned, and whence Aristotle fled for fear he 2? 6 S"ENECA*S MORALS, Liberty a desirable tiling, 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 no where to be had. A man may commend navigation, and yet cau- tion us against those seas that are troublesome and dangerous; so that he does as good as com- mand 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 tan run any hazards for money, take any pains for honour, and why do we not venture some- thing, also for leisure and freedom ? without which we must expect to live and die in a tu- mult; for so long as we live in public, business breaks in upon us, as one billow drives on an- other, 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 him- self. 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 senega's morals. Which is neither to be bought nor sold. always a miserable life, so is it the greatest of all miseries, to be perpetually employed upon other people's business; for to sleep, to eat, to drink at their hours, 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 reward of misery, though we hate the misery itself. Many people, I know, seek business without chusing 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 candidates, they are suffragants: when they give over other people's business, they do their own 5 and pretend business, but they make it, and va- lue themselves upon being thought men of em- ployment. Liberty is the thing which they are perpetually a wishing, and never come to obtain: a thing neither to be bought nor sold ; but a man must ask it of himself, and give it to himself, Hie that has given proof of his virtue in public, 278 seneca's morals. Retirement should be for repose ; should do well to make 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 no body 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 en- joy himself with a good conscience, without the want, the fear, the hatred, or the desire of any thing; not out of a malevolent detestation of mankind, but for satisfaction and repose. He that shuns both business and men, either out of envy, or any other discontent, his retreat 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 4- seneca's morals. 27$ Without ostentation and ambition. life. There are many that lie close, not that they may live securely, but that they may trans- gress more privately ; it is their conscience not their states, 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 himself — " 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 wick- ed too, when they bestow it upon such lusts, and other vices, which even the licence 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 re- treat, which is but a kind of lazy ambition : they retire to make people talk of them, whereas I would rather withdraw to speak with myself. And what shall that be, but that which we are upt to speak of one another? I will speak ill of myself, I will examine, accuse, and punish my inrirmities. I have no design to be cried up for a great man, that has renounced the world in a 2b2 280 seneca's morals. Philosophy requires privacy. contempt of the vanity and madness of human lite; I blame no body but myself, and I address only to myself. He that comes to me for help is mistaken, for I am not a physician, but a pa- tient. And I shall be well enough content to have it said, when any man leaves me — I took him for a happy and a learned man, and truly I find no such matter. I had rather have my re- treat pardoned than envied. There are some creatures that confound their footing about their dens, that they may not be found out, and so should a wise man in the case of his retirement. When the door is open, the thief passes it by, as not worth his while; but when it is bolted 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 no body, &c. this furnishes matter for discourse. He that makes his retire- ment too strict and severe, does as good as call company to take notice of it. Every man knows his own constitutiop. 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 shews 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 impediments, and make Seneca's morals. 2SI Of the contempt of death. 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 we 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 mankind, 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 his hours and his busi- ness, does not only fortify himself against the common accidents of life, but improves the most rigorous dispensations of Providence to his com- fort, and stands firm under all the trials of human weakness. THE CONTEMPT OF DEATH MAKES ALL THE MISERIES OF LIFE EASY TO US. It is a hard task to master the natural desire of life, by a philosoptical contempt of death, and to convince the worl : that there is no hurt in it, E 3 282 8»2T8CA T S MOKALS. Deaili is n to bear down the universal consent of people to so dangerous an error? The captious and superfine subtilties 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 thing of preserving it- gelf; and a long acquaintance betwixt the soul and body, friends may be loth to part, and death may carry an appearance of evil, though in truth H is no evil at all. Beside that, we are to go to a strange place in the dark, and under great un- certainties of our future state; so that people die in terror, because they do not know whither they are to go, and tj^ey are apt to fancy the worst of what they do not understand : these thoughts are indeed sufficient to startle a man of great resolu- tion, without a wonderful support from above. And moreover, our natural scruples and infirmi- ties are assisted by the wits and fancies of all agesj in their infamous and horrid description of seneca's morals. 283 The fear of it makes us base. another world : nay, taking it for granted, that there will be no reward and punishment, they are yet more afraid of annihilation 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 suffer it, than always to fear it ? The- earth it- self suffers both with 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 troubles and de- stroys the life that we would preserve ; that ag- gravates 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 axe, the guards, the execu- tioners, the whips, and the racks, take away the pomp, I say, and the circumstances that accom- pany it, and death is no more than. what my slave yesterday contemned : the pain is nothing to a fit 28* sejteca's morals. ; .... . ■ ,. Tlie fear of death is easily overcome. of the stone : if it be tolerable, it 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 any thing 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 mean- est of men, as of the greatest, that have done it. There was a fellow to be exposed upon the thea- tre, who, in disdain, thrust a stick down his own throat, and choked himself. And another, upon the same occasion, pretending to nod upon the chariot, as if he were asleep, cast his head be- twixt the spokes of the wheel, and kept his seat until his neck was broken. Caligula, upon a dis- pute with Canius Julius — " Do not flatter your- self," says he, " for I have given orders to put 3'ou to death." — " I thank your most gracious majesty for it," says Canius, giving to under- stand, perhaps, 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 seneca's morals. 285 % Despair gives courage. centurion — " Pray/'' says he, " will you bear me witness, when I am dead and gone, that 1 had the better of the game/' He was a man exceed- ingly beloved and lamented ; and, for a farewell, 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 the truth of it ; if I discover any thing upon that point, you shall hear of it." Nay, the most timorous of creatures, when they see there is no escaping, they oppose themselves to all dan- gers; the despair gives them courage, and the necessity overcomes the fear. Socrates was thirty days in prison after his sentence, and had time enough to have starved himself, and have pre- vented 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 maner — " Marcellinus, do not trouble your- self, as if it were such a mighty business that you have now in hand ; it is nothing to live, all youi* servants do it, nay, your very beasts too \ but to 286* seneca's morals. - ■ ■ • ■ " aaei He that despises death fear^ nothing. 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 thing over again ; and how many men are there in the world that rather chuse to die, than to suffer the nause- ous 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 gormandized to a luxurious and beastly excess, he was carried away from supper to bed, with this exclamation — " He ha* lived, he has lived." That which he did in lewd- ness, would become us to do in sobriety and pru- dence. If it shall please God to add another day to our lives, let us thankfully receive it; but, however, it is our happiest, and securest course, so to compose ourselves to-night, that we may have no anxious dependance upon to-morrow. He that can say — I have lived this day, makes the next clear again. Death is the worst that either the severity of the laws, or the cruelty of tyrants, can impose upon us, and it is the utmost extent of the domi- nion of fortune. He that is fortified against that, must consequently be superior to all other diffi- culties that are but in the way to it. Nay, and 011 some occasions, it requires more courage to Seneca's morals. 28? All in.li in ... . die. 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 much endeavour to avoid mischiefs, as to run awav from them : and the greatest slaughter is upon a flying enemy. Had not a man better breathe out his last, onee for all, than lie agonizing in pains, consuming by inches, losing 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 misera- ble carcase r Madmen and children have no ap- prehension of Heath, 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 chearfully upon the foundation of virtue ; for life, in itself, is irk- some, and only eating and drinking in a circle. How many are there, that betwixt the appre- hensions of death, and the miseries of life, are at their wits end what to do with themselves ? Where- fore let us fortify ourselves against those calami- ties, from which the prince is no more exempt than the beggar. Pompey the Great had his head taken oft' by a boy, and an eunuch (young 2S8 seneca's morals. The greatest are as liable to suffer, as to do mischief. Ptolemy and Photinus). Caligula commanded the tribune Daecimus to kill Lepidus ; and an- other tribune (Choereus) did as much for Cali- gula. Never was any 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 whosoever contemns his own life, may be the master of another body's. You will find in his* tory, that the displeasure 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 conqueror condemns me to be led in triumph : it is but carrying me thither, whither I should have gone without him; that is to say, toward death, whither I have been marching ever since I was bom. It is the fear of our last hour that disquiets all the rest. By the justice of all constitutions, mankind is condemned to a capital punishment : now, how despicable 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 seneca's morals. $sg Life is a email matter. 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 appre- hension of it; beside the vanity of imagining that heaven and earth should be put into sueh a dis- order 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 voluntarily plunge himself into that gulph, where otherwise 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 be- fore? We are kindled, and put out: to cease to be, and not to be^in to be, is the same thine 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 divide 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 chea-r- 2 c 290 SENECA 9 MORALS. To what end should we covet life ? fully when it comes, than to hasten it before the time. But — what is it that we live any longer for ? Not for our pleasures, for those we have tasted 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 would 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 leave our possessions, and no 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 security? 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 a while a doing ? How miserable are those people that spend their lives in the dismal apprehensions of death ? for they are beset on all hands, and every minute in dread of a surprize. We must, there- fore, look about us, as if we were in an enemy's country, and consider our last hour not as ~ pu- seneca's morals. ?Q1 To die, is to obey nature. nishment, 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 perpe- tually wallowing and dashing one against another; sometimes we suffer shipwreck, but we are al- ways 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 death is the condition of life. Beside, that it is a madness to fear a thing that is certain ; 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 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 live a little longer to- day, would be as loth to die a hundred years hence. But, which is more reasonable, for us o 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 2c2 592 senecaV MORALS. ■ I ■ ■■■»■ IH> childish to die lamenting. man may die old at thirty, and young at four- score ; 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 until a man is wise. He that dies of old age, oes no more than go to bed when he is weary. Death is the test c-f 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 ex- periment whether we know it or no. It is a blessed thing to dispatch the business of life be- fore we die, and then to expect death in the pos-. session of a happy life. He is the great man, that 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? 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 tha,t seneca's morals. 203 Some people wish for death. 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 original ? That death, which we so much dread and decline, is not a determination, but the intermission 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 v,e 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 seneca's morals. To mourn without measure is folly. either with reproaches or tears. They may carry us to the dead, but never bring them back again to us. If reason does not put an end to our sor- rows, fortune never will : one is pinched with poverty, another solicited with ambition, 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 jfor which we have so much occasion. I do con- fess, that in the very parting of friends there is something of an uneasiness and trouble, but it is rather voluntary than natural, and it is custom more than sense that affects us: we do rather im- pose 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 folly, and not to mourn at all is insensibility. The best temper is betwixt piety and reason; to be sensible, 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 we are put to a struggle with the other. There is a cer- tain 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. sextca's morals. 305 -'■ .■:■ , i . ' - Some teats are ridiculous. and there is no opposing the first violence of this passion; but when a man comes once to deliver himself wholly up to lamentations, he is to un- derstand, that though some tears deserve com- passion, others are yet ridiculous. A grief, that is fresh, finds pity and comfort; but when it is in- veterate it is laughed at, for it is either counter- feit, or foolish. Beside, that to weep excessively 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 opprest by the ini- quity 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 chear- fully dries up my tears, and he that dies whiningly 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 la- ment the one than fear the other. lie that be- thinks himself how often friends have been part- ed, 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 extravagant ravings after the dead. Some, I know, will have grief to be only the perverse de- light of a restless mind, and sorrows and pleasure* 2p3 S06 seneca's morals. It is an idle thing to grieve. to be near akin ; and there are, I am confident, that find joy even in their tears. But, which is more barbarous, 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 expir- ing? to forget one's friend, to bury the memory with the body, to lament out of measure, is in- human. 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. If reason cannot prevail, reputation may; for immoderate mourn- in 2 lessens a man's character. It is a shameful ■ thing for a wise man to make the weariness of grieving the remedy of it. In time the most stub- born grief will leave us, if in prudence we do not leave that 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 madness. We are apt to say — What would I give to see him again, and to enjoy his conversation ! I was never sad in his company; my heart leaped whenever 1 met him: I want him wherever I go. All that is to be said is — the greater the loss,' the greater 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 seneca's morals. 307 Present blessings should suffice for the past. remains to all, it is as unjust to complain. The whole world is upon the march to the same point. "Why do we not cry for ourselves that are to fol- low, as well as for him that is gone first ? Why do we not as well lament before hand, for that which we know will be, and cannot 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, jea- lousy, envy, &c. Is he not more happy in de- siring 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 there is a sharpness in some fruits, and a bitterness in some wines that please us, so there is a mixture in the remembrance of friends, where the loss of the company is sweetened again by the contem- plation 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 Provi- dence, to reflect only upon my friend's being taken away, without any regard to the benefit of his being once given me. Let us therefore make the best of our friends while we have them j for 308 seneca's morals. The first transports of sorrow not t-.. be appeas d. how long we shall keep them is uncertain. I have lost a hopeful son, but, how many fathers have been deceived in their expectations, and many noble families have been destroyed by lux- ury 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 hopes 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 expectation, 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 unsea- sonable medicine in a disease ; when the first vio- lence is over, it will be more tractable, and en- dure the handling. Those people, whose minds are weakened by long felicity, may be allowed to groan and complain, but it is otherwise with those that have led their- days in misfortunes.' A long course of adversity has this good in it, that though it vexes a body a great while, it seneca's morals. 30$ To draw good out of evil is a masterpiece. comes to harden us at last: as a raw soldier shrinks at every wound, and dreads the surgeon more than an enemy; whereas the veteran sees his own body cut, and lamed, with as little con- cern as if it were another's. With the same re- solution should we stand the shock, and cure of all misfortunes; we are never the better for our experience, if we have not yet learned to be mi- serable. 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. CONSOLATIONS 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 thou- sands that we meet every day in the streets ? Some for ambition, others to negotiate, or for curiosity, delight, 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 elo- quence. To pass now from pleasant countries into the worst of islands, let them be ever so barren or rocky, the people ever so barbarous, or 310 sexeca's morals. The mind of man is naturallv curious. the clime ever so intemperate, he that is banished thither, shall find many strangers to live there for their pleasure. The mind of man is naturally curious and restless, which is no wonder, consi- dering 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, no gold, no pearl, no commodity for traffic or commerce, nay, hardly provision enough to keep the inhabitants from starving. It is very right, here are no palaces, no artificial grottos, or materials for luxury and excess; but we lie under the protection of heaven, and a poor cottage for a retreat, is more worth than the most magnificent temple, when that cot- tage is consecrated by an honest man, under the guard of his virtue. Shall any man think banish- ment grievous, when he may take such company along with him ? Nor is there any banishment but yields enough for our necessities, and no king- dom is sufficient for superfluities. It is the mind that makes us rich in a desart ; and if the body be but kept alive, the soul enjoys all spiritual feli- cities 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 backward, and wherever he pleases ; seneca's morals. 311 Insatiable appetites are a di ease. 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 banish- ment ? The body is as easily clothed as fed, and nature has made nothing hard that is necessary. But if nothing will serve us but rich embroideries 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 appe- tites are not so much a thirst as a disease. To come lower now, where is that people, or nation, that have not changed their place of abode ? some by the fate of war ; others have been cast by tempests, shipwrecks, or want of provisions, upon unknown coasts. Some have been forced abroad by pestilence, sedition, earth- quakes, surcharge of people at home. Some tra- vel 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 5 312 seneca's morals. Pain aftects the body not the mind. 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 na- ture, the same Providence, and we carrv our virtues along with us. And this blessing we owe to the Almighty Power, call it what you will, either a God, or an incorporeal 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 magnifi- cent 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 \ve 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 footman, or bind the hands of a cobler, but the mind is still at liberty to hear, learn, teach, advise, and to do other good offices. It is an ex- ample of public benefit, a man that is in pain and sekeca's morals. .313 In pain may be found some comfort. r i * patient. Virtue may shew itself as well in the bed as in the field ; and he that cheerfully encounters the terrors of death, and corporal anguish, is a3 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 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. Shall we call any sick man miserable, because he must give over his intemperance of wine and gluttony, and be- take himself to a diet of more sobriety, and less expence, 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 en- dure hunger and thirst; but in a' little time we lose the very appetite, and it is no trouble then to be without that which we do not desire. In diseases there are great pains ; but if they be Ion** 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 God Almighty to us, that our torments cannot be very sharp and last- ing. The acutest pains are those that affect the nerves, but there is this comfort in them too 2 £ 314 sexeca's morals. Three tilings grievous in sickness. that they will quickly make us stupid and insen- sible. In cases of extremity, let us call to mind' the most eminent instances of patience and courage, and turn our thoughts from our afflic- tions to the contemplation of virtue, Suppose it be the stone, the gout, nay, the rack itself ; how many 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 experi- ments of their cruelty, which they have had still in derision. The asthma I look upon, as of all diseases, the most importune; the plrysicians call it — the meditation of death, as being rather an agony than a sickness: the fit holds not above an hour, as no body is long in expiring. There are three things grievous 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 it- self has preserved many a man from dying. POVERTY, TO A WISE MAN, IS RATHER A BLESSING THAN A MISFORTUNE. No man shall ever be poor, that goes to him- self f( r what he wants, and that is the readiest way to riches; nature indeed will have her due, but yet, whatsoever is beyond necessity is preca- SENECA'S MORALS. 31 No man poor that has enough. rious, and not necessary. It is not her business to gratify the palate, but to satisfy a craving sto- mach: bread, when a man is hungry, does his work, let it be ever so coarse, and water when lie is a-dry; let his thirst be quenched, and na- ture is satisfied, no matter whence it comes, or whether he drinks in gold, silver, or in the hol- low of his hand. To promise a man riches, and to teach him poverty, is to deceive him : b*it, shall I call him poor, that wants nothing, though he may be 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 ? lie that has much desires more, which shews 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 sen, shall poison him: that which gives him security in war, and quiet in peace; which he possesses with- out danger, and disposes of 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 sufficient for human nature, was not enough for one man. Money never made any man rich; for the more ke had, the more he still coveted. The richest 3l6 seneca's morals. Poverty only troublesome in opinion. man that ever lived is poor, in my opinion, and in any man's may be so : but he that keeps him- self to the stint of nature, does neither feel no- verty, nor fear it; nay, even in poverty itself, there are some things superfluous. Those which the world calls happy, their felicity is a false splendour, that dazzles the eyes of the vulgar ; but our rich man is glorious, and happy within. There is no ambition in hunger, or thirst: let there be food, and no matter for the table, the dish, and the servants, nor with what meats na- ture is satisfied. Those are the torments of lux- ury, that rather stuff ihe 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. Na- ture provides 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 compli- ment: a small matter fills his belly, and contents his mind; he lives from hand to mouth, without carkiiig or fearing for to-morrow. The temper- ate rich man is but his counterfeit; his wit is quicker, and his appetite calmer. No man finds poverty a trouble to hirti, but he that thinks it so: and he that thinks it so, makes it so. Does not a rich man travel more ut eu.se se'N'ECa's morale. 317 GranHeur insures not felicity. with less luggage and fewer servants ? does he not eat many tunes as little, and as coarse in the field, as a poor man? does he not, for his own plea- sure, sometimes, and for variety, feed upon the ground, and use only earthen vessels r is not he a madman then, that always fears what he often desires, and dreads the thing that he delights to imitate ? He that would know the worst of po- verty, let him but compare the looks of the rich and of the poor, and he shall rind the poor man to have a smoother brow, and to be more merry at heart, or, if any trouble befals him, it passes over like a cloud : whereas the other, either his good-humour 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 be? ing set off by his fortune and quality ? nay, if we see any thing 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 hirn from a kennel to a palace, he is at the- 2U 3"! 8 seneca's morals. Competency is a fair degrfee of plenty. same pass, for he carries his disease along with him. What c?m be happier than that condition, both of mind and of fortune, from which we can- not fall ? what can be a greater felicity, than in a covetous, designing age, for a man to live • among informers and thieves ? it puts a poor man into the very condition of Providence, that gives all, without reserving any thing 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. V/hether had a man better find saturity in want, or hunger in plenty? It is not the augmenting 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 colfers, as in another m:u/s ; and rather hear that they are his, than ic el them to be so ? though it is a great matter rw t to be corrupted, even by having them under the same roof. He is the greater man that is honestly poor in the middle of plenty, but he is the most secure that is free from the temptation of that plenty, and has the least matter for an- < t her 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 con^ seneca's morals. 319 Mediocrity thebe-t state of fortune. dition. The best proof is, the doing of it by- choice, and not by necessity ; for the practice of poverty in jest is a preparation toward the bear- ing of it in earnest. But it is yet a generous dis- position so to provide for the worst of fortunes, as what may be easily borne : the premeditation makes them not only tolerable, but delightful to us; for there is that in them, without which no- thing can be comfortable, that is to say, security. If there were nothing else in poverty, but the certain knowledge of our friends, it were yet a most aesirable blessing — when every man leaves , ms but those that lo\e us. It is a shameto 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 honour ef poverty, it was both the foundation 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 poverty may not be a burden 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 medio- crity of fortune, with a gentleness of mind, will preserve us from fear or envy; which is a desir- able condition, for no man wants power to do mischief. We never consider the blessing of co- veting nothing, and the glory of being full in Ourselves, without depending upon fortune. With 320 seneca's morals. Frugality makes a poor man rich. parsimony a little is sufficient, and without it- nothing; whereas frugality makes a poor man rich. It 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 favoured, than those whom she has forsaken. The state is most commodious that lies betwixt poverty and plenty. Diogenes under- stood this very well, when he put himself into an incapacity of losing any thing.. That course of life is most commodious, 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 y and somewhat for a covering to shelter us against other inconveniencies,'but not a pin matter whe- ther 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 glo- rious, and all other things are despicable in com- parison. The future is uncertain, and I had ra- ther beg of mvself not to desire any thing, than of fortune to bestow it. Seneca's morals. 521 A neer described. ^=* OF ANGER. a.vger described; it is against nature, and only to be found in man. VV E are here to encounter the most outrage* ous, brutal, dangerous, and intractable of all passions, the most loathsome and unmannerly, nay, the most ridiculous too ; and the subduing of this monster 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 bodj\ The Stoics will have anger to be — a desire of punishing another for some injury done. Against which it is objected, that we are many times an- gry with those that never did hurt us, but possi- bly may, though the harm be not as yet done. 13 Lit, I say, that they hurt us already in conceit, 322 seneca's morals. It is against nature ,• and the very purpose of it is an injury in thought, before it breaks out into an act. It is opposed again — that if anger -were a desire of punishing, mean people 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 impos- sible to compass. But, I answer to this, that anger is the desire, not the power, and faculty of revenge : neither is any man so low, but that the greatest man alive may, peradventure, lie at his mercy." Aristotle takes anger to be — a desire of pay- ing 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 punishment; nay, though they cause it, they do not design or seek it. Neither is anger (how unreasonable soever in itself) found any where but in reasonable creatures. It is true, that 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 luxuri- ous and ambitious, as angry ; and yet they are not without certain images of human affections. They have their likings and their loathings, but neither the passions of reasonable nature, nor their vir- tues, nor their vices. They are moved to fury seneca's morals. 32S On y Id be f<>- nd in man. by some objects, they are quieted by others; they have their terrors and their disappointments, but without reflection; and let them be ever so irritated, or affrighted, so soon as ever the occa- sion is removed, the)" fall to their meat again, lie down, and take their rest. Wisdom and thought are the goods of the mind, whereof brutes are wholly incapable ; and we are as un- like them within, as we are without : they have an odd kind of fancy, and they have a voice too, but inarticulate and confused, and incapable of those variations which are familiar to us. 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 another : anger makes us destroy one another; the one unites, the other separates; the one is beneficial to us, the other mischievous; the one succours even strangers, the other de- stroys even the most intimate friends ; the one ventures all to save another, the other ruins him- self 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 pas- sion of the people against the gladiators, when they hang off, and will not make so quick a dis- 2 '324 seneca's morals. Several sort.- of anger. patch as the spectators would have them : there is something in it of the humour of children, that if they get a fall, will never leave bawling until the haughty 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 con- tempt, if the gladiators do not immediately cast themselves upon the sword's point. They look presently 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 va- rieties, would be unnecessary and endless. There is a stubborn, a vindictive, a quarrelsome, a vio- lent, a froward, a sullen, a morose kind of an- ger ; and then we have this variety in complica- tion too. One goes no farther than words; an- other 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 com- plaining. There is a conciliable anger, and there- is an implacable; but in what form or degree so- ever it appears, all anger, without exception, is vicious. seneca's morals. 325 Of its variou? m )tions. THE RISE OF ANGER. The question will be here — Vv'hether 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, involun- tary, and only a kind of menacing preparation to- wards it. The second deliberates, as who should say — this injury should not pass without a re- venge, and there it stops. The third is impo- tent, and, right or wrong, resolves upon ven- geance. 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 season itself cannot overcome it. The third, as it rises upon consideration, it must fall so too ; for that motion which proceeds with judgment, 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 pro- perly anger, but an affection over-ruled by rea- son: a kind of proposal disapproved. And what are reason and affection, but only changes of the miad, for the better, or for the worst? Eeasoa 3?6* seneca's morals. Anaer is a precipitate | as ion. •deliberates before it judges ; but auger passes sentence without deliberation. Reason qnly at- tends the matter in hand ; but anger is startled at every accident: 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 re- solution of a revenge, the mind assenting to it. There is no doubt but anger is moved by the spe- cies of an injury, but whether the 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 medi- tate a revenge; and, after that, to lay both pro- positions together, and say to myself — this in- jury ought not to have been doiie ; but as the case stands, I must do myself right. This dis- course 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 something understood and condemned ; an indignation conceived, and a revenge pro- pounded. This can never be without the agree- ment 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 reafeon, for all involuntary motions are inevitable and invincible, as a kind of horror seneca's morals. 327 It truly be i vercome by goad counsel. 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 dis- course. In these cases, reason can do no good, but anger may undoubtedly be overcome bv caution and good counsel ; for it is a voluntary vice, and not of the condition of those accidents that befal us as frailties of our humanity: amongst which must be reckoned the hrst motions of the mind, after the opinion of an injury re- ceived, 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 shipwreck even of an enemy; and we are much surprised by fear in other cases : all these motions are not so 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 will- ingly what was started by chance. These are not auctions, but impulses of the body. The bravest 2e 2. 32$ Seneca's morals. Ofihosewho have governed their rage. man in the world may look pale when he puts on his armour, 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 as- saults; and it is not possible to resolve, either upon violence, or caution, without the concur- rence of the will. 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 dis- cipline, and there is hardly any thing 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 absolute mastery of themselves in this point. Thrasippus, in his drink, fell foul upon the cruelties of Pisistratus, 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 who stumbles upon me blindfold ?" In effect, most of our quarrels are of our own making, either by mistake, or by aggravation, sf.nf.ca's morals. 329- The moderatipn.of Antieonus. Anger comes sometimes upon us, but we go oftner to it, and instead of rejecting it, we call it. Augustus was a great master of his passion, for Timagenus, an historian, who wrote several bitter tilings against his person and his family, which passed among the people plausible enough^ as pieces of rash wit commonly do : Caesar ad- vised him several times to forbear, and when that would not do, forbad him his roof. After this Asinius Pollio gave 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 honour of 1 Augustus, 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 Pollio that he had taken a snake into his bosom : and as Pollio was about to excuse him- self — " No," says Caesar, interrupting him, " make your best of him ;" and offering to cast him oft' 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 entertained him now, because Caesar had discarded him. The moderation of Antigonuswas remarkable, some of his soldiers were railing at him one night, where there was but a hanging betwixt them; %? 3 330 seneca's morals. . - =s Pcciius Pollio masters his anger through fear. Antigonus overheard them, and putting it gently aside — " Soldiers," says he, " stand a little far- ther- 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 displeasure, 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, tl 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 Pedius Pollio, upon his inviting Augustus to supper. One of his boys happened to break a glass, and his mas- ter, in a rage, commanded him to be thrown into a pond, to 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 himself at Augustus's feet, only desiring that he might not die that death ! Caesar, in abhorrence of the barbarity, 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 farther occasion for an inhu- manity of that nature. This was an authority we'll employed. Shall the breaking of a glass cost a man his life ? Nothing but a predominant. senega's morals. 351 Pra-\aspes dissembles hi s rj.^e. 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 Prrexaspes (a favourite of Cam- byses, who was much given to wine), that he took the freedom to tell his prince of his hard drinking, and to lay before him the scandal and the inconveniencies of his excesses, and how that, in those distempers, he had not the command of himself. " Now," says Cambyses, " to shew you your mistake, 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 ordered Praxaspes his 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 Cambyses, " is my hand steady or no ?" — " Apollo himself," says Praexaspes, could not have outdone it." It may be a ques- tion now, which was the greater impiety, the murder itself, or the commendation of it j for 332 seneca's morals. Harpagus suppresses Ins choler lnm to take the heart of his sun, while it was yet reeking and panting under the wound, for an oc- casion of flattery. Why was there not another experiment made upon the father, to try if Cam- bybes could not have yet mended his shot? This was a most unmanly violation of hospitality, but the approbation of the fact was still worse than the crime itself. This example of Praxaspes proves sufficiently that a man may repress his an- ger, 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 alcne in his cups,, for he had- better have drunk wine than blood, it is a dan- gerous 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 preserv- ed; which when Astyages came afterwards to understand, he invited Harpagus to a dish o£ 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 seasoning. " Whatever pleases your majesty/' said Harpagus, " 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 up SENECa's MORALS. 333 Anger a short madness. offence at all abroad ; and what is the reason of h, but that we are patient in one place and fro- ward in another ? It was a strong provocation that which was given to Philip of Macedon, the father of Alex- ander : — the Athenians sent their ambassadors to him, and they were received with this compliment — " Tell me, gentlemen/' says Philip, " What is there that I can do to oblige the Athenians V Democharas, one of the ambassadors told him, that they would take it for a great obligation, if he would be pleased to hang himself. This inso- lence gave an indignation to the by-standers, but Philip bad them not to meddle with him, but even to let that foulmouthed fellow go as he came. " And for you, the rest of the ambassa- dors," 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 se- curity. 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 trans- ports of choler and those of phrensy, that it is 334 seneca's morals. Anger 3 deformed vice. 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 staring, trembling 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 that 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 themselves again ? it is therefore to be avoided, not only for moderation sake, but also for health. Now if the outward appearance of anger be so foul and hideous, how deformed must that miserable mind be that is harassed with it? for it leaves no place either for counsel or friendship, honesty, or good manners ; noplace either for the exer- cise 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 SF,NF,C.\'s MORALS. 335 1 renders all terrible creatures more fierce. be sour, livid, fall of scars, and wallowing in gore, raging up and down, destroying, grinning, bellowing, and pursuing, sick of all other things, and most of all of itself. It turns beauty into de- formity, and the calmest counsels into fierceness : it disorders 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 govern- ment of himself, and is tossed hither and thither by his fury, as by a tempest; the executioner of his own revenge, both with his heart and hand, and the murderer of his nearest friends? The smallest matter moves it, and makes us insoci- able and inaccessible. It does all things by vio- lence, as well upon itself as others, and it is, in short, the master of all passions. There is not any creature so terrible and dan* gerous by nature, but it becomes fiercer by an- ger. Not that beasts have human affections, but certain impulses 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 himself with his tail ; the serpent swells, and there is a ghastly kind of fellness in the aspect of a mad dog. How great a wickedness is it now to indulge a violence, that 335 seneca's morals. Anger is a wild impetuous blast. does not only turn a man into a beast, but makes even the most outrageous of beasts themselves to be more dreadful and mischievous! a vice, that carries along with it neither pleasure nor profit, neither honour nor security, but, on the contrarv, destroys us to all the comfortable and glorious purposes of our reasonable being. Some there are, that will have the root of it to be greatness of mind. And why may we not as well entitle impudence to courage : 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 magnanimity to avarice, luxury, and ambition, which are all but splendid impo- tencies, 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 tumour, the very infirmity of women and children, a brawling clamorous evil : and the more noise the less courage ; as we find it commonly, that the boldest tongues have the faintest hearts. ANGER IS NEITHER WARRANTABLE, NOR USEFUL. In the first place, anger is unwarrantable, as it is unjust: for it falls many times upon the vfrrong person, and discharges itself upon the in- seneca's morals. 337 It isinsociaMe. nocent, instead of the guilty ; beside the dispro- portion 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 of de- fence, but judges a cause without hearing 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 memo- ries, without any indecency, either of counte- nance or action. Secondly, it is insociable to the highest point, for it spares neither friend nor foe, but tears all to pieces, and casts human nature into a perpe- tual state of war. It dissolves the bond of mutual society, insomuch that our very companions and relations dare not come near us; it renders us unfit for the ordinary offices of life, for we can neither govern our tongues, our hands, nor any part of our body. It tramples upon the laws of hospitality and of nations, 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 these injuries, and .we are not 2 ft 338 SENECA S MORALS. Anger is un profitable. 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 consi- dering that it is more dangerous to be feared than despised. Suppose 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 despic- able for his anger ; for there is nothing more wretched than a choleric huff, that makes a noise, and nobody cares for it. If anger should 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 upon our inferiors, and there is nothing in the world which we will not do, either for pleasure or pro- fit. To be angry at offenders, is to make our- selves 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 ori- ental 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 any thing that is well seneca's morals. 359 Ami in no case allowable. done ; but, to be transported for another man's doing 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 poize, 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 ungo- vernable 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 be- hoves us to have the same command of our mind that we have of our bodies. Besides 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 repentance. How much better is it to compose injuries than to revenge them ; for it does not only spend time, but the revenge of one injury exposes us to more. In fine, as it is unreasonable to be angry at a crime, it is 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 ravishing of his sister, or daughter, before his face? No, not at all; 1 will defend my parents, S g S « V 4 340 senega's morals. There is no need of anger. and 1 will repay the injuries that are done them ; but it is my piety, and not my anger, that moves me to it. I will do my duty without fear or con- fusion; Twill not rage, I will not weep, but dis- charge the office of a good man, without forfeit- ing the dignity of a man. If my father be as- saulted, I will endeavour to rescue him ; if he be killed, I will do right to his memory ; and ail this not in any transport of passion, but in honour and conscience. Neither is there any need of an- ger, where reason does the same thing. A man may be 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 an effect of reason, but of infirmity. For a man indeed to expose his person for his prince, or for his parents, or his friends, out of a sense of honesty, and a judgment of duty, it is, without dispute, a worthy and a glorious action; but it must be done then with sobriety, calmness, and resolu- tion. It is high time to convince the world of the indignity and uselessness of this passion, when it has the authority and recommendation of no Seneca's morals. 341 -Bu; it may be counterfeited. less than Aristotle himself, as an affection very much conducing to all heroic actions, that re- quire heat and vigour. Now, to shew 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 sensible 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 cither 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 sin- cere, 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 bet- ter ; but in this case, the more the worse ; and a wise man does his duty without the aid of any thing that is ill. It is objected by 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 teme- rity ; 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 flioht the pigeon : but man has God for his example (who is never angry), and not the creatures. And yet it is not amiss sometimes to counterfeit anger, as 2o 3 34-2 Seneca's morals. ■ - - ■ ■ ■ I r*T A i^e> is never to be convinced. upon the stage; nay, upon the bench, and in the pulpit, where the imitation 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 incapa- ble of those necessary counsels by which virtue is to govern herself. Those are false and inaus- picious powers, and destructive of themselves, ■which arise only from the accession and fervour jof a disease. Reason judges according to right; anger will have every thing seem right whatever it does, and when it has once pitched upon a mis- take, it is never to be convinced, but prefers a pertinacy, even in the greatest evil, before the jnost 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 bet- ter to moderate than wholly suppress it, for fear of dissolving the spirit and force ot the mind. To this I answer, lhat virtue does not need the help of vice, but where there is any ardour of mind necessary, we may rouse ourselves, and be more or less busk and vigorous, as there is occasion, but all without anger still. It is a mistake, to say, that we may make use of anger as a com- mon soldier, but not as a commander ; for if it hears reason and follows orders, it is not properly anger; and if it does not, it is contumacious and Seneca's moral?. 343 It is dangerons in the field. mutinous. By this argument, a man must be angry to be valiant, covetous to be industrious, 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 the place of all others where it is the most dangerous; for the actions of war are to be managed with order and caution, not precipita- tion and fancy : whereas anger is heedless and heady, and the virtue only of barbarous 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, not a hardier against colds and heats ; their only delight and exercise is arms, to the utter neglect of ail things else ; and yet, upon the encounter, they are broken and destroyed through their own undisciplined temerity, even by the most effeminate of men. The huntsman is not angry with the wild boar, when he either pursues or receives him ; a good sword-man watches his opportunity, and keeps 44« seneca's morals. Anger is not courage. 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 : 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 Africa, and so compass his end by a more temperate 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 inha- bitants 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 it- self; for the greatest coward in despair does the greatest wonders. No man is courageous in his anger, 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 seneca's morals. 54-5 The end of it is sorrow. 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 pre- ferred, and Cicero rejected; when loyalty shall be broken upon the wheel, and treason sit trium- phant upon the bench, is not this a subject to move the choler of any virtuous man ? No, by no means, virtue will never allow of the correct- ing of one vice by another; or that anger, which is the greater crime of the two, should presume to punish the less. It is the natural property of virtue to make a man serene and chearful, and it is not for the dignity of a philosopher to be transported either with grief or anger; and then the end of am>er is sorrow, the constant effect of disappointment and repentance. But to my pur- pose — 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 humour or manners of others. There passes not a day over our heads, but he that is choleric shall have some cause or other of displeasure, either from men, accidents, or business. He shall never stir out his house, but he shall meet with criminals of all sorts, prodigal, impudent, covetous, perfidious, «ontentious; children persecuting their parents. 340 SENECA S MORALS. Justice is calm and temperate. parents cursing their children; the innocent ac- cused, the delinquent acquitted, and the judge practising 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 were 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 mis- chief. It is not for the dignity of a judge, when he comes to pronounce the fatal sentence, to ex- press any motions of anger in his looks, words, or gestures : for he condemns the vice, not the man; and looks upon the wickedness without an- ger, as he does upon the prosperity of wicked men without envy. But though he be not angry, I would have him a little moved, in point of hu- manity ; 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 ift stable, faithful, and sound, to repair for suc- cour to that which is uncertain, false, and dis- tempered, li the offender be incurable, take liim out of the world, that if he will not be good, he sknf.ca's morals. 347 Coi rert'on must be within bounds. 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 miserable 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 can- not be angry ; nor is there any need of an angry magistrate, for the punishment 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 restifY, 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 cor- rection to obedience. It is true, that correction is necessary, yet within reason and bounds ; for it docs not hurt, but profit 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 purg- ing and abstinence ; if this will not do, he pro- ceeds to bleeding, nay, to dismembering, rather than fail ; for there is no operation too severe that ends in health. The public magistrate be- gins with persuasion, and his business is, to beget a detestation for vice, and a veneration for vir- tue, from thence, if need be, he advances to ad- monition and reproach, and then to punishments ; but moderate, and revocable, unless the wicked- 4 34-S senega's morals. The medicine must be suited to the disease. ness be incurable, and then the punishment must be so too. There is only this difference, the physician, when he cannot save his patient's life, endeavours to make his death easy; but the ma- gistrate aggravates the death of the criminal with infamy and disgrace, not as delighting in the se- verity of it (for no good man can be so barba- rous), 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 amend- ment of wicked men, or to prevent the influence of ill example: for men are punished with a re- spect to the future, not to expiate offences 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 must 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 with myself when I open a vein. All punishment is but a moral, or civil remedy. 1" do not do any thing that is very ill, but yet I transgress often. Try me first with a private reprehension, then with a public ; if that will not serve, see what banishment "will do; if not that either, load me with chains, lay me in prison ; but if I seneca's morals. 3i$ v« - . Anucr is a turbulent luimou'. should prove wicked, even for wickedness sake, and leave no hope of reclaiming me, it would be a kind of mercy to destroy me. Vice is incorpo- rated with me, and there is no remedy, but the taking of both away together ; but still, without anger. ANGER IN GENERAL, WITH THE DANGER AND EFFECTS OF IT. There is no surer argument of a great mind, than not to be transported to anger by any acci- dent ; the clouds and the tempests are formed be- low, 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 composed : whereas anger is a turbulent humour, which at first dash casts off all shame, without any regard to order, measure, or food manners, transporting a man into misbe- coming violences, with his tongue, his hands, and every part of his body. And whoever consi- ders 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 labouring to sink that which can never be drown- ed, 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 mis- 2 H ®$G seneca's morals. Rage is ihe cause of m .tiny. tress; the ambitious man to trample upon his honours, and the'Covetous to throw away his for- tune. There is not any mortal that lives free from the danger of it, for it makes even the lieavy and the good-natured to be fierce and out- rageous : 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, that can secure us against it; nay, the learnedest, and men other- wise of exemplary sobriety, are infested 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 an- ory 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 carried 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 soldi- ers to their officers, to the ruin, not only of pri- vate families, but of kingdoms, turning their setjeca's MORALS. oM It is mun.' injurious than ili.u which provokes it. arms against their own leaders, and cbusing their own generals. There is no public council, no putting ef tilings to the vote, but, in a rage, the mutineers divide from the senate, name their head, force the nobility into their own houses, and put them to death with their own hands. The laws of nations are violated, the persons of pub- lic ministers affronted, whole cities infected with a general madness, and no respite allowed for the abatement or discussing of this public tumour. The ships are crowded with tumultuary soldiers ; 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 licenti- ous rashness, with the slaughter of the whole party : this is the event of a heady and inconsi- derate war. When men's minds are struck with the opinion of an injury, they fall on immediately wheresoever their passion leads them, without ei- ther order, fear, or caution ; provoking their own mischief; never at rest until they come to blows, and pursuing their revenge even with their bodies upon the points of their enemies weapons. So that the anger itself is much more hurtful to us than the injury that provokes it; for the one is bounded, but where the other will stop, no man living knows. There are no greater slaves cer- tainly, than those that serve anger, for they im- 2h 2 352 seneca's morals. Choler is unhealthful. prove 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 every thing in the way to it. Other vices drive us, but this hurries us headlong ; other passions stand firm themselves, though per- haps we cannot resist them, but this consumes and destroys itself: it falls like thunder, or a tempest, with an irrevocable violence, that ga- thers strength in the passage, and then evapo- rates in the conclusion. Other vices are unrea- sonable, 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 any thing 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 ever so trivial, it is sufficient for the 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 per- petually kept at work. The simplicity of a coun- try life keeps many men in ignorance of the frauds and impieties of courts and camps ; but no na- SF.NECa's MORALS. 353 ii is a sacrifice <>f time. tion, or condition of men, is exempt from the impressions of anger, and it is equally dangerous as well in war as in peace. We find that ele- phants will be made familiar, bulls will sutler 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 de- sperate a madness is it then for men, after the reclaiming of the fiercest of beasts, and the bring- ing of them to be tractable and domestic, to be- come yet worse than beasts to one another? Alexander had two friends, Clytus and Lysima- chus, the one he exposed to a lion, the other to himself; and he that was turned loose to the beaot escaped. Why do we not rather make the best of a short life, and render ourselves amiable 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 plea- sure of our own life, than be still contriving how to gall and torment another's? In all our brawl- ings 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 another man's death, may, peiadventure, 2 n 3 354- seneca's morals. ■ , , . ^ Our wrath cannot go beyond death. be prevented by our own. What is it that we make all this bustle for, and so needlessly dis- quiet our minds? We are offended with our ser- vants, 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 am- bushes, or combats. Our wrath cannot ]>. be quarrelsome, it must be with our superior, our equal, or inferior. To contend with our su- periors is folly and madness, with our equals it is doubtful and dangerous, and with our inferiors it is base. Nor 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 honourable, or comfortable, than to ex- change a feud for a friendship ? 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 min- gled the vanquished with the coiftmerors. There is an end of the contest when one side deserts it j 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 inca- pacitating the issue of the proscribed. It is in- human to intail 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 re- prover of them ; and he is to look upon all the drunkards, the lustful, the thankless, covetous,, and ambitious, that he meets with, no otherwise seneca's morals. 3.57 .-■-. at k test tbte of all « than as a physician looks upon his patients ; for he that will be angry with any man, must be dis- pleased with all ; which were as ridiculous, 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 wept, at the folly and wickedness of the world, but we never read of an angry philo- sopher, Thi3 is undoubtedly the most detestable of vices, even compared with the worst of them. Avarice scrapes and gathers together, that which some body may be the better for: but anger lashes out, and no man comes off gratis. An angry master makes one servant run away, and another hang himself ; and his choler causes him much greater loss than he suffered in the occa- sion of it. It is the cause of mourning to the father, and of divorce to the husband ; 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. The malevolent, and the envious, content themselves only to wish another man miserable ; but it is the business of anger to make him so, and to wreak the mischief itself, not so much desiring the hurt of another, as to inflict it. Among the 358 senega's morals. The miserable effects of rage. powerful it breaks out into open war, and into a private one with the common people, but with- out force, or arms. In 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 contemptible 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 miserabla consequences, and sanguinary effects of this hide- ous 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 tri- umph, some murdered 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 nobleman that bad three sons, that he would vouchsafe to ac- cept of two of them into his service, and leav® the third at home for a comfort to his father. " I seneca's morals. 35§ Irascible characters. will do more for you than that," says Darius, " for you shall have them all three again:" so he ordered 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 bid him take his choice, and he named the eld- est, 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 mili- tary 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 salvage cruelties will be imputed, perchance, to their rudeness of man- ners and want of discipline. But what will you say then of Alexander the Great, that was trai.n- .ed up under the institution of Aristotle himself, and killed Clytus, his favourite and school-fellow, with his own hand, under his own roof, and over the freedom of a cup of wine f And what was his crime ? he was loth to degenerate from a Macedonian liberty in a Persian slavery, that is to say, he could not flatter. Lysimachus, an- other of his friends, he exposed to a lion ; and 360 Seneca's morals. The cruelty of S3 11a. 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 Telesphorus, and when he had disfigured him, that he had no longer the face of a man, he threw him into a dungeon, and there kept him to be shewed for a monster, as a strange sight. The place was so low, that he was fain to creep upon all four, and his sides were galled too with the straitness of it. In this misery he lay half famished in his own filth, so odious, so terrible, and so loathsome a specta- cle, that the horror of his condition had even ex- tinguished 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 outrages and punishments, ns well as their vices, brake in upon the Romans. C. Marius, that had his statue set up every where, and was adored as a god : L. Sylla commanded his bones to be broken, his eyes to be put out, his hands to be cut off, and, as if every wound had been a seve- ral death, his body to be torn in pieces, and Ca- taline was the executioner. A cruelty, that was only tit for Marius to suffer, Sylla to command, and Cataline to act ; but most dishonourable and tatal to the commonwealth, to fall incliiTer- seneca's morals. SGi The severity of Piso, &c. ently upon the sword's points both of citizens and of enemies. It was a severe instance, that of Piso too : — A soldier that had leave to go abroad with his com- rade, came back to the camp at his time, but without his companion; Piso condemns him to die, as if he had killed him, and appoints a cen- turion to see the execution. Just as the heads- man was ready to do his office, the other soldier appeared, to the great joy of the whole field, and the centurion bid 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-soldier was condemned, and the centurion for not obeying the order of his superior. An ingenious piece of inhumanity, to contrive how to make three criminals, where effectually there were none. There was a Per- sian king, that caused the noses of a whole na- tion 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 Providence had nothinderea it), for the freedom they used to Cambyses's ambassadors, in not ac- cepting the slavish terms that were offered them. This put Cambyses into such a rage, that he pre- sently listed into his service every man that was able to bear arms^ and without either provisions, 2i 36*2 seneca's morals. Occasions of anger considered. or guides, marched immediately through dry and barren deserts, 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 pas- sionate king went on so far, until one part of his army was lost, and the other devoured, and un- til he feared that be 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 miserable, 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, THE ORDINARY 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 cfience ; as a man must expect to be justice!, dash- seneca's morals. 36*3 Most of our quarrels of our own contriving. ed, and crowded, in a populous city. One man deceives our expectation, another delays it ; and if every thing does not succeed to our wish, we presently fall out, either with the person, the business, the place, our fortune, or ourselves. Some men value themselves upon their wit, and will never forgive any one that pretends to lessen it ; others are inflamed by wine ; and some are distempered by sickness, weariness, watchings, love, care, &c. Some are prone to it by heat of constitution; but moist, dry, and cold com- plexions, are more liable to other affections, as suspicion, despair, fear, jealousy, &c. But most of our quarrels are of our own contriving. One while we suspect upon mistake, and another while we make a greater matter of trifles. To say the truth, most of thGse things that exaspe- rate us, are rather subjects of disgust than of mischief. There is a large difference betwixt opposing a man's satisfaction, and not assisting it; betwixt taking away, and not giving ; but we reckon upon denying and deferring as the same thing, and interpret another's being for himself, as if he were against us. Nay, \ve 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. AVe take it ill to be opposed, when there is a fa- tit h. A 36"4 seneca's morals. --■■' '" '' * ■ i ■ ' « ■ « » The subject matter of quarrels worthless, ther, 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 fee ho- nestly 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 cannot but commend ; but it is a great deal worse yet, if we hate him for the very thing that deserves commendation. 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 together by the ears, that desire the same thing. One man Jias 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 opi- nion of an injury ; that is, the opinion either of an injury 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 queru- lous and peevish. Hard labour, diseases, an- xiety of thought, and whatsoever hurts the bod}--, 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 controversies and quarrels, will find them low and mean, not worth the thought of a generous seneca's morals. 36*5 rm — ■ And ridiculous. mind; but the greatest noise of all is about mo- ney. This is it that sets fathers and children to- gether by the ears, husbands and wives, and makes way for sword and poison : this is it that tires our courts of justice, enrages our princes, and lays cities in the dust, to seek for gold and silver in the ruins of them. This is it that rinds work for the judge, to determine which side is least in the wrong ; and whose is the most plau- sible avarice, the plaintiff, or the defendant'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 Las nobody to lt-ave his estate to, break his heart for a handful of dirt, and a gouty usurer, that has no other 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 thdt 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 dnnks, and the matter of our luxury; nay, about words, looks, actions,, jealousies, mistakes, which are all of them as contemptible fooleries as those very baubles that children scratch and cry tor. There is nothing great, or seri- ous, in ail that which we keep up such a clutter about ; the madness of it is, that we set too great 2 i 3 366 seneca's morals. - ' ' — ■ ."_■■ * ' • h v"i, t. an has tvgtPeak side. 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 another; 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, is as gentle as a lamb abroad. Some take offence if 'one man ask a favour of them, and others if he does not. Every man has his weak side, let us learn which that is, and take care of it ; for the same thins dees not work upon all men alike. We ave moved like beasts, at the idle appearance of things ; and the fiercer the creature, the more is it star- tled. The sight of a red cloth 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 that 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 hu- mours, this is the worst, that will never sutler 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 a horse did but play the jade with,-them, that is yet obe» seneca's morals. 367 We are angry for trifle? dient to another rider. A brutal folly, to be of- fended 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, theie are, that will com- plain of foul weather, a raging sea, a biting win- ter, as if it were expressly directed to them ; and this they charge upon Providence, whose opera- tions are all oi them so tar 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 in a rage for putting of a little too much water into 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 & 7 given him only for music ; whereas we must suffer r6S seneca's morals. ■m- — rf Luxury makes us intemperate. 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, wc 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, noi- some ditches ; but a spot upon a dish at home, or an unswept hearth, absolutely distracts us. And what is the reason, but that we are patient in the one place, and fantastically peevish in the other? Nothing makes us more intemperate than luxury, that shrink? 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 themselves wounded if they be but touched. One of the Sibarites, that saw a follow hard at work, a dig- ging, desired him to give over, for it made him weary to see him: and it was an ordinary com- plaint with him — that he could take no rest, be- cause the rose leaves lay double under him. "When we are once weakened with our pleasures, every thing grows intolerable. And we are angry, as well with those that cannot hurt us, as with those that do. We tear a book because it is blotted, and our cloaths because they are not well made : things that neither deserve our anger, seneca's morals. 36*9 Extra%agance of C. C2e74- sexeca's morals. Of beirfg enraged -it rajiferies. 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 confes- sion of an infirmity. It is a fantastical humour, that the same jest in private should make us merry, and yet enrage us in public; nay, we will not allow the liberty that we take. Some railleries we account plea- sant, 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 gate, speech, or any natural imperfection, it puts us out of all patience, as if the counterfeit were more grievous than the doing of the thing itself. Some cannct endure to Lear 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 purpose) was broken upon you at the table; keep better com- pany then. In the freedom ol cups, a sober man will hardly contain himself within bounds. It sticks with us extremely, sometimes, that the porter will nut let us in to his great master. Will any but a madman quarrel with a cur for barking, when he may pacily him with a crust ? what have we to do but to keep further off, and laugh at seoseca's morals. 37-5 Some jests will never be forgive. him? Fidus Cornelius, a tall slim fellow, fell downright a crying in the senate- house, at Cor- bulo's saying that he looked like an estriche. He was a man that made nothing of a lash upon his life and manners; but if&vas 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 of scorn and hatred, scurrilous and impudent to the highest degree, but most abusively witty, and with all this he was diseased and deformed to extremity; his way was always to begin to make sport with himself, and so he prevented the mockery of other people. There are none more abusive to others, than they that lie most open to it themselves ; but the humoin- goes round, and he that laughs at me to-day will have some- body 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 particu- lar friends, and a man of stomach, that would not easily 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' 2 k 2 4 •37 A SENECA'S MOttALS. We are 10 avoid nil provocai on ? . a manner too, as at once to his own disgust, and bis adultery. The tribune Chaereas had a weak broken voice, like an hermaphrodite; when he came to Caligula for the word, he would give him sometimes Venus, otherw biles Priapus ; as a slur upon him both ways. Valerius was after- wards the principal instrument in the conspiracy against him ; and Chaereas, to convince, him of his manhood, at one blow cleft him down the chine with his sword. Tso man was so forward as Caligula to break a jest, and no man so un* willing to bear it. CAUTIONS AGAINST ANGER IN THE MATTER OP EDUCA* TION, CONVERSE, AND OTHER GENERAL MEANS OF PREVENTING IT, BOTH IN OUR- SELVES 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 cas<* of our bodies, we have some medicines to pre- serve us when we are well, and others to recover us when we are sick ; so it is one thing not to ad- mit 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 seneca's morals. $77 An effeminate educat.on breeds anger. the enemy is received into the gate, v.e 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 child. There is nothing breeds anger more t jthan a soft and effeminate education; and it is very seldom seen, that either the mother's, or the schoolmaster's darling, ever comes to good. But my young master, when he comes into the world, behaves himself like a choleric coxcomb ; for flattery, and a great fortune, nourish touchiness. But it is a nice point, so to check the seeds of anger in a child, as not to take off his edge, and quench his spirits, whereof a principal care must be taken, betwixt licence 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. 2 K 3 378 skneca's morals. . . ... i ■ i — * We should avoid provocation?. Never put him to a necessity of begging any thing basely, or if he does, let him go without it. Enure him to a familiarity, where he has any emulation ; and, in all his exercises, let him un- derstand that it is generous to overcome his com- petitor, 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, until the dogged fit is over, but then let him have it when he is quiet; to shew 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 temp- tations that we cannot resist, and provocations that we cannot bear, and especially of sour and exceptious company : for a cross humour is con- tagious; nor is it all, that a man shall be the better for the example of a quiet conversation; but an angry disposition is troublesome, because it has nothing else to work upon. We should, therefore, chuse a sincere, easy, and temperate companion, that will neither provoke anger nor return it, nor gjve a man any occasion of exer- seneca's morals. 379* ^f Carliits, 3 passionate nratof. rising his distempers. Nor is it enough to be gentle, submissive, and humane, without 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. Caslius, a passionate orator, had a friend of singular pati- ence that supped with him, who had no way to avoid a quarrel, but by saying amen to all that Caslius said. Cajlius taking this ill — " Say some- thing against me/' says he, " that you and I may be two ;" and he was angry with him because he would not ; and the dispute 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, re- creations and sports, temper and sweeten the mind. Let him have a care also of long and ob- stinate disputes, for it is easier not to begin them, than to put an end to them. Severe studies are not good for him neither, as law, mathematics ; too much intention preys upon the spirits, and makes him eager. But poetry, history, and those lighter entertainments, may serve him for diver- sion and relief. He that would be quiet, must not venture at things out of his reach, or beyond his strength ; for he shall either stagger under the burden, or discharge it upon the next man he meets j which is the same case in civil and do- 380 seneca's morals. w: ... . , , rnac A repi^se inliames a ^nerous mind. mestic affairs. Business that is ready and prac- ticable 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 compare our force with the undertaking, for it vexes a man not to go through with his work : a repulse inflames a generous nature, as it makes one that is phleg- matic 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 servants order before hand, 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 consi- deration of it. We are not angry at madmen, children, and fools, because they do not know what they do; and why should not imprudence 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, lej: us cherish humanity ; and so live, that no man may be either in fear, or in clanger of us. Losses, injuries, reproaches, ca- SENECA^ MORALS. 3S1 Paucnce so'icns wratl , lumnies, they are but short inccnvenier.cies, and we should bear them with resolution. Beside that, some people are above our anger, others below it. To contend with our superiors were a follv, and with our inferiors an indignity. There is hardly a more effectual remedy against an^er than patience and consideration. Let but the first fervour abate, and that mist which darkens the mind will be either lessened or dis- pelled ; a day, nay, an hour, does much in the most violent cases, and, perchance, totally sup- presses it ; time discovers the truth of things, and turns that into judgment, which at first was an- ger. Plato was about to strike his servant, 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 ser- vant to chastise himself. Another time, his ser- vant having committed a great fault — " Speu- sippus," says he, " do you beat that fellow, for I am angry :" so that he forbore striking him for the very reason that would have made another man have done it. " I am angry," says he, and shall go farther than becomes me." Nor is it fit that a servant should be in his power, that is not his own master. Why should any one ven- ture now to trust an angry man with a revenge,* 382 seneca's morals. Moderation is profitable 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 shew itself in the eye, or countenance, it has got the better of us. Nay, we should so oppose it, as to put on the very contrary dispositions: calm looks, soft and slow speech, an easy and deliberate march, and by little and little we may possibly bring our thoughts into a sober conformity with our actions. When Socrates was angry, he would take himself in it, and speak low, in opposition to the motions of his displeasure. His friends would take notice of it; and it was not to his disadvantage neither, but rather to his credit, that so many should know that he was angry, and nobody feel it ; which could never 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 follies, but to treat us with all liberties of reprehension, even when we are least willing to bear it, against so power- ful 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 pro- fitable tor subjects, but more for princes; who se\eca's morals. 383 Scv al ways of diverting anger. have the means of executing all that their anger prompts them to. When that power comes once to be exercised to a common mischief, it can never long continue, 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 endeavour to make others so, wherein we must accommodate the remedy to the temper of the patient. Some are to be dealt with by arti- fice and address; as for example — Why will you gratify your enemies to shew yourself so much concerned ? It is not worth your anger; it is be- low you ; I am as much troubled at it myself, as you can be, butyou had better say nothing, and ta'ke 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 in- treaties, others are gained by mere shame and conviction, and some by delay ; a dull way of cure for a violent distemper, but this must be the labt experiment. Other affections may be better dealt with at leisure, for they proceed gradually, but this commences and perfects itself in the same moment. It does not, like other passions, •solicit ai;d mislead us, but it runs away with us by force, and hurries us on with an irresistible teme- 384« senrca's morals. Of th e mos; gr;evous injuries rity, 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 all down 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 pu- nishment, to delay the present : if the passion be outrageo'is, 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 upon him like a prince in this case, to practise all liberties, and to allow none. Which proceeds either from ignorance or insolence. What news is it for people to do ill things ? for seneca's morals. 385 Mjii mast no; be inquisitive. an enemy to hurt; nay, for a friend, or a ser- vant, to transgress, and to prove treacherous, un- ctateful, covetous, impious ? What we find in one man, we may in another, and there is no more security in fortune than in men. Our joys are mingled with fear, and a tempest may ari^e out of a calm, but a skilful pilot is always provided for it. AGAINST HASH 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 s-ee every thing, multiplies troubles to him- self; for a man does not feel what he does not know. He that is listening after private di&« course, and what people say of him, shall never be, at peace. How many things, that are innocent in themselves, are made injurious, yet by mis- construction r Wherefore some things we are to pause upon, others to laugh at, and others again to pardon. Or, if we cannot avoid the sense (. f indignities, let us, however, shun the open pro- fession of it ; which may easily be done, as ap- pears by many examples of those that have sup- pressed their anger, under the awe of a. greater fear. It is a good caution, not to believe any tiling until we are very certain of it; for many 2 L 3S6* sexeca's morals. Let us not be too credulous. probable things prove false, and a short time will make evidence of the undoubted truth. We are- prone to believe many things which we are un- willing to hear, and so we conclude, and take up a prejudice before we can judge. Never condemn a friend unheard, or without letting him know his accuser, or his crime. It is a common thins to say — Do not you tell 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 stones upon these terms; for it is an unjust thing to believe in private, and to be angry openly. lie that de- livers himself up to guess and conjecture, runs a great hazard ; for there can be no suspicion with- out some probable grounds ; so that without much candour and simplicity, and making 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 place, 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 sport to do ill offices, others do them only to pick a thank : there, are some tha^ would part the dearest friends in the world ; others love to do mischief, and stand aloof to sec what comes of it. If it be a SKNKCa's MOllAnS. &R? Make the best of every thing. Email matter, I would have witnesses; but if it be a greater, I would have it upon oath, and al- low time to the accused, and council too, and hear it over and over again. In those cases, where we ourselves are wit- nesses, we should take into consideration all the circumstances. If a child, it was ignorance—if a woman, a mistake— if done by command, a necessity— if a man be injured, it is but quod pro quo— if a judge, he knows what he does— if a prince, I must submit, either, if guilty to jus* tice, 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 Provi- dence, it is both impious and vain to be angry at it— if a good man, I will make the best of it — if a bad, I will never wonder at it. Nor is it only by tales and stories that we are inflamed, but suspicious 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 2 l2 388 -seneca's Mnft.us. Let us give way to wise men. shall not be so easily imposed upon, nor put to trouble ourselves about things not worth the ivhile ; as the loitering of a servant upon an er- rand, 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 un- willingly, or by chance.— It was a trick put upon him, or he was forced to it. — Pie did it for re- ward, perhaps, not hatred, nor of his own ac- cord, but he was egged on to it. Nay, some re- gard must be had to the age of the person, or to fortune; and we must consult humanity and can- dour in the case. One does me a great mischief at unawares, another does me a very small one by design, or peradventure none at all, but intend- ed 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 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 circumspect, so considerate, or so fearful of offending, but he seneca's morals. 3S9 W't o does an injury may receive one. 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 mas- ter'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 my duty to love my country, I must be kind also to all 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 regard to parti- culars. Let this be a rule to us, never to deny a pardon that does no hurt eitheF to the giver or receiver.* That may be well enough in one r which is ill in another; and therefore we are not to condemn any thing that is common to a na« tion, 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 ihere is a power over him that is above me, A H3 3<)0 SENECA S MORALS. The wisest have their failin man should stand as firm against all indignities as a rock does against the waves. As it is some sa- tisfaction 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 corner 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 fortunes are not exempt. The wisest also of mortals have their failings, and no mail living is without the same excuse. The difference is, that we do net all of us transgress the same way : but we are obliged in humanity to bear with one another. We should, every one of us,, bethink ourselves how remiss we have been in our duties, how im- modest in our discourses, how intemperate in our cups, and why not as well how extravagant we have been m our patulous. 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 every thing, expect every thing, that we may not be surprised. " It is a shame," said Fabius, " for a commander to excuse himself by saying — 1 was not aware oi it/' seneca's morals. 301 We should b-ar one \s iih another. 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 do not stand 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 willing enough to do, what we are very un- willing to suffer. It is unreasonable to charge pub- lic vices upon particular 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 mis- chieved other people, or at least I may live to do as much to him as that comes to me. Such a one has spoken ill things of me ; but if 1 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 clone me a mischief, he must 3£)2 senega's morals* We should not condemn hastily. have done himself one. How many good offices are there that look like injuries? nay, how many have been reconciled, and good friends^ after a professed hatred ? Before we lay any thing to heart, let us ask ourselves 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, perhaps, because she is another's) will not suffer his own to be so much as looked upon. No man so fierce against calumny as the evil speaker; none so- strict exacters of modesty in a servant, as those that are most prodigal of their own. We carry our neigbour's 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 our- selves. The tyrant exclaims against homicide,, and sacrilege against theft. We are angry with the persons, but 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 fake, as we do abstinence, bleeding, and other uneasy things, which we are the better for* 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 1 have done nothing,, says another : when at the same time we make it seveca's morals. 393 N\> man can absolve bmtsetftu NscOnMiem •-. wors*', by adding arrogance and contumacy to our first error. We cry out presently — What law have we transgressed ? 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 latitude, and we have many obligations upon us, that are not to be found in the statute books. And yet we fall short of the exactness, even of that legal inno- cency. 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 favourable 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 befals us only by the common law of mortality. In fine, no man liv- ing can absolve himself to his conscience, 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 precipice, that sea, that river, that well, there is freedom in the bot- tom of it. It hangs upon every crooked bou«li d 3.04- senega's morals. We should do as we would be done by. 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 my- self — am I greater than Philip, or Augustus, who both of them put up greater reproaches? many have pardoned their enemies, aud shall not I for- give 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 vio-^ lent, take it in parts, and it is subdued. And, to. wind up all in one word, the great lesson of man- kind, as well in this, as in all other cases, is— t© 4o as we would be done by. 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 payment of a revenge \ which holds in some cases, but not in others. There are a sort of men that take delight in the spilling of human blood, and in the death of those that never did them any in- jury, nor were ever so much as suspected for it — as Apollodorus, Phalaris, Sinis, Procrustus, and others, that burnt men alive, whom we cannot so properly call angry as brutal. For anger does ttscessarily presuppose an injury either done, or Seneca's morals. 3p.5 1 lie cruehy of the Roman spectacles. ' conceived, or feared ; but the other takes plea- sure in tormenting, without so much as pretend- ing any provocation to it, and kills merely for killing sake. The original of this cruelty, per- haps, 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 countenance and appearance of men in anger, that they will laugh, rejoice, and entertain them- selves with the most horrid spectacles, as racks, goals, gibbets, several sorts of chains and punish- ments, dilaceration of members, stigmatizings and wild beasts, with other exquisite inventions of torture, and yet at last the cruelty itself is more horrid and odious than the means by which it works. It is a bestial madness to love mischief, beside that, it is womanish to rage 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 dangerous to itself. The Romans had their morning and their me- ridian spectacles. In the former they had their combats of men with wild beasts, in the latter the men fought one with another. " I went," says our author, " the other day to the meridian spectacles, in hope of meeting somewhat of mirth and diversion, to sweeten the humours of those that bad been entertained with blood in the mon.« 396 sf.neca's morals. No vice keeps itself Within its proper bounds. ing, 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 did 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 breast. Burn that rogue, they cry; what, is he afraid of his flesh? do but see how Fneakingly 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 rigour are condemned, but oppression, when it comes to be authorized by an act of state, and to be publicly commanded, though particularly for- bidden, becomes a point of dignity and honour. "What a shame is it for men to enterworry one another, when yet the fiercest 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 re- duced. Nay, and the mischief of it is, that no vice keeps itself within its proper bounds. Lux- ury runs into avarice, and when the reverence of 2 seneca's morals. 397 due u of C. Caesar. 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 entertainment, and his groans are music. When Alexander delivered up Lysimachus to a lion, how plad 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 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 pleasure, put senators and Roman knights to the torture, and whip several of them like slaves, or put them to death with the most accurate tor- ments, merely for the satisfaction of his cruelty : that Caesar, that wished the people of Rome had but one neck, that he might cut it off at one blow. It was the employment, the study, and the joy of his life. He would not so much as give the ex- piring 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 tormented 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 2 M 398 seneca's morals. Of tyrannical government. men killed by torch light; as if his life and death had depended upon their dispatch before the next morning. To say nothing how many fathers were put to death by him in the same night with their •sons, (which was a kind of mercy, in the pre- vention of their mourning). And was not Syl- la's cruelty prodigious too, which was only stopt for want of enemies ? He caused 7,000 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 Hanni- bal, 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 for an opportunity 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. ^eneca's morals* 399 Sylla's cruelty. How many slaves have revenged themselves of their cruel oppressors, 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 a prince increases the number of his enemies, by destroying some of them ; for it 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 y he both dreads death and wishes it ; and becomes a greater terror to himself, than he is to the 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 poi- son. 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 depopulating 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 go- vernment ? a government that bears the image of 400 seneca's morals. Ange becomes not a s preme magistrate. a taken city, where there is nothing but sorrow, trouble, and confusion. Men dare not so much as trust themselves wilh 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, to have the rattling of chains, always in our ears, bloody spectacles before our eyes, and to carry terror and dismay wherever we hould be clear and powerful. not that I would wholly forbid the use of hyper- boles, which, although they exceed the truth, may yet be a means, by things incredible, to bring us unto things credible. And there may be great use made also of parables : for the way of application does usually more affect the mind, than the downright meaning. That speech which gains upon the passions, is much more profitable than that which only works upon the judgment^ Chrysippus was a great man, and of an acute wit, but the edge of it was so fine, that every thing turned it ; and he might be said, in truth, rather to prick the subject that he handled, than to pierce it through. As it is not for the honour of a philosopher to be solicitous about words, I would not have him negligent either: but let him speak with assur- ance, and without affectation. If we can, let our discourses be powerful ; but, however, let them be clear. I like a composition that is nervous and strong; but yet I would have it sweet and gracious withal. There are many things, I know, that please well enough in the delivery, and yet will hardly abide the test of an examination^ But that eloquence is mischievous, that diverts a man from things to words, and Utile better than a prostitution of letters. For what signifies the pomp of words, or the jumbling of syllables, to the making up of a wise man ? Tully's composi^ 4-32 seneca's morals. T — — — iii ■ ' ill* Several subject* mjune several excellencies. K -i — "- - ■ ~ ' » tion indeed is equal, his numbers are harmonious* free, and gentle, and yet he takes care not to make any forfeiture of his gravity. Fabian is a great man, in being second to Cicero: Pollio is a great man too,though a step below him; and so is Livy likewise, though he comes after the other three. But several subjects require several ex- cellencies. An orator should be sharp, the tra- gedian great, and the comedian pleasant. When a man declaims against vice, let him be bitter; against danger, bold ; against fortune, proud ; against ambition, reproachful : let him chide luxury, defame lust; an impotency of mind must be broken. Jn these cases, words are the least part of an honest man's business. In the matter of composition, I would write as I speak, with ease and freedom ; for it is more friendly, as well as more natural : and so much my inclination, that if 1 could make my mind "visible to you, I would neither speak nor write it. If I put my thoughts in good sense, the matter of ornament 1 shall leave to the orators. There are some things that a man may write, even as he travels; others, that require privacy and leisure. But, however, it is good in writing, as in other cases, to leave the best bit for the last. A j.Lilo- lopher has no more to do than to speak properly, and in wcads that expiess his meaning. Aud this may be done without tossing of the hands, stamp* seneca's morals. 433 Particular authors only io,\>e read. log, or any violent agitation of the body ; with- out either the vanity of the theatre, on the one_ hand, or an insipid heaviness on the other. I \ would have his speech as plain and simple as his life ; for he is then as good as his word, when both hearing him, and seeing him, we find him to be the same person. And yet, if a man can be eloquent, without more pains than the thing is worth, let him use his faculty : provided that he value himself upon the matter, more than upon the words ; and apply himself rather to the understanding, than to the fancy ; for this is a business of virtue, not a trial of wit. Who is there that would not rather have a healing, than a rhetorical physician? but for esteeming any man purely upon the score of his rhetoric, I would as soon chuse a pilot for a good head of hair. In the matter of reading, I would fix upon some particular authors, and make them my own. He that is every where, is no where ; but, like a man that spends his life in travel, he has many hosts but few friends. Which is the very condi- tion of him that skips from one book to another : the variety does but distract his head, and for want of digesting, it turns to corruption instead of nourishment. It is a good argument of a well composed mind, when a man loves home, and to 2 P 434. seneca's morals. M ike choice of the best authors. keep company with himself: whereas a rambling head is a certain sign of a sickly humour. Many books, and many acquaintances, bring a man to a levity of disposition, and a liking of change. "What is the body the better for meat, that will not stay with it ? nor is there any thing more hurtful in the case of diseases, or wounds, than the frequent shifting of physic, or plaisters. Of authors, be sure to make choice of the best ; and (as I said before) to stick close to them ; and though you take up others by the by, reserve some select ones, however, for your study and retreat. In your reading, you will every day meet with consolation and support against po- verty, death, and other calamities, incident to human life : extract what you like, and then sin- gle some particular from the rest, for that day's meditation. Reading does not only feed and en- tertain the understanding, but when a man is dosed with one study, he relieves himself with another; but still reading and writing are to be taken up by turns. So long as the meat lies whole upon the stomach it is a burden to us, but upon the concoction, it passes into strength and blood. And so it fares with our studies, so long as they lie whole, they pass into the memory, without affecting the understanding; but, upon meditation, they become our own, and supply us seneca's morals. 4-35 Whereso v-r the <= '' ' «"«'» "O^d, so i« the mnvl. with strength and virtue : the bee, that wanders and sips from every flower, disposes what she has gathered into her cells. AGAINST ALL SORTS OF AFFECTATION IN DISCOURSE. There are many men, and some of great sense* s too, that lose both the profit and the reputation of good thoughts, by the uncouth manner of ex- pressing them. They love to talk in mystery, and take it for a mark of wisdom not to be under- stood. They are so fond of making themselves public, that they will rather be ridiculous, than not taken notice of. When the mind grows squeamish, and comes to a loathing of things that are common, as if they were sordid, that sickness betrays itself in our way of speaking too: for we must have new words, new competitions, and it passes for an ornament to borrow from other tongues, where we may be better furnished in our own. One man prizes himself upon being concise, and talking in parables ; another runs himself out in words, and that which he takes only for copious, renders him to others both ri- diculous and tedious. Others there are, that like the error well enough, but cannpt come u\> to it. Bat, take this for a rule — wheresoever the speech is corrupted, so is the mind. Some, / aire only for words antiquated, and long since out Op2 4<36 seneca's morals. S >me studies are matter of curiosity: of date; others only for that which is popular and coarse; and they are both in the wrong, for the one takes too little care, and the other too much. Some are for a rough broken style, as if it were a thing unmanly to please the ear ; others are too nice upon the matter of number, and make it rather singing than speaking. Some af- fect not to be understood until the end of the period, and hardly then either. It is not good, a style that is either too bold, or too florid; the one wants modesty, and the other effect. Some are too starched and formal; others take a pride in being rugged, and if they chance to let fall any thing that is smooth, they will transpose and mangle it on purpose, only to maim the period, and disappoint a body's expectation. These er- rors are commonly introduced by some person that is famous for his eloquence ; others follow him, and so it passes into a fashion. And we are as much out in the choice of the matter as in that of our words. There are some studies which are only matter of curiosity, and trials of skill; others of plea- sure, and of use : but still there are many things worth the knowing, perhaps, that were not worth the learning. It is a huge deal of time that is spent in cavilling about words and captious dis- putations, that work us up to an edge, and then nothing comes of it. There are some tricks of sevf.ca's morals, 437 ■n i'ty " i» . ub'ion. wit, like slight of band, which amount to no more than the tving of knots Only to loosen then? again; and it is the very fallacy that pleases us, for, so soon as ever we know how they are done, the satisfaction is at an end. He that does not understand these sophisms, is never the worse ; and he that does, is never the better. If a man tells me that I have horns, I can tell him again that I have none, without feeling on my forehead. Bion's dilemma makes all men to be sacrilegious, and yet at the same time maintains, that there is no such thing as sacrilege, " He that takes to himself,'' says he, " what belongs to God, com- mits sacrilege ; but all things belong to God, therefore, he that applies any thing to his own use, is sacrilegious/' On the other side, the verv rifling of a temple he makes to be no sacri- lege — " Fo r it is," says he, " but the taking of something out of one place that belongs to God, and removing it to another that belongs to him too." The fallacy lies in this, that though all things belong to him, all things are not yet dedi- cated to him. There is no greater enemy of truth, than overmuch subulty of speculation, Protagoras will have every thing disputable, and as much to be said for the one side, as for the other. Nav, he makes it another question— whether every thing be disputable or no ? There are others that make it a science, to prove, that 2 P3 43S senega's morals. Tutors often in faulf. man knows nothing: but the former is the more tolerable error ; for the one takes away the very- hope of knowledge ; and it is better to know that which is superfluous, than nothing at all. And yet it is a kind of intemperance to desire to know mere than enough ; for it makes men trouble- some, talkative, impertinent, conceited, &c There-: is a certain hankering after learning, which if it be not put into a right way, hinders, and falls foul upon itself. Wherefore the burden must^ be fitted to the shoulders, and no more than we are able to bear. It is, in a great measure, the fault of our tutors, that teach their disciples ra- ther how to dispute than how to live: and the learner himself is also to blame, for applying himseli to the improvement rather of his wit than of Ins mmd, by which means philosophy is now turned to philology. Put a gmmroarian to a Vngii, he never heeds the philosophy, but the verse : every man takes notes for his own study. In the same meadow the cow finds grass, the dog starts a hare, and the stork snaps a lizzard. Tol- ly's De Republica finds work both for the philo- sopher- the philologer, and the grammarian. The philosopher wonders how it was possible to speak so much against jurliee. The phiioioger makes this observation, that Home had two kings : the one without a father, and the other without a mother ; for it is a question, who was Servius's senf.ca's MO HALS. 439 Man 3 things to be Studied and learned. mother, and of Ancus's father there is not so much as any mention. The grammarian takes notice that reapse is used for reipsa, and sepse for seipse. And so even* man makes his notes for his own purpose. These fooleries apart, let us learn to do good to mankind, and to put our knowledge into action. Our danger is" the being mistaken in things, not in words; and in the con- founding of o;ood and evil. So that our whole life is but one continued error, and we live in de- pendency upon to-morrow. There are a world of things to be studied and learned, and there- fore we should discharge the mind of things un- necessary, to make way for greater matters. The business of the schools is rather a play than a study, and only to be done when we can do no- thing else. There are many people that frequent them only to hear, and not to learn; and they take notes too, not to reform their manners, but to pick up words, which they vent with as little benefit to others as they heard them to them- selves. It costs us a great deal of time, and ether men's ears a great deal of trouble, to pur- chase the character of a learned man ; wherefore J shall even content myself with the coarser title of an honest man. The worst of it is, that there is a vain and idle pleasure in it, which tempts us to squander away many a precious hour to very little purpose. We spend ourselves upon subtil- 440 &ENECA S MORALS. Wisdom delights in openness and simplicity. ties, winch may, perchance, make us to be thought learned, but not good. Wisdom delights in openness and simplicity ; in the forming of our lives rather than in the niceties of the schools, which, at best, do but bring us pleasure without profit. And, in short, the things which the phi- losophers impose upon us with so much pride and vanity, are little more than the same lessons over again, which they learned at school. But some authors have their names up, though their dis- courses be mean enough ; they dispute and wran- gle, but they do not edify, any farther than as they keep us from ill doing, or, perhaps, stop us in our speed to wickedness. And there ought to be a difference betwixt the applauses of the schools, and of the theatres; the one being moved with every popular conceit, which does not at all consist with the dignity of the other. Whereas th^re are some writings that stir up some generous resolutions, and ao, as it were, inspire a man with a new soul. They dsplay the bless- ings of a happy life, and possess me at the same time with admiration and with hope. They give me a veneration for the oracles of antiquit}', and a claim to them, as to a common inheritance ; for they are the treasure of mankind, and it must be my duty to improve the stock, and transmit it to posterity. And yet I do not love to hear a man cite Zeno, Cleauthes, Epicurus, without senega's morals. 441 Man's business is virtue, not words. something of his own too. "What do I care for the bare hearing of that which I may read ? Not but that word of mouth makes a great impression, especially when they are the speaker's own words : but he that only recites another man's words, is^ no more to me than a notary. Beside that, there is an end of invention, if we rest upon what is in- vented already ; and he that only follows another, is so far from finding out any thing new, that he does not so much as look for it. 1 do not pre- tend all this while to be the master of truth, but I am yet a most obstinate inquisitor after it. I am no man's slave, but as I ascribe much to great men, I challenge something to myself. Our forefathers have left us not only their invention, but matter also for farther enquiry, and perhaps • thev might have found out more things that are necessary, if they hud not bent their thoughts too much upon superfluities. Is not this a tine time for us to be fiddling and fooling about words? How many useful and ne- . cessary things are there, that we are first to learn, : and, secondly, to imprint in our minds r For it i is not enough to remember^ and to understand, • unless we do what -we know. 442 seneca's morals. We should look lo ourselves, not others. BUSINESS, AND WANT OF NEWS, ARE NO EXCUSE AMONG FRIENDS FOR NOT WRITING. Your last letter was very short, and the whole letter itself was little more than an excuse for the shortness of it. One while you are so full of business that you cannot write at all, and an- other while you have so little news that you do not know what to write. Now, assure yourself, that whosoever has a mind to write may find leisure for it : and for }'our other pretence, it looks as if we ourselves were the least part of our own business. Put the case, that the whole world were becalmed, and that there were neither wars, amours, factions, designs, disappointments, compe- titors, or law-suits ; no prodigals, usurers, or forni- cators in nature, there would be a large field yet left for the offices of friendship, and for the ex- ercise of philosophy and virtue. Let us rather consider what we ourselves ought to do y than hearken after the doings of other people. What signifies the story of our neighbour's errors, to the reforming of our own ? Is it not a more glo- rious and profitable employment, to write the history of Providence, than to record the usurpa- tion of ambitious princes ; and rather to celebrate the bounties of the Almighty, than the robberies senf.ca's morals. - 443 Abseni fri nd are by letieis brought togeth r. of Alexander? Nor is business any excuse for the neglect either of our studies, or of our friends. First, we continue our own business, and then we increase it ; and instead of lending, we do wholly give ourselves up to it, and hunt for co- lourable pretences of mis-spending our time. But I say, that wherever we are, or with whomsoever, or howsoever employed, we have our thoughts at liberty. You have here drawn a long letter from me, and if you find it tedious, you may thank yourself for calling upon me to be as good as my word. Not but that 1 write by inclination too. For if we love the pictures of our friends, by what hand soever they may be drawn, how much more then shall we joy in a friend's letter, which are un- doubtedly the most lively pictures of one an- other ? It is a shame, you will say, to stand in need of any remembrancers of an absent friend, and yet sometimes the place, a servant, a rela- tion, a house, a garment, may honestly excite the memory; and it renders every thing as fresh to us, as if we were still joined in our embraces, and drinking up one another's tears. It is by the benefit of letters, that absent friends are in a manner brought together; beside that, epistolary discourses are much more profitable than public and premeditated declamations. For they insi- nuate themselves into the affections with more 444 Seneca's morals. Of dufmus Sex. ins freedom and effect, though with less pomp and pre- tence. You do expect, perhaps, that I should tell you how gentle and short a winter we have had ; how cold and unseasonable a spring, or some other fooleries, to as little purpose. But, what are you and I the better for such discourses? We should rather be laying the foundations of a good mind ; and learning to distinguish betwixt the blessings of virtue and the amusements of imagi- nation. There came in some friends to me yes- terday, that made the chimney smoke a little more than ordinary, but not at a rate to make the neighbourhood cry out tire. We had a va- riety of discourse ; and passing from one thing to another, we came at last to read something of Quintus Sextius, (a great man, upon my credit, deny it that will); Good God! the force and vigour of that man's writings ! and how much are they above the common level of other philoso- phers ! 1 cannot read them, methinks, without challenging of fortune, and defying all the powers of ambition and violence. The more I consider him, the more I admire him, for 1 find in him (as in the world itself), every day to be a new spectacle, and to afford fresh matter still for more veneration. And yet the wisdom of our fore- fathers has left work enough for their posterity, even if there were no more in it than the applica- tion of what they have transmitted to us of their sbnsca's morals. 44 5 No man is so wise as to know all iliinsjs own invention. As, suppose, that they had left us remedies for such and such diseases, so cer- tain, that we should not need to look for any other medicines ; there would be some skill yet required in the applying of them in the proper case, proportion, and season. I have an honour for the memorials of our worthy progenitors. . If I meet a consul, or a praetor, upon the road, I will alight from my horse, uncover my head, and give him the way; and shall I have no venera- tion now for the names of the governors of man- kind ? No man is so wise as to know all things; or, if he did, one wise man may yet be helpful to another, in finding out a nearer way to the finishing of his work : for, let a man make ever so much haste, it is some sort of assistance, the bare encouraging of him to continue his course, beside the comforts and benefits of communica- tion in loving and being beloved, and in the mu- tual approbation of each other. The last point, you know, that you and I had in debate, was — whether or no wisdom may be perfected by precept. There are some, that ac- count only that part of philosophy to be profitable to mankind, which delivers itself in particular precepts to particular persons, without forming the whole man : teaching the husband (for the purpose) how to behave himself to his wife, the fatty* how to train up and discipline his children, 2Q 446 senega's morals. Preceptive philosophy. and the master how to govern his servants. As if any man could be sufficiently instructed in the parts of life, without comprehending the whole gum and scope of it. Others (as Aristo, the Stoic) are rather for the general decrees of philo- sophers; which whosoever knows in the main, that person understands, in every particular, how to tutor himself. As he that learns to cast a dart, when he has by practice and exercise gotten a true aim, he will not only strike this or that mark, but whatever he has a mind to: so he that is well informed in the whole, will need no direc- tion in the parts, but, under the principles of a good life, learn how to behave himself in all the circumstances of it. Cleanthes allows the Para> netic, or preceptive philosophy, to be in some sort proritable, but yet very short and defective, unless as it flows from the universal understand- ing of the heads and decrees of philosophy. Now the question is — whether this alone can make a good man, and whether it be superfluous itself, or so sufficient as to make all other knowledge appear so. They that will have it superfluous, argue thus: — If the eyes be covered, there is no seeing without removing the impediment, and in that condition it is to no purpose to bid a man go to such or such a place, or to reach this or that with his hand. And so it fares with the mind, so long as that continues clouded with ignorance seneca's morals. 447 VS'e should £ive iejs«.ns lor our advi:e. and error, it is idle to give particular precepts ; as if you should teach a poor man to act the part of a rich, or one that is hungry how to behave himself with a full stomach ; while the one is ne- cessitous, and the other half-starved, they are neither of them the better for it. And then, shall we give precepts in manifest cases, or in doubtful ? the former need none, and in the latter we shall not be believed. Nor is it enough sim- ply to advise, unless we also give reasons for it. There are two errors which we are liable to in this case, either the wickedness of perverse opi- nions, which have taken possession of us ; or at least a disposition to entertain error, under any resemblance of truth. So that our work must be, either to cure a sick mind, that is already tainted ; or to prepossess an evil inclination, be- fore it comes to an ill habit. Now, the decrees of philosophy enable us in both these cases : nor is it possible, by particulars, to obviate all particu- lar occasions. One man marries a widow, an- other a maid, she may be rich or poor, barren or fruitful, young or ancient, superior, -inferior, or equal. One man follows public business, an- other flies it ; so that the same advice that is profitable to the one, may be mischievous to the other. Everv one's is a particular case, and must be suited with a particular counsel. The laws of philosophy are brief, and extend to all; hut the 2q2 44S st.veca's morals. How far wisdom may be advanced by precept. variety of ihe other is incomprehensible, and caa never make that good to all, which it promises to a few. The precepts of wisdom lie open, but the degrees of it are hidden in the dark. Now, in answer, it does not hold with the mind as with the eye : if there be a suffusion, it is to be helped by remedy, and not by precept. The eye is not be taught to distinguish colours, but the mind must be informed what to do in life. And yet the physician will prescribe order also to the patient, as well as physic, and tell him — You must bring your eye to endure the light by de- grees; have a care of studying upon a full sto- mach, &c. We are told, that precepts do neither extinguish nor abate false opinions in us, of good or evil ; and it shall be granted, that of themselves they are not able to subdue vicious inclinations ; but this does not hinder them from being very useful to us, in conjunction with other helps. First, as they refresh the memory ; and, secondly, as they bring us to a more distant view of the parts, which we saw but confusedly in the whole. At the same rate, consolatories and ex- hortations will be found superfluous, as well as precepts ; which yet, upon daily experience, we know to be otherwise. Nay, we are the better, not only for the precepts, but for the converse of philosophers; for we still carry away somewhat of the tincture of virtue, whether we will or no : sen^eca's morals. 449 Advice depend- nvich upon opportunity. but the deepest impression they make is upon children. It is urged, that precepts are insuffi- cient without proof; but, I say, that the very authority of the adviser goes a great way in the credit of the advice ; as we depend upon the opi- nion of the lawyer, without demanding his rea- son for it. And again, whereas the variety of precepts is said to be infinite, I cannot allow it. For the greatest and most necessary affairs are not many; and for the application to time, places, and persons, the differences are so small, that a few general rules will serve the turn. Nay, let a man be ever so right in his opinion, he may be yet confirmed in it by admonition. There are many things that may assist a cure, though they do not perfect it; even madmen themselves may be kept in awe by menaces and correction. But it is a hard matter, I must confess, to give coun- sel at a distance. For advice depends much upon the opportunity; and that perhaps which was proper when it was desired, may come to be per- nicious before it be received. Some indeed may be prescribed, as some remedies, at any distance, and transmitted to posterity ; but for others, a man must be upon the place, and deliberate upon circumstances, and be not only present, but watch- ful, to strike in with the very nick of the occasion. 2 q3 450 seneca's morals. We are all wicked before we come 10 be good. SENECA GIVES AN ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. Your letters were old before they came to my hands, so that I made no enquiry of the messen- ger what you were a doing ; besides that, where- ever you are, I take it for granted, that I know your business, and that you are still upon the great work of perfecting yourself: a thing not to be done by chance, but by industry and labour. We are all of us wicked, before we come to be good. We are prepossessed, so that we must un- learn iniquity, and study virtue. The great dif- ficulty is to begin the enterprize: for a weak mind is afraid of new experiments. I have now given over troubling myself for fear of you, be- cause I have that security for your well-deirig, that never failed any man. The love of truth and of goodness is become habitual to you. It may so fall out, that fortune perhaps may do you an injury ; but there is no fear of your doing your- self one. Go on as you have begun, and com- pose your resolutions, not to an effeminate ease, but to a frame of virtuous quiet. It is a double kindness that vou call me to so strict an account if of my time, that nothing less than a diary of my life will satisfy you: for I take it as a mark, both of your good opinion and of your friendship ; the former, in believing that I do nothing which I SEVF.Ca's M0P.A1.S. 451 Ti;e errors it antiquity. care to conceal ; and the other, in assuring your- self that I will make you the confident of all my secrets. I will hereafter set a watch upon my- self, and do as you would have me ; and acquaint you, not only with the course and method, but with the very business of my life. This day I have had entire to myself, without any knocking at my door, or lifting up of the hanging ; but 1 have divided it betwixt my book and my bed, and been left at liberty to do my own business: for all the impertinents were either at the theatre, at bowls, or at the horse match. My bodv does not require much exercise, and I am beholden to mv age for it: a little makes me weary, and that, is the end also of that which is most robust. My dinner is a piece of dry bread, without a table, and without fouling my fingers. My sleeps are short, and in truth a little doubt- ful, betwixt slumbering and waking. One while I am reflecting upon the errors of antiquity, and then 1 apply myself to the correcting of my own. In my reading, with reverence to the ancients, some things I take, others I alter; and some again I reject, others 1 invent ; without enthrall- ing myself so to another's judgment, as not to preserve the freedom of my own. Sometimes of a sudden, in the middle of my meditations, my ears are struck with a shout of a thousand people together, from some spectacle or other; the 452 seneca's morals. Reflections noise does not at all discompose my thoughts ; it is no more to me than the dashing of waves, or the wind in a wood ; but possibly sometimes it may ,divert them. Good Lord (think I), if men would but exercise their brains as they do their bodies, and take as much pains for virtue as they do for pleasure ! For difficulties strengthen the mind, as well as labour does the body. You tell me, that you want my books more than nry counsels; which I take just as kindly as if you should have asked me for my picture. For I have the very same opinion of my wit, that I have of my beauty. You shall have both the one, and the other, with my very self into the bargain. in the examination of my own heart, I find some vices that lie open ; others more obscure, and out of sight; and some that take me only by fits. Which last I look upon as the most dan- gerous and troublesome, for they lie upon the catch, and keep a man upon a perpetual guard; being neither provided against them, as in a state of war; nor secure, as in any assurance of peace. To say the truth, we are all of us as cruel as am- bitious, and as luxurious as our fellows. But we want the fortune, or the occasion, perchance, to shew it. When the snake is frozen it is safe, but the poison is still in it, though it be numbed. W r e hate upstarts, that use their power with in- sxtjeca's morals. 453 o.i il-e errors of human life. solence ; when yet, if we had the same means, it is odds that we should do the same thing our- selves. Only our corruptions are private, for want of opportunity to employ them. Some things we look upon as superfluous, and others as not worth the while. But we never consider, that we pay dearest for that which we pretend to receive gratis: as anxiety, loss of credit, liberty, and time. So cheap is every man in effect, that pretends to be most dear to himself. Some are dipt in their lusts as in a river, there must be a hand to help them out: others are strangely careless of good counsel, and yet well enough disposed to follow example. Some again must be forced to their duties, because there is no good to be done upon them by persuasion. But, out of the whole race of mankind, how few are there that are able to help themselves ? Being thus conscious of our own frailty, we should do well to keep ourselves quiet, and not to trust weak minds with wine, beauty, or pleasure. We have much ado, you see, to keep our feet upon dry ground : what will become of us then, if we venture ourselves where it is slippery ? It is not to sa y_ this is a hard lesson, and we cannot go through with it. For we can, if we would en- deavour it; but we cannot, because we give it for granted that we cannot, without trying whe- ther we can or no. And what is the meaning of 454- senega's morals. The author's haiotei all this, but that we are pleased with our vice?, and willing to be mastered by them ? so that we had rather excuse, than cast them off. The true reason is, we will not ; but the pretence is, that we cannot. And we are not only under a neces- sity of error, but the very love of it. To give }'Ou now a brief of my own character, I am none of those that take delight in tumults, and in struggling with difficulties. I had rather be quiet, than in arms: for I account it my duty to bear up against ill fortune, but still without chusing it. I am no friend to contention, espe- cially to that of the bar; but I am very much a servant to all honest business, that may be done in a corner. And there is no retreat so unhappy as not to yield entertainment for a great mind ; by which a man may make himself profitable, both to his country and to his friends, by his wisdom, by his interest, and by his counsel. It is the part of a good patriot to prefer men of worth, to defend the innocent, to provide good laws, and to advise in war and in peace. But, is not he as good a patriot, that instructs youth in virtue, that furnishes the world with precepts of morality, and ke'eps human nature within the bounds of right reason ? Who is the greater man, he that pronounces a sentence upon the bench, or he that in his study reads us a lecture of justice, piety, patience, fortitude, the know- sexeca's morals. 453 Or'Catu. ledge of heaven, the contempt of death, and the blessing of a good conscience ? The soldier that guards the ammunition and the baggage, is as necessary as he that fights the battle. Was not Cato a greater example than either Ulysses or Hercules? they had the fame, you know, of being indefatigable, despisers of pleasure, and great conquerors, both of their enemies, and of their appetites. But Cato, I must confess, had no encounters with monsters, nor did he fall into those times of credulity, when people believed that the weight of the heavens rested upon one man's shoulders. But he grappled with ambition, and the unlimited desire of power ; which the whole world, divided under a triumvirate, was not able to satisfy. He opposed himself to the vices of a degenerate city, even when it was now sinking under its own weight. He stood single, and supported the falling commonwealth, until at last, as inseparable friends, they were crushed together: for neither would Cato survive the public liberty, nor did that liberty out-live Cato. To give you now a farther account of myself — I am naturally a friend to all the rules and me- thods of sobriety and moderation. I like the old-fashioned plate that was left me by my coun- try father : it is plain and heavy, and yet, for all this, there is a kind of dazzling, methinks, in the iJStentaUons of splendour and luxury. But it 4-56 seneca's morals. Ii is madness to set our hearts upon trifles. strikes the eye more than the mind ; and though it may shake a wise man, it cannot alter him. Yet it sends me home many times sadder, per- haps, than 1 went out, but yet, I r hope, not worse ; though not without some secret dissatis- faction at my own condition. Upon these thoughts I betake myself to my philosophy ; and then, me- thinks, I am not well, unless I put myself into some public employment: not for the honour, or the profit of it, but only to place myself in a station where I may be serviceable to my coun- try, and to my friends. But when I come, on the other side, to consider the uneasiness, the abuses, and the loss of time, that attend public affairs, I get me home again as fast as I can, and ta,ke up a resolution of spending the re- mainder of my days within the privacy of my own walls. How great a madness is it to set our hearts upon trifles, especially to the neglect of the most serious offices of our lives, and the most important end of our being ? I low miserable, as well as short, is their life, that compass with great labour, what they possess with greater; and hold with anxiety, what they acquire with trou- ble? But, we are governed in all things by opi- nion, and every thing is to us as we believe it. What is poverty, but a privative ; and not in- tended of what a man has, but of that which he has not ? The great subject of human calamities senega's morals. 43* Ej)icurus---Caligula. is money. Take all the rest together, as death, sickness, fear, desire, pain, labour, and those which proceed from money exceed them all. It is a wonderful folly, that of tumblers, rope- dancers, divers, what pains they take, and what hazards they run, for an inconsiderable gain ! and yet we have not patience for the thousandth part of that trouble, though it would put us into the possession of an everlasting quiet. Epicurus, for experiment sake, confined himself to a nar- rower allowance than that of the severest pri- sons to the most capital offenders, and found himself at ease too in a stricter diet, than a man in the worst condition needs to fear. This was to prevent fortune, and to frustrate the worst which she can do. We should never know any thing to be superfluous, but by the want of it. How many things do we provide, only because others have them, for fashion sake ? Caligula offered Demetrius five thousand crowns, who re- jected them with a smile, as who should say — It was so little, it did him no honour the refusing of it. Nothing less, says he, than the offer of his whole empire would have been a temptation to have tried the firmness of my virtue. By this contempt of riehes, is intended only the fearless possession of them. And the way to attain that, is to persuade ourselves that we may live happily without them. How many of those things, which 2 R 458 seneca's morals. The advantages of living retired. reason formerly told us were superfluous and mi- mical, do we now find to be so by experience ? But Ave are misled by the counterfeit of good on the one hand, and the suspicion of evil on the other. Not that riches are an efficient cause of mischief; but they are a precedent cause, byway of irritation and attraction. For they have so near a resemblance of good, that most people take them to be good. Nay, virtue itself is also a precedent cause of evil ; as many are envied for their wisdom, or for their justice. Which does not arise from the thing itself, but from the irreprovable power of virtue, that forces all men to admire and to love it. That is not good, that is more advantageous to us, but that which is only so. THE BLESSINGS OF A VIRTUOUS RETIRE- MENT. There is no opportunity escapes me, of en* quiring where you are, what you do, and what company you keep : and I am well enough pleased that I can hear nothing concerning you , for it shews that you live retired. Not but that 1 durst trust you with the wide world too, but, however, it is not easy, such a general conversa- tion: nor is it absolutely safe neither; for, though it should not corrupt you, it would yet hinder you. Now, wheresoever you are, know, that I am with you, and you are so to live, as if seneca's morals. 459 We should apply ourselves t<> wisdom. I both heard and saw you. Your letters are really blessings to me, and the sense of your im- provements relieves me, even under the consi- deration of my own decay. Remember, that as I am old, so are you mortal. Be true to yourself, and examine yourself, whether you be of the same mind to-day that you were yesterday ; for that is a sign of perfect wisdom. And yet give me leave to tell you, that though change of mind be a token of imperfection ; it is the business of my age to unwill one day, that which I willed another. And let me recommend it to your practice too, in many cases; for the abatement of our appetites, and of our errors, is the best entertainment of mankind. It is for young men to gather knowledge, and for old men to use it : and assure yourself, that no man gives a fairer account of his time, than he that makes it his daily study to make himself better. If you be in health, and think it worth the while to be- come the master of yourself, it is my desire, and my advice, that you apply yourself to wisdom with your whole heart: and judge of your im- provement, not by what you speak, or by what you write, but by the firmness of your mind, and the government of your passions. What extre- mities have some men endured in sieges, even for the ambition and interest of other people ! and, shall not a man venture the crossing of an 2a2 460 senega's moiials. Contemplation is the best entertainment <'f peace. intemperate lust, for the conquest of himself. You do very well to betake yourself to a private life, and better yet, in keeping of that privacy private. For, otherwise, your retreat would look like ostentation : the greatest actions of our lives are those that we do in a recess from business ; besides, that there are some governments and employments, that a man would not have any thing to do withal. And then it is. to be consi- dered, that public offices and commissions are commonly bought with our money; whereas the great blessing of leisure and privacy cost us no~ thing. Contemplation is undoubtedly the best entertainment of peace, and only a shorter cut to heaven itself : over and above that, business makes us troublesome to others and unquiet to ourselves ; for the end of one appetite, or design, is the beginning of another. To say nothing of the expense of time in vexatious attendances, and the danger of competitors. Such a man, per- haps, has more friends at court than I have, a larger train, a fairer estate, more profitable of- fices, and more illustrious titles. But, what do 1 care to be overcome by men, in some cases, so long as fortune is overcome by me in all ? These considerations should have been earlier, for it is too late, in the article of death, to project the happiness of life. And yet there is no age better adapted to virtue, than that which comes by seneca's morals. 46*1 How we come to the knowledge of virtue. many experiments and long sufferings to the knowledge of it; for our lusts are then weak, and our judgment strong, and wisdom is the ef- fect of time. Some are of opinion, that we come to the knowledge of virtue by chance, (which were an indignity). Others by observation, and compar- ing matters of tact one with another; the under- standing, by a kind of analogy, approving this > or that, for good and honest. These are two points, which others make wholly different; but the Stoics only divide them. Some will have every thing to be good that is beneficial to us; as money, wine, and so lower, to the meanest things we use. And they reckon that to be ho- nest, where there is a reasonable discharge of a common duty : as reverence to a parent, tender- ness to a friend, the exposing of ourselves for our country, and the regulating of our lives ac- cording to moderation and prudence. The Stoics reckon them to be two, but so as to make those two yet out of one. They will have nothing to be good but what is honest;, nor any thing to be honest but that which is good; so that, in some sort, they-are mixed and inseparable. There are some things that are neither good nor bad, as war, embassy, jurisdiction ; but these, in the laudable administration of them, do, of doubt- ful become good, which good is only a conse- if I 466' seneca's morals. There is no sporting with men in distress. come to be visited with pain, or sickness, I would endeavour to improve them to my advantage, by making a righteous judgment of them;, asl ought to do of all the appointments of Providence. So that as they are not good in themselves, neither are they evil, but matter of exercise for our vir- tues; of temperance on the one hand, and of re- signation on the other. OF IMPERTINENT STUDIES AND IMPERTI- NENT MEN. He that duly considers the business of life and death, will find that he has little time to spare from that study ; and yet how we trifle away our hours upon impertinent niceties and cavils! Will Plato's imaginary ideas make me an honest man ? There is neither certainty in them, nor substance. A mouse is a syllable, but a syllable does not eat cheese ; therefore a mouse does not eat cheese. Oh ! these childish follies ! is it for this that we spend our blood and our good humour, and grow grey in our closets? We are a jesting, when we should be helping the miserable ;, as well our- selves as others. There is no sporting with men in distress. The felicity of mankind depends upon the counsel of philosophers. Let us rather consider what nature has made superfluous, and what necessary ; how easy our conditions are, and how delicious that life > which is governed by seneca's morals. 4-67 Idle cu iosity. reason rather than opinion. There are imperti- nent studies, as well as impertinent men. Didy- mus, the grammarian, wrote 4(X)0 books, where- in he is much concerned to discover where Homer was born, who was iEneas's true mother, and whether Anacreon was the greater whoremaster or drunkard ; with other fopperies, that a man would labour to forget, if he knew them. Is it not an important question, which of the two was first, the mallet, or the tongues ? Some people are extremely inquisitive, to know how many oars Ulvsses had ; which was first written, the Iliads, or the Odyssies; or if they were both done by the same hand. A man is never a jot the more learned for this curiosity, but much the more troublesome. Am I ever the more just, the moie moderate, valiant, or liberal, for knowing that Curius Dentatus was the first that carried elephants in triumphs ? Teach me my duty to Providence, to my neighbour, and to myself; to dispute with Socrates, to doubt with Carneades, to set up my rest with Epicurus, to master my appetites with the Stoics, and to re- nounce the world with the Cynic. What a deal of business there is, first, to make Homer a phi- losopher ; and, secondly, in what elassis to range him ? One will have him to be a Stoic, a friend to virtue, and an enemy to pleasure, preferring honesty even to immortality itself; another 468 senega's morals* Various humours. makes him an Epicurean, one that loves his quiet, and to spend his time in good company ; some are positive in it, that he was a peripate- tic, and others that he was a sceptic. But it is clear, that in being all these things, he was not any one of them. These divided opinions do not at all hinder us from agreeing upon the main, that he was a wise man. Let us, therefore, apply our- selves to those things that made him so, and even let the rest alone. It was a pleasant humour of Calvicius Sabinus. a rich man, and one that managed a very good fortune with a very ill grace. He had neither wit nor memory, but would fain pass for a learn- ed man, and so took several into his family, and whatsoever they knew, he assumed to himself. There are a sort of people, that are never well, but at theatres, spectacles, and public places ; men of business, but it is only in their faces, for they wander up and down without any design; like pismires, eager and empty, a«d every thing they do is only as it happens. This is an humour which a man may call a kind of restless laziness. Others you shall have, that are perpetually in haste, as they were crying fire, or running for a midwife ; and all this hurry, perhaps, only to salute somebody, that has no mind to take notice of them, or some such trivial errand. ■ At night, when they come home tired and weary, ask them seneca's morals. 460 Philosophers the be^i companion-. why they went out ? where they have been ? and what they have done? it is a very slender ac- count they are able to give you ; and yet, the very next day they take the same jaunt over again : this is a kind of fantastical industry, a great deal of pains taken to no purpose at all. Twenty visits made and nobody at home (they themselves least of all); they that have this vice, are commonly hearkeners, talebearers, news- mongers, medlers in other people's affairs, and curious after secrets, which a man can neither safely hear, nor report. These men of idle em- ployment, that run up and down, eternally vex- ing others, and themselves too ; that thrust them- selves into all companies, what do they get by it? one man's asleep, another at supper, a third in company, a fourth in haste, a fifth gives them the slip ; and when their folly has gone the round, they close up the day with shame and repentance. Whereas Zeno, Pythagoras, Democritus, Aristo- tle, Theophrastus, and all the patrons of philo- sophy and virtue, they are always at leisure, and in good humour, familiar, profitable; a man never comes away empty-handed from them, but full of comfort and satisfaction; they make all past ages present to us, or us their contempora- ries. The doors of these men are open night and day, and in their conversation there is nei- ther danger, treachery, nor expense; but we are 2 s 470 seneca's morals. Singularity in dress and living, the wiser, the happier, and the richer for it. How blessedly does a man spend his time in this com- pany, where he may advise in all the difficul- ties of life? here is counsel without reproach, and praise without flattery. We cannot be the chusers of our own parents, but of our friends we may, and adopt ourselves into these noble families. This is the way of making mortality in a manner to be immortal ; the time past we make to be our own by remembrance, the present by use, and the future by Providence and foresight. That only may properly be said to be the long life, that draws all ages into one; and that a short one, that forgets the past, neglects the pre- sent, and is solicitous for the time to come. But it is not yet sufficient to know what Plato, or Zeno said, unless we make it all our own by ha- bit and practice, and improve both the world ana ourselves by an example of life answerable to their precepts. AGAINST SINGULARITY OF MANNERS, AND BEHAVIOUR. It is the humour of many people, to be singu- lar in their dress and manner of life, only to the end that they may be taken notice of. Their cloaths, forsooth, must be coarse and slovenly; their heads and beards neglected, their lodgings upon the ground, and they live in an open defi- seneca's morals. 4-71 An ambitious vanity. ance of money. What is all this, upon the whole matter, but an ambitious vanity, that has crept in at the back-door ? A wise man will keep him- self clear of all these fooleries, without disturb- ing public customs, or making himself a gazing- stock to the people. But, will this secure him, think you ? I can no more warrant it, than that a temperate man shall have his health ; but it is very probable that it may. A philosopher has enough to do to stand right in the world, let him be ever so modest ; and his outside shall be still like that of other people, let them be ever so unlike within. His garments shall be neither rich nor sordid. No matter for arms, mottoes, and other curiosities upon his plate ; but he shall not yet make it a matter of conscience to have no- plate at all. He that likes an earthen vessel as well as a silver, has not a greater mind than he that uses plate, and reckons it as dirt. It is our duty to live better than the common people, but not in opposition to them, as if philosophy werfr a faction; for by so doing, instead of reforming, and gaining upon them, we drive them away;, and when they find it unreasonable to imitate us. in all things, they will follow us in nothing. Our business must be to live according to nature, and to own the sense of outward things with other people : not to torment the body, and, with ex- clamations against that which is sweet and clean- 2 s 2 472 seneca's morals. A wise man should live as he discourses. ly, to delight in nastiness,, and to use, not only a coarse, but a sluttish and offensive diet. Wis- dom preaches temperance, not mortification ; and a man may be a very good husband, without being a sloven. He that steers a middle course, betwixt virtue and popularity; that is to say, betwixt good manners and discretion, shall gain both approbation and reverence. But, what if a man governs himself in his cloaths, in his diet, in his exercises, as he ought to do ? It is not that his garments, his meat, and drink, or his walking, are things simply good, but it is the tenor of a man's life, and the conformity of it to nature and right reason. Philosophy obliges us to humanity, society, and the ordinary use of external things. It is not a thing to pleasure the people with, or to entertain an idle hour, but a study for the forming of the mind, and the guidance of human life. And a wise man should also live as he discourses, and in all points be like himself; and, in the first place, set a value upon himself, before he can pretend to become valuable to others. As well our good deeds, as our evil, come home to us at last; he that i- charitable, makes others so by his example, and finds the comfort of that charity when he wants it himself. He that is cruel, seldom finds mercy. It is a hard matter for a man to be both popular and virtuous ; for he must be like the people tht-.t seneca's morals. 4-73 A fool is surprised at every thing would oblige them ; and the kindness of dishonest men is not to be acquired by honest means. He lives by reason, not by custom; he shuns the very conversation of the intemperate and ambi- tious. He knows the danger of great examples of wickedness, and that public errors impose upon the world, under the authority of prece- dents;, for they take for granted, that they are never out of the way, so long as they keep the road. We are beset with dangers, and therefore, a wise man should have his virtues in continual readiness to encounter them. Whether poverty,. loss of friends, pains, sickness, or the like, he still maintains his post: whereas a fool is sur- prised at every thing, and afraid of his very suc- cours; either he makes no resistance at all, or he does it by halves. He will neither take ad- vice from others, nor look to himself: he reckons upon philosophy as a thing not worth his time ;. and if he can but get the reputation of a good- man among the common people, he takes no fur- ther care, but accounts that he has done his duty. THE BLESSINGS OF A VIGOROUS MIND. When I call Claranus my school-fellow, I need- not say any thing more of his age, having told you that he and I were contemporaries, Yoi* 2 s 3 474 senega's morals. Pertinent relkciions would not imagine how green and vigorous his mind is, and the perpetual conflict that it has with his body. They were naturally ill-matched, unless to shew that a generous spirit may be lodged under any shape. He has surmounted all difficulties, and, from the contempt of him- self, is advanced to the contempt of all things else. When I consider him well, methinks his foody appears to me as fair as his mind. If na- ture could have brought the soul naked into the world, perhaps she would have done it ; but yet she does a greater thing, in exalting that soul above all impediments of the flesh. It is a great happiness, to preserve Cue force of the mind in the decay of the body ; and to see the loss of ap- petite more than requited with the love of virtue. But, whether I owe this comfort to my age, or to wisdom, is the question. And whether, if I could any longer, I would not still do the same things over again, which I ought not to do. If age had no other pleasure than this, that it neither cares for any thing, nor stands in need of any thing, it were a great one to me, to have left all my painful and troublesome lusts behind me. But, it is uneasy, you will say, to be al- ways in fear of death. As if that apprehension did not concern a young man as well as an old, or that death only called us according to our years. I am, however, beholden to my old age 5 seneca's m orals. 475 Upon old age. that has now confined me to my bed, and put me out of condition of doing those things any longer which I should not do. The less my mind has to do with my body, the better. And if age puts an end to my desires, and does the business of virtue, there can be no cause of complaint ; nor can there be any gentler end, than to melt away in a kind of dissolution. Where fire meets with opposition, and matter to work upon, it is furious, and rages ; but where it finds no fuel, as in old age, it goes out quietly, for want of nourishment. Nor is the body the settled habitation of the mind, but a temporary lodging, which we are to leave whensoever the master of the house pleases. Neither does the soul, when it has left the body, any more care what becomes of the carcase, and the several parts of it, than a man does for the shavings of his beard under the hand of the bar- ber. There is not any thing exposes a man to more vexation and reproach, than the overmuch love of the body : for sense neither looks forward nor backward, but only upon the present ; nor does it judge of good or evil, or foresee conse- quences which give a connection to the order and series of things, and to the unity of life. Not but that every man has naturally a love for his own carcase, as poor people love even their ow» beggarly cottages; they are old acquaintances, and loth to part: and I am not a swnst the in- 47$ seneca's morals. Our hopes, avarice, and ambition, are boundless. dulging of it either, provided that I make not myself a slave to it ; for he that serves it has many masters. Beside that, we are in continual disorder, one while with gripes, pains in the head, tooth-ach, gout, stone, defluxions; sometimes \vitli too much blood, other while with too little; and yet this frail and putrid carcase of ours, va- lues itself as if it were immortal. We put no bounds to our hopes, our avarice, our ambition. The same man is Vatinius to-day, and Cato to- morrow ; this hour as luxurious as Apicius, and the next as temperate as Tubero ; now for a mis- tress, by and by for a wife ; imperious this hour, servile the next; thrifty and prodigal, laborious and voluptuous, by turns. But still the goods, or the ills of the body, do but concern the body, (which is peevish, sour, and anxious,) without any effect upon a well-composed mind. 1 was the other day at my villa, and complaining of my charge of repairs. My bailiff told me — " It was none of his fault, for the house was old, and he had much ado to keep it from falling upon his head." Well, thought 1, and what am I myself then, that saw the laying of the first stone ? In the gardens 1 found the trees as much out of order, the boughs knotted and withered, and their bodies over- run with moss. " This would not have been," said I, " if you had trenched them, and watered them, as you should have seneca's morals. 477 Time ?oes filter whh the olrl than youn^. done." — " By my soul, master," says the poor fellow, " I have done what I could, but, alas ! they are all dotards, and spent." What am I then (thought I to myself), that planted all these trees with my own hands ? And then I come to bethink myself that age is not yet without its pleasures, if we did but know how to use them, and that the best morsel is reserved for the last ; or, at worst, it is equivalent to the enjoying of pleasures, not to stand in need of any. It is but yesterday, methinks, that I went to school. But time goes faster with an old man than with a young ; perhaps because he reckons more upon it. There is hardly any man so old, but he may hope for one day more yet ; and the longest life is but a multiplication of days, nay, of hours, nay, of moments. Our fate is set, and the first breath we draw is but the first step toward our last. One cause depends upon another ; and the course of all things, public and private, is only a long connection of providential appointments. There is 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 that he can call his own. What must be, shall be; and that " which is a necessity to him that struggles, is little more than choice to him that is willing. Jt is 478 sineca's morals. Of habits. bitter to be forced to any thing ; but things are easy, when they are complied with. CUSTOM IS A GREAT MATTER, EITHER IN GOOD, OR EVIL. There is nothing so hard, but custom makes it easy to us. There are some that never laughed, others that wholly abstain from wine and women, and almost from sleep. Much use of a coach makes us lose the benefit of our legs; so that we must be infirm to be in the fashion, and at last lose the very faculty of walking by disusing it. Some are so plunged in pleasures, that they can- not live without them : and in this they are most miserable; that what was, at first, but super- fluous, is now become necessary. But their in- felicity seems to be then consummate, and in- curable, when sensuality has laid hold of the judgment, and wickedness is become a habit. Nay, some there are, that both hate and perse- cute virtue ; and that is the last act of despera- tion. It is much easier to check our passions in the beginning, than to stop them in their course ; for if reason could not hinder us at first, they will go on in despite of us. The Stoics will not allow a wise man to have any passions at all. The Peripatetics temper them, but that mediocrity is altogether false and unprofitable. And it is ail seneca's morals. \79 We should check our passions betimes. one, as if they said, that we may be a little mad, or a little sick. If we give any sort of allowance to sorrow, fear, desires, perturbations, it will not be in our power to lestrain them. They are fed from abroad, and will increase with their causes. And if we yield ever so little to them, the least disorder works upon the whole body. It is not my purpose, all this while, wholly to take away any thing that is either necessary, be- neficial, or delightful, to human life, but to take that away which may be vicious in it. When I forbid you to desire any thing, 1 am yet content that you may be willing to have it. So that I permit you the same things ; and those very plea- sures will have a better relish too, when they are enjoyed with anxiety, and when you come to command those appetites which before you serv- ed. It is natural, you will say, to weep for the loss of a friend ; to be moved at the sense of a good or ill report, and to be sad in adversity. All this I will grant you ; and there is no vice, but something may be said for it. At first, it is tractable and modest, but, if we give it entrance, we shall hardly get it out again ; as it goes on, it gathers strength, and becomes quickly ungo- vernable. It cannot be denied, but that all af- fections flow from a kind of natural principle, and that it is our duty to take care of ourselves; but it is then our duty also, not to be over in- 4S0 seneca's morals. Involuntary motions are invincible. dulgent. Nature has mingled pleasures even with things most necessary ; not that we should value them for their own sakes, but to make those things which we cannot live without to be more acceptable to us. If we esteem the pleasure for itself, it turns to luxury ; it is not the business of nature to raise hunger or thirst, but to extinguish them. As there are some natural frailties, that by care and industry may be overcome, so there are others that are invincible : as for a man that va- lues not his own blood, to swoon at the siaht of another man's. Involuntary motions are insu- perable and inevitable, as the starting of the hair at ill news, blushing at a scurrilous discourse, swimming of the head upon the sight of a preci- pice, &c. Who can read the story of Clodius's expelling Cicero, and Anthony's killing of him, the cruelties of Marius, and the proscriptions of Sylla, without being moved at it ? The sound of a trumpet, the picture of any thing that is horrid, the spectacle of an execution, strikes the mind, and works upon the imagination. Some people are strangely subject to sweat, to tremble, to stammer, their very teeth will chatter in their heads, and their lips quiver, and especially in public assemblies. These are natural infirmities, and it is not all the resolution in the world that can ever master them. Some redden when they 1 SENECa's moral?. 481 The course of nature is smooth and easy. angfy; S)lla was one of those, and when the blood flushed into his face, you might be sure he had malice in his heart. Pompey, on the other side, (that hardly ever spake in public without a blush) had a wonderful sweetness of nature, and it did exceedingly well with him. Your come- dians will represent fear, sadness, anger, and the like, but when they come to a bashful mo- desty, though they will give you humbleness of looks, softness of speech, and downcast eyes, to the very life, yet they can never come to express a blush; for it is a thing neither to be command- ed, nor hindered ; but it comes and goes of its own accord. The course of nature is smooth and easy, but when we come to cross it, we strive against the stream. It is not for one man to act another's part ; for nature will quickly return, and take off the mask. There is a kind of sacred instinct that moves us. Even the worst have a sense of virtue. We are not so much ignorant as careless. Whence comes it, that grazing beasts distinguish salutary plants from deadly? A chicken is afraid of a kite, and not of a goose, or peacock, which is much bigger : a bird of a cat, and not of a dog. This is impulse, and not ex- periment. The cells of bees, and the webs of spiders, are not to be imitated by art, but it is nature that teaches them. The stage-player has his actions and gestures in readiness, but this is 2 T 4S'2 SENECA S MORALS. We are altogether in riaikness. only an improvement by art, of what nature teaches them ; who is never at a loss for the use of herself. We come into the world with this knowledge, and we have it by a natural institu- tion, which is no other than a natural logic. We brought the seeds of wisdom itself. There is the goodness of God and that of man ; the one is im- mortal, the other mortal ; nature perfects the one, and study the other. WE ARE DIVIDED IN OURSELVES, AND CON- FOUND GOOD AND EVIL. It is no wonder that men are generally very much unsatisfied with the world, when there is not one man of a thousand that agrees with him- self, and that is the root of our misery ; only we are willing to charge our own vices upon the malignity of fortune. Either we are puffed up with pride, racked with desires, dissolved in plea- sures, or blasted with cares ; and which perfects ourunhappiness, we are never alone, but in per- petual conflict and controversy with our lusts. We are startled at all accidents. We boggle at our own shadows, and fright one another. Lu- cretius says, that we are as much afraid in the light, as children in the dark ; but I say, that we are altogether in darkness, without any light at all, and we run on blindfold, without so much as groping out our way j which rashness in the seneca's morals. 483 Let every man examine his desires. dark, is the worst sort of madness. He that is La his way, is in hope of c ruing to his journey's end, but error is endless. Let every man, there- fore, examine his desires, whether they be ac- cording to rectified nature or not. That man's mind can never be rik.ht, whose actions disagree. We must not live by chance, for there can be no virtue without deliberation and election. And, where we cannot be certain, let us follow that which is most hopeful and probable. Faith, jus- tice, piety, fortitude, prudence, are venerable, and the possessions only of good men ; but a plentiful estate, a brawny arm, and a firm body, are many times the portion of the wicked. The perfection of human nature is that state which supports itself, and so is out of the fear of falling. It is a great weakness for a man tc value himself upon any thing wherein he shall be outdone by fools and beasts. We are to consider health, strength, beauty, and other advantages of that kind, as only adventitious comforts : we may pre- serve them with care, provided that we be al- ways ready to quiet them without trouble. There is a pleasure in wickedness, as well as in virtue, and there are those that take a glory in it too ; wherefore our forefathers prescribed us the best life, and not the most plentiful; and allowed us pleasure for a companion, but not for a guide. We do many times take the instruments of happi- 2 t 2 484- Seneca's morals. There are nut many that know their own minds. ness for the happiness itself, and rest upon those matters that are but in the way to it. That man only lives composed, who thinks of every thing that may happen before he feels it. But this is not yet to advise either neglect or indifference, for I would avoid any thing that may hurt me, where I may honourably do it. But vet I would consider the worst of things before hand. Exa- mine the hope and the tear, and, where things are uncertain, favour yourself, and believe that which you had rather should come to pass. There are not many men that know their own minds, but in the very instant of willing any thing. We are for one thing to-day, another to-morrow, so that we live and die without coming to any reso- lution : still seeking that elsewhere which we may give ourselves ; that is to say, a good mind. And, in truth, we do persuade ourselves that, in several cases, we do desire the thing, which effectually we do not desire. And all this for want of laying down some certain principles, to make judgment inflexible and steady. When we do any evil, it is either for fear of greater evil, or in hope of such a good as may more than balance that evil. So that we are here distracted betwixt the duty of finishing our purpose, and the fear of mischief and danger. This infirmity must be dis- charged. In the pursuit of pleasures, we should take notice, that there are not only sensual, but seneca's morals. 485 Glorv is v;iin and volatile. sad pleasures also, which transport the mind with adoration (though they do not tickle the senses), sive us a veneration for those virtues that exer- cise themselves in sweat and blood. All true goods hold an affinity and friendship one with another, and they are equal ; but false ones have in them much of vanity, they are large and spe- cious to the eye, but upon examination they want weight. Now, though virtues are all alike, they mav yet be distinguished into desirable and ad- mirable; virtues of patience, and of delight: but, in the matter of common accidents, there is not any thing which is truly worthy, either of our joy, or of our fear. For reason is immova- ble, does not serve, but command our senses. What is pleasure, but a low and brutish thing ? glory is vain and volatile ; poverty only hard to him that does not resist it; superstition is a frantic error, that fears where it should love, and rudely invades where it should reverentially worship. Death itself is no evil at all, but the common benefit and right of nature. There is a great difference betwixt those things which are good in common opinion, and those which are so in truth and effect : the former have the name of good things, but not the propriety ; they may befal us, but they do not stick to us ; and they may be taken away without either pain to us, or diminution. We may use them, but not trust in 2x3 4s6> senega's morals. Pleasures, at bes', arc l>ut short-lived. them; for they are only deposited, and they must, and will forsake us. The only treasure is that which fortune has no power over, and the greater it is, the less envy it carries along with it. Let our vices die before us, and let us dis- charge ourselves of our dear-bought pleasures, that hurt us, as well past, as to come, for they are followed with repentance, as well as our sins. There is neither substance in them, nor truth, for a man can never be weary of truth, but there is a satiety in error. The former is always the same, but the latter is various; and if a man looks near it, he may see through it. Beside that, the possessions of a wise man are maintain- ed with ease. He has no need of ambassadors, armies, and castles, but, like God himself, he does his business without either noise or tumult. Nay, there is something so venerable and sacred in virtue, that if we do but meet with any thing like it, the very counterfeit pleases us. By the help of philosophy the soul gives the slip to the body, and refreshes itself in heaven. Pleasures, at best, are but short-lived, but the delights of virtue are secure and perpetual. Only v. e must watch, labour, and attend it ourselves. For it is a business not to be done by a deputy 7 . Nor is it properly a \irtue, to be a little better than the worst. Will any man boast of- his eyes because they tell him that the sun shine? ? Neither is he. sexeca's MORALS. 487 The lewdest p-trt of our corruptions i> in private. presently a good man, that thinks ill of the bad. For wicked men do that too; and it is, perhaps, the greatest punishment of sin, the displeasure that it gives to the author of it. The saddest case of all is, when we become enamoured of our ruin, and make wickedness our study; when vice has got a reputation, and when the dissolute have lost the only good thing they had in their ex- cesses, the shame of offending. And yet, the lewdest part of our corruptions is in private, which, if any body had looked on, we should never have committed. Wherefore, let us bear in our minds the idea of some great person, for whom we have an awful respect, and his authority will even consecrate the very secret of our souls, and make us not only mend our manners, and purify our very thoughts, but in good time render us exemplary to others, and venerable to ourselves. If Scipio, or La?lius, were but in our eye, we should not dare to transgress. Why do we not make ourselves then such persons, as in whose presence we dare not offend. WE ARE MOVED AT THE NOVELTY OF THINGS FOR WANT OF UNDERSTAND- ING THE REASON OF THEM. The whole subject of natural philosophy falls nder these three heads, the heavens, the air, a&d the earth. The first treats of the nature of 488 sexeca's morals. Novelty excites curiosity. the stars, their form and magnitude; the sub- stance of the heavens, whether solid or not, and whether they move of themselves, or be moved by any thing else ; whether the stars be below them, or fixed in their orbs; in what manner the sun divides the seasons of the year, and the like. The second part enquires into the reason of things betwixt the heavens and the earth, as clouds, rain, snow, thunder, and whatsoever the air either does or suffers. The third handles matters that have a regard to the earth, as the difference of soils, minerals, metals, plants, groves, &c. But these are considerations wholly foreign to our purpose, in the nature of them, though they may be of very proper and pertinent application. There is not any man so brutal, and so groveling upon the earth, but his soul is roused, and carried up to higher matters and thoughts, upon the appearance of any new light from heaven. What can be more worthy of ad- miration than the sun and the stars, in their courses and glory ? and yet,, so long as nature goes on in her ordinary way, there is nobody takes notice of them ; but when any thing falls out beyond expectation and custom, what a gazing, pointing, and questioning, is there pre- sently about it ! the people gather together, and are at their wits end ; not so much at the import- ance of the matter, as at the novelty. Every sf.xf.oa's morals. 48fl Truth is ollcred to all. meteor sets people agog, to know the meaning of it, and what it portends, and whether it be a Star, or a prodigy; so that it is worth the while to enquire into the nature and philosophy or these lights (though not the business of this place), that by discovering the reason, we may overcome the apprehension of them. There are many things which we know to be, and yet we know nothing at all of what they are. Is it not the mind that moves us, and restrains us ? but what that ruling power is, we do no more understand, than we know where it is. One will have it to be a spi- rit, another will have it to be a divine power, some only a subtile air, others an incorporeal being, and some again will have it to be only blood and heat. Nay, so far is the mind from a perfect understanding of other things, that it is still in search of itself. It is not long since we came to find out the causes of eclipses, and far- ther experience will bring more things to light, which are as yet in the dark; but one age is not sufficient for so many discoveries. It must be the work of successions, and posterity ; and the time will come, when we shall wonder that mankind should be so long ignorant of things, that lay so open and so easy to be made known. Truth is offered to all, but we must yet content ourselves with what is already found, and leave some truths to be retrieved by after-ages. The exact trixtH 490 SENECA'Sr morals. We should, tin,'., learn things necessary. of things is only known to God; but it is yet lawful for us to enquire, and to conjecture, though not with too much confidence, nor yet altogether without hope. In the first place, however, let us learn things necessary, and, if we have any time to spare, we may apply it to superfluities. Why do we trouble ourselves about things which possibly may happen, and peradventure not ? Let us rather provide against those dan- gers that watch us, and lie in wait for us.- To suffer shipwreck, or to be crushed with the ruin * of a house, these are great misfortunes, but they seldom happen. The deadly, and the hourly danger that threatens human life, is from one man to another. O her calamities do commonly give us some warning: the smoke gives notice of a fire, the clouds bid us provide for a storm, but human malice has no prognostic; and the nearer it is, the fairer it looks. There is no trust to the countenance, we carry the shapes of men, and the hearts of beasts. Nay, we are worse than beasts; for a beast has no reason at all; but the other is perverted, and turns his reason to mischief. Beside that, all the hurt which they do is out of fear, or hunger ; but man takes de- light in destroying his own kind. From the dan- OCT we are in from men, we may consider pur duty to them, and take care that we neither do». nor suffer wrong. It is but human, to be trou- senega's morals. 491 Calumny inure grievous in aame'. bled at the misfortunes of another, and to rejoice at his prosperity. And it is likewise prudent to bethink ourselves what we are to do, and what we are to avoid ; by which means we may keep ourselves from being either harmed, or deceived. The things that most provoke one man to do hurt to another, are hope, envy, hatred, fear, and contempt; but contempt is the slightest. Nay, many men have betaken themselves to it for their security. There is no doubt, but he that is con- temned shall be trod upon; but then his enemy passes over him as not worth his anger. EVERY MAX IS THE ARTIFICER OF HIS OWN FORTUNE. — OF JUSTICE AND INJUSTICE. The short of the question, betwixt you and me, is this — Whether a man had better part with himself, or something else that belongs to him ? And it is easily resolved in all competitions be- twixt the goods of sense and fortune, and those of honour and conscience. Those things which all men covet, are but specious outsides, and there is nothing in them of substantial satis- faction. Nor is there any thing so hard and ter- rible in the contrary, as the vulgar imagine; only the word calamity has an ill reputation in the world, and the very name is more grievous than the thing itself. What have 1 to complain of, if I can turn that to happiness, which others count 4 492 seneca's morals. Every man lizs his weak side. a misery ? A wise man either repels, or elects, as he sees the matter before him, without fearing the ill which he rejects, or admiring what he chuses. He is never surprised, but in the midst of plenty he prepares for poverty ; as a prudent prince does for war, in the depth of peace. Our condition is good enough, if we make the best of it ; and our felicity is in our own power. Things that are adventitious, have no effect upon him that studies to make sure of his happiness within himself. Every man should stand upon his guard against fortune, and take most heed to himself when she speaks him fairest. All the advantage she gets upon us is at unawares ; whereas he that is provided for her, and stands the first shock, carries the day. It is not with common accidents of life, as with fire and sword, that burn and cut all alike ; but misfortunes work more or less, according to the weakness or resolution of the patient. He that grieves for the loss of casual comforts, shall never want occasion of sorrow. We say, commonly — that every man has his weak side : but give me leave to tell you, that he that masters one vice, may master all the rest. He that subdues avarice, may conquer ambition. It is not for philosophy to excuse vices. The pati- ent has little hope of health, when the physician prescribes intemperance : though I know, on the other side, that he that does any thing above th* sen'eca's morals. 4<}3 In all promises there T5 a tacit reserve. ordinary, does but set himself up for a mark to malevolence and envy. Where laws are neglect- ed, corruptions must inevitably be introduced : for the authority of virtue is shaken. And what are laws, but only precepts mingled with threats? With this difference, that the former deter us from wickedness, and the latter advise us to vir- tue. A preamble, methinks, derogates from the honour of a law, which ought to be short and clear; and to command, without suffering any expostulation. It is a flat, and an idle thing, a law with a prologue. Let me only be told my duty, and I am not to dispute, but to obey. If I have not acquitted myself of my last pro- mise to you, know, that in all promises there is a tacit reserve — if I can, if I ought, or if things continue in the same state : so that by the change of circumstances I am discharged of my obliga- tion. 1 know very well the bonds of justice, and yet the practices of the world to the contrary. There are no greater exacters cf faith than the perfidious; no greater persecutors of falsehood, than the perjurious. He that loves his neigh- bour's wife, and for that very reason, because she is another man's, locks up Lis own. The wickedness of other men we have always in our J eye, but we cast our own over our shoulders. A worse father chastises a better son : he that denies nothing to his own luxury, will pardon 2 u 4.$4 seneca*s morals. Justice is a natural principle. nothing in another man's. A tyrant is offended at bloodshed, the sacrilegious punishes theft, and the greater part of the world quarrels rather with the offender, than with the offence. It is very rare, that either the joy or the benefit of an es- tate, injuriously gotten, continues long. Men go together by the ears about the booty, and we pay dear for things of little value. We live and die, lugging one another, breaking one another's rest, and our lives are without fruit, and without pleasure. Justice is a natural principle. I must live thus with my friend, thus with my fellow- citizen, thus with my companion ; and why ? be- cause it is just, not for design or reward; for it is virtue itself, and nothing else, that pleases us. There is no law extant for keeping the secrets of a friend, or for not breaking faith with an enemy. And yet there is just cause of complaint, if a body betrays a trust. If a wicked man call upon me for money that I owe him, I will make no scruple of pouring it into the lap of a common prostitute, if she be appointed to receive it. For my business is to return the money, not to order him how he shall dispose of it. I must pay it to a good man when it is expedient, and to a bad when he calls for it. Seneca's morals. 405 Some mo communicative, and some too reserved. — -r OF TRUST III FRIENDSHIP, PRAYER, AND BODILY EXERCISE. Til ere are some people, that if any thing goes cross with them, though of a quality only fit for the ear of a friend, out it goes at a venture to the next comer : others again are so suspicious, and so obstinately close, that they will rather perish than trust the best friend they have with it : they are, both of them, in the wrong; only the one is the better-natured error, and the other the safer. Now, as to the trust of a friend, there are many innocent things which in their own na- ture may seem to be privacies, and which custom has ever reputed so ; in which cases, there is place enough for the offices of friendship, in the mutual communication of our most secret cares and counsels. But yet, we are so to govern our- selves, that even an enemy should not turn our actions to reproach. For an honest man lives not to the world, but to his own conscience. There is a certain softness of nature and spirit that steals upon a man, and, like wine, or love, draws all things from him. No man will either conceal, or tell, all that he hears. But he that tells the thing, will hardly conceal the author : so that it passes from one to another, and that? 2 u 2 4p(> seneca's morals. H.unianiiy makes us affable and gemle. which was at first a secret, does presently become a rumour. For this, and for many other rea- sons, we should set a watch upon our lips, and attend the more useful and necessary work of contemplation. The first petition that we are to make to God Almighty, is for a good conscience; the second, for health of mind, and then of body. There are somethings which we directly wish, for, as joy, peace, and the like; some that we pray for only in case of necessity, as patience in pain, or sickness, &c. Others that concern our exter- nal behaviour, as modesty of countenance, de- cency of motion, and such a demeanor as may become a prudent man. Many things may be commodious; that is to say, they may be of more use than trouble, and yet not simply good. Some things we have for exercise, others for in- struction and delight. These things belong to us only as we are men, but not as we are good men. Some things serve to correct and regulate our manners, others to enquire into the nature and original of them. How shall we know what a. man is to do, if we do not search into his na- ture, and find out what is best for him, and what he is to avoid, and what to pursue ? Humanity not only keeps us from being proud and covetous, but it makes us affable and gentle, in our words, actions, and affections. We have no precepts from the liberal arts, neither for this, nor for. sexeca's morals. 4pr Make 1'jste to be perfect. sincerity, integrity of manners, modesty, fru- gality, no nor for clemency itself, which makes us as tender of another's blood as of our own, and distinguishes men in society from beasts of prey. Some people are ever complaining of the iniquity of the times: but let no man depend upon the goodness of his cause, but rather upon the firmness of his courage ; there may be force, or bribery ; T would hope the best, but prepare for the worst. What if I have served an ungrate- ful interest, and suffered wrongfully ? An honest man is more troubled for the injustice of a severe sentence, than for the cruelty of it; and that his country has done an ill thing, rather than that lie himself suffers it. If he be banished, the shame is not his, but the authors of it. He tem- pers his delights and his afflictions, and says to himself — that if our joys cannot be long, neither will our sorrows. lie is patient in his own mis- fortunes, without envy at the advantages of his neighbour. His virtue is bolder in the opposi- tion of ill things, than tyranny itself can be in the imposing of them. This is rather to tell you what you do already, than what you should do. Go on, as you have begun, and make haste to be perfect : but take notice, that the mind is to be now and then unbent; a glass of wine, a jour- ney, a mouthful of fresh air, relieves it; but then there is a difference betwixt a remission and 2 v 3 4-gs seneca's morals. We set bounds to others, and none to ourselves. a dissolution. Without exercise a dull humour invades us, and it is remarkable, that men of brawny arms, and broad shoulders, have com- monly weak souls. Some exercises are short and gentle, and set the body right presently. But, whatever we do, let "us return quickly to the mind, for that must not lie idle. A little labour serves it, and it works in all seasons ; in sum- mer, winter, old age, nothing hinders it. And, to make it more valuable, it is every day better than other. Not that I would have you perpe- tually poring upon a book either, but allow yourself seasonable respites, and to it again. A coach, or a walk, does your body good, without interrupting your stud}- ; for you may discourse, dictate, read, hear, at the same time. Now, though the exercise be laudable and healthful, vet the masters of them are, for the most part, of lewd example. They divide their lives betwixt the tavern and the hot- house ; and a swimming debauch is a good day's work with them. But, how apt are we to set bounds to others, and none to ourselves ; and to observe their warts, when our own bodies are covered with ulcers! What is more ordinary, than for people to reverence and detest the fortunate, at the same time, even for doing those things which they themselves would do. if they could ? There might be some hope of amendment, if we would but confess our seneca's motials. 4Q<) Knavery the ready way to riches. faults; as a man must be awake that tells his dream. There are some diseases which are ab- solutely hopeless and past cure, but they may yet be palliated; and philosophy, if it cannot help in one case, it may in another. To a man in a fever, a gentle remission is a degree of health ; and it is something, if a man be not per- fectly sound, to be yet more curable. But we are loth to be at the pains of attending our own business ; we lead the life in the world, that some lazy people do m a market, they stand gaping about them, without either buying or selling. We slip our opportunities ; and if they be not catched in the very nick, they are irrecoverably lost. THE DANGER OF FLATTERY, AND IN WHAT CASES A MAN MAY BE ALLOWED TO COMMEND HIMSELF. Demetrius was wont to say — that knavery was the ready way to riches, and that the casting off of virtue was the first step to thriving in the world. Stud) but the art of flattery, (which is now a-days so acceptable, that a moderate commendation, passes for a libel,) study that art, I say, and you shall do your business without running any risk upon the seas, or any hazards of merchandizing, husbandry, or suits at law. There is not one man of a million that is proof against an artificial a 500 senega's morals. Of parasites and crafly flatterers-; flatterer; but something or other will stick, if \*e do but give him the hearing. Nay, we like him well enough, though we shake him off, and the quarrel is easily reconciled. We seem to oppose him, but we do not shut the door against him, or, if we do, it is but as a mistress will do some- time upon her servant — she would be well enough, content to be hindered, and take it much better yet to have it broke open. Beside that r a man lies commonly most open where he is attacked : how shameiully are great men fawned upon by slaves, and inured to fulsome praises ? when the only business of those, that call themselves friends, is to try who can most dexterously de- ceive his master. For want of knowing their own strength, they believe themselves as great as their parasites represent them, and venture upon broils and wars, to their irreparable destruction. They break alliances, and transport themselves into passions, which, for want of better counsels, hurry them on to blood and confusion. They pursue every wild imagination as a certainty, and think it a greater disgiace to be bent, than to be broken. They set up their rest upon the perpe- tuity of a tottering fortune, until they come at last to see the ruin of themselves and their pos- sessions, and too late to understand that their misfortunes and their flatteries were of the same date. There is a sparing and a crafty flattery,. seneca's morals. 501 Their words 3re deceiiful. that looks like plain-dealing. But all flatteries are words of course, and he that receives them will give them. Nay, let it be ever so shameless, a man takes all to himself, though his very con- science gives him the lye. Cruelty shall be trans- lated mercy ; extortion and oppression shall be called liberality ; lust and gluttony, to the high- est degree in the world, shall be magnified for temperance. Now, what hope is there of his changing for the better, that values himself for the best of men already ? The stroke of an ar- row convinced Alexander that he was not the son of Jupiter, but a mortal man. And thus, upon the experiment of human frailty, should every man say to himself — am not I sad some- times, and tortured betwixt hope and fear? do I not hanker after vain pleasures ? He that is not yet satisfied, is not so good as he should be. The words of flatterers and parasites seldom die in the hearing, and when they have gained admittance, they grow more and more upon you, and shortly they will tell you, that virtue, philosophy, and justice, are but empty sounds ; let every man live while he may, and make the best of the present, and not govern himself at a rate as if he were to keep a diary for his father: what madness is it, to enrich a man's heir, and starve himself, and to turn a friend into an enemy? For his joy will be proportioned to what you leave him : never trou- 502 Seneca's morals. Self commendation, ble yourself for these superfluous censors of other men's lives, and enemies of their own : these pedagogues of mankind are not worth your care. These are the people that draw us from our pa- rents and country, our friends, and other neces- sary duties. I would neither be deceived myself, nor de- ceive others ; but if a man cannot live without it, let him commend himself, and say thus. — I mive applied myself to liberal studies, though both the poverty of my condition, and my own reason, might rather have put me upon the mak- ing of my fortune. I have given proof, that all minds are capable of goodness, and have illus- trated the obscurity of my family by the eminency of my virtue. I have preserved my faith in all extremities, and I have ventured my life for it. I have never spoken one word contrary to my conscience, and I have been more solicitous for my friends than for myself: I never made any base submissions to any man, and I have never done any thing unworthy of a resolute and of an honest man. My mind is raised so much above all danger, that I have mustered all hazards, and I bless myself in the Providence which gave me that experiment of my virtue; for it was not lit, methought, that so great glory should come cheap. Nay, I did not so much as deliberate, whether good faith should suffer for me, or I for S-F.N"ECA*S MORALS. 503 How far allowable. it. I stood my ground, without laying violent hands upon myself, to escape the rage of the powerful; though under Caligula I saw cruelties to such a degree, that to be killed outright was accounted a mercy ; and yet I persisted in my honesty, to shew that I was ready to do more than die for it. My mind was never corrupted with gifts ; and when the humour of avarice was at the height, I never laid my hand on any un- lawful gain ; I have been temperate in my diet, modest in my discourse, courteous and affable to my inferiors, and have ever paid a respect and reverence to my betters. After all, what I have said is either true or false : if true, I have com- mended myself before a great witness, my own conscience; if false, I am ridiculous, without any witness at all. Let every man retire into himself; for the old, the young, men, women, and children, they are all wicked. Not every one only, or a few, but there is a general conspiracy in evil. We should therefore fly the world, with- draw into ourselves, and in some sort avoid even ourselves too. 504 SENECA S MORALS. Looseness of manners produces cruelty and sedition. A GENERAL DISSOLUTION OF MANNERS, WITH A CENSURE OF CORRUPT MAGISTRATES. The corruption of the present times is the general complaint of all times : it ever has been so, and it ever will be so ; not considering that the wickedness of the world is always the same, as to the degree of it, though it may change places perhaps, and vary a little in the matter. One while whoring is in fashion, another while gluttony ; to-day excess in apparel, and more care of the body than of the mind; to-morrow comes up the humour of scoffing, and after that, per- chance, a vein of drinking — when he shall be ac- counted the bravest man, that makes himself the veriest beast. This prostitute looseness of man- ners makes way for sedition and cruelty. Under Tiberius, the plague of your dilators, or inform- ers, was worse than any civil war. It was an age, wherein the words of men in their cups, the most innocent railleries, and ingenious freedoms of conversation were made capital. When it was dangerous to be honest, and only profitable to be vicious. And not only ill things, but vice itself, was both commended and preferred; for all inso- lences, when they come to be exemplary, they pretend to be lawful. Authority in sin is an in- senega's morals* 50 j Danger of bod example centivc to it; and it is at least an excuse, if not a warrant, to transgress after great example. Beside that, we are prone to do amiss, even of ourselves, without either a leader, or a compa- nion. But it is a malevolent sort of comfort-, that which men take in the number of the wicked. • The worst of all is— that whereas in other cases the people are ashamed of their errors, in that of life they are delighted with them, and so become incurable. The pilot takes no pleasure in running upon a rock, nor the physician in the death of his patient, nor the advocate in the loss of his client's cause. But, on the other side, the criminal rejoices in his uncleanness, in his ambi- tion, and in Ins theft; and never troubles himself for the fault, but for the miscarriage. He makes infamy the reward of lewdness, and values him- self upon his excellency in ill- doing. The ques- tion is, who shall be most impious; we have every day worse appetites, and less shame. So- briety and conscience are become foolish and scandalous things ; and it is half the relish of our lusts, that they are committed in the face of the sun. Innocency is not only rare, but lost ; and mankind is entered into a sort of confederacy against virtue. To say nothing of intestine wars, fathers and sons in league against one another, poisoned fountains, troops in search of the be- H 506* seneca's morals. Corrupt magistrates. riished and proscribed, prisons crammed with worthy men, cities demolished, rape and adul- tery authorized, public perjuries and frauds, a violation of common faith, and all the bonds of human society cancelled. Adultery is the ready way to wedlock, and marriage to a single life again ; for parting is one condition of it. For they divorce to marry, and they marry to be di- vorced. That which they often talk and hear of, they easily do. What shame can there be of in- continence, when modesty is become a reproach ; and when it is the mode for every wife to provide herself a gallant or two, beside her husband ? It is an idle thing, to think of ever converting those people-, that find both advantage and reputation in their wickedness. Would any man ever have imagined, that Clo- dius should have come oft* by bribery, for de- bauching the wife of Caisar, and prophaning the public vows for the safety of the people; but the judges were corrupted, and not only with money, but with the bodies of young men and women : so that his absolution was fouler than his crime ; the bribe was adultery, as well as the offence, and he had no way to be safe, until he had made his judges like himself. " Name the woman you have a mind to," says he, " and you shall have her ; and when you have committed the sin, con- demn it if you dare. Appoint the time, and the SEXECa's MOTIALS. 50? Justfee perverted. place, and she shall be ready for you/' Nay, the practice was so gross, that the bench desired a guard of the senate, to secure them from the people. Before the sentence was given he was an adulterer, in the manage of the cause he was a pander, and his way of escaping punishment was fouler than the offence that deserved it. A lust that spared not the altar, and perverted jus- tice upon the very seat of judgment. The ques- tion was — whether an adulterer should escape unpunished? and the resolution was — that, with- out being an adulterer, he could not be secure, Kor is it likely that their conversation was one jot honester than their sentence: these things have been, done, and will be done. Discipline and fear may restrain- the licence of the people ; but it is not to be thought that they will ever be good of their own accord. But, let us not yet speak of luxury and dissolution, as the vices of the age, which, in truth, are only the vices of the men. The practices of our times are mode- rate, compared with those r when the delinquent pleaded not guilty to the bench, and the bench confessed itself guilty to the delinquent; and when one adultery was excused by another In those days it passed for great piety, not to be very impious. He that gave most, carried the day; and it is but according to the laws of na- tions, for him that buys, to sell. And, it is to 2.x 2 60S seneca's morals. Men mind iheir pleasures rnoie than manners. be noted, that a man may be as covetous of get- ting what he intends to squander away, as if he were to hoard it up. The contempt of poverty in others, and the fear of it in ourselves, unmerciful oppressions, and mercenary magistrates, are the- common grievances of a licentious government. The baths and the theatres are crowded, when the temples and the schools are empty ; for men mind their pleasures more than their manners. All vices gain upon us by the promise of reward ; avarice promises money, luxury sensual satisfac- tion, ambition promises preferment and power. And it is no excuse to say, that a man is not very covetous ; a little ambitious, choleric, inconstant, lustful, and the like. He had better have one great vice, than a spice of all little ones. We say commonly, that a fool has all sorts of vices in him ; that is to say, be is free from none ; but they do not all appear, and he is more prone to one than to another. One is given to avarice, an* other to luxury, a third to wantonness; but we are not yet to ask the Stoics, if Achilles be a coward, Aristides unjust, Fabius rash, Mucins a traitor, Camillus a deserter. We do not say, that all vices are in all men- as some are in some particulars. Seneca's morals. 5G$ A clear conscience onl>, makes a mnn noli!?. THE ORIGINAL OF ALL MEN IS THE SAME, AND VIRTUE IS THE ONLY NOBILITY. It is not well done, to be still murmuring against nature and fortune, as if it were their un- kindness that makes you inconsiderable, when it is only by your own weakness that you make yourself so; for it is virtue, not pedigree, that renders a man either valuable, or happy. Philo- sophy does not either reject or chuse any man for his quality. Socrates was no patrician, Cleanthes but an under-gardener ; neither did Plato dignify philosophy by his birth, but by his goodness. All these worthy men are our proge- nitors, if we will but do ourselves the honour to become their disciples. The original of all man- kind was the same, and it is only a clear con- science that makes any man noble, for that de- rives even from heaven itself. It is the saying of a great man — that if we could trace our descents, we should find all slaves to come from princes, and all princes from slaves. But fortune has turned all things topsy-turvy, in a long story of revolutions. It is most certain, that our beginning had nothing before it ; and our ancestors were some of them splendid, others sordid, as it hap- pened. We have lost the memorials of our ex- traction ; and, in truth, it matters not whence we 2x3 5\0 seneca's morals. Tenderness due 10 servants. came, but whither we go. Nor is it any more to our honour, the glory of our predecessors, than it is to their shame, the wickedness of their pos- terity. We are all of us composed of the same elements; why should we then value ourselves upon our nobility of blood, as if we were not all of us equal, if we could but recover our evi- dence ? But, when we can carry it no farther, the herald provides some hero to supply the place of an illustrious original, and there is the rise of arms and families. For a man to spend his life in pursuit of a title, that serves only, when he dies, to furnish out an epitaph, is below a wise man's business. It pleases me exceedingly, to understand, by all that come out of your quarters, that you de- mean yourself humanely and tenderly towards your servants. It is the part of a wise, and of a good man, to deal with his inferior as he would have his superior deal with him ; for servants are not only men, but a kind of humble friends, and fortune has no more power over them than over their masters ; and he that duly considers how many servants have come to be masters, and how many masters to be servants, will lay no great stress of argument either upon the one, or upon the other. Some use their servants worse than beasts, in slavish attendances, betwixt their drink and their lusts; some are brought up only se^eca's morals. 511 Every man is a servant. to curve, others to season, and all to serve the turns of pomp and luxury. Is it not a barbarous custom, to make it almost capital for a servant only to cough, sneeze, sigh, or but wag his lips, while he is in waiting, and to keep him the whole night mute, and fasting ; yet so it comes to pass, that they that dare not speak before their masters, will not forbear talking of them ; and those, on the other side, that were allowed a modest free- dom of speech in their master's entertainments, were most obstinately silent upon the torture, rather than they would betray them. But we live as if a servant were not made of the same materials with his master, or to breathe the same air, or to live and die under the same conditions. It is worthy of observation, that the most impe- rious masters over their own servants, are, at the same time, the most abject slaves to the servants of other masters. I will not distinguish a servant by his office, but by his manners. The one is- , the work of fortune, the other of virtue. But we lock only to his a^iality, and not to his merit. Why should not a brave action rather dignify the condition of a servant, than the condition of a servant lessen a brave action ? I would not va- lue a man for his cloat^s, or degree, any more than I would do a horse for his trappings. What if he be a servant ! shew me any man that is not so, to his lusts, his avarice, his ambition, his 512 Seneca's morals. A servint should reverence his master. x _ _ . palate, to his queen, nay, to other men's ser- vants ; and we are all of us servants to fear ; in- solent we are many of us at home, servile and despised abroad ; and none are more liable to be trampled upon, than those that have gotten a babit of giving affronts by suffering them. What matters it how many masters we have, when it is but one slavery ? and whosoever contemns that, is perfectly free, let his masters be ever so many. That man is only free, not whom fortune has a little power over, but over whom she has none at all ; which state of liberty is an inestimable good ? when we desire nothing that is either superfluous,- or vicious. They are asses that are made for burden, and not the nobler sort of horses. In the civil wars, betwixt Csesir and Pompey, the question was not, who should be slaves or free, but who should be master. Ambition is the same thing in private that it is in public ; and the du- ties are effectually the same, betwixt the master of a kingdom and the master of a family. As 1 would treat some servants kindly because they are worthy, and others to make them so ; so, on the other side, I would have a servant to reve- rence his master, and rather to love him than fear him. Some there are, that think this too little for a master, though it is all that we pay, even to God himself. The body of a servant may be bought and sold, but his mind is free. SENECA S MORALS. 51', Conscientious men unthankful to Providence. WE ARE JUSTER TO MEN THAN TO GOD — OF LIFE AND DEATH — OF GOOD AND EVIL. It is, without dispute, that the loss of a friend is one of the greatest trials of human frailty, and no man is so much exalted above the sense of that calamity, as not to be affected with it. And yet, if a man bears it bravely, they cry — he has no sense of piety, or good nature in him : if he sinks under it, they call him effeminate : so that he lies both ways under a reproach. And what is the ground of the trouble, I beseech you, but that he might have lived longer in respect of his years, and, in effect, that he ought to have done so, in regard of his usefulness to the world ? I cannot but wonder, to see men that are really just and temperate in all their dealings with men, and in business, so exceedingly to forget them- selves in this point. But we have, in excuse of this error, the failings of the whole world with us for company. For even those that arc the most scrupulously conscientious toward men, are vet unthankful and injurious to Providence. It is not the number of days that makes a life long, but the full employment of them, upon the main end and purpose of life: which is the per? feeling of the mind, in making a man the abso- JT4 SENECA'S M0TIAL5. Of life and death. lute master of himself. I reckon the matter of age among external things, the main point is to live and die with honour. Every man that lives is upon the way, and must go through with his journey, without stopping, until he comes at the end ; and wheresoever it ends, if it ends well, it is a perfect life. There is an invincible fate that attends all mortals; and one generation is con- demned to tread upon the heels of another. Take •away from life the power of death, and it is a slavery. As Caligula was passing upon the way, an old man, that was a prisoner, and with a beard down to his girdle, made it his request to Ca?sar that he might be put to death. "Why," says Cassar to him,. " are you not dead already I"' So that you see some desire it, as well as others fear it :. and why not ? when it is one of the du- ties of life to die, and it is one of the comforts of it too; for the living are under the power of for- tune, but she has no dominion at all over the dead. How can life be pleasant to any man, that is not prepared to part with it? Or, what loss can be easier to us, than that which can never be missed, or desired again ? I was brought by a defluxion into a hopeless consumption, and I had it many times in my thoughts to deliver myself from a miserable life by a violent death. But the tenderness 1 had for an aged and indulgent father, held my hands : for, thought I to mvself r seneca's morals. 515 Of good and evil. it will be very* hard for my father to be without me, though 1 could most willingly part with my- self. In the case of a particular disease, a phy- sician may propound a remedy : but the only re- medy for all diseases, is the contempt of death. Though I know too, that it is the business of a long life to learn that lesson. Oh ! the happiness of distinguishing good from evil, in the works of Providence! But, instead of raising our thoughts to the contemplation of •divine matters, and enquiring into the original, •the state*, and appointed issue of created nature, we are digging of the earth, and serving of cur avarice, neglecting all the good things that are so frankly offered us. How great a folly and madness is it, for men that are dying, and in the hands of death already, to extend their hopes, and to carry their ambition and desires to the grave unsatisfied ? for whosoever is tainted with those hydropic appetites, can never have enough, either of money, or power. It is a remarkable thing, that among those that place their happi- ness in sense, they are the most miserable that seem to be happiest. The riches of nature are the most precious treasures. What has any man to desire more, than to keep himself from cold, hunger, and thirst? It is not the quantity, but the opinion, that governs in this case : that can never be little, which is enough : nor does any 3l6 seneca's morals. No man happy that is not free. man account that to be much which is too little. The benefits of fortune are so far comfortable to us, as we enjoy them without losing the posses- sion of ourselves. Let us purge our minds, and follow nature ; we shall otherwise be still either fearing, or craving, and slaves to accidents. Not that there is any pleasure in poverty, but it is a great felicity for a man to bring his mind to be contented even in that, which fortune itself can- not make worse. Methinks our quarrels with ambition, and profitable employments, are some- what like those we have with our mistresses; we do not bate them, but wrangle with them. In a word, betwixt those things which are sought and coveted, and yet complained of, and those things which we have lost, and pretend that we cannot live without, our misfortunes are purely volun- tary; and we are servants, not so much by ne- cessity as by choice. No man can be happy that is not free and fearless; and no man be so, but he, that by philosophy has got the better of for- tune. In what place soever we are, we shall find ourselves beset with the miseries of human na- ture; some without us, that either encompass us, deceive us, or force us : others within us, that eat up our very hearts, in the middle of solitude. •" u it is not yet, as we imagine, that fortune has long arms; she meddles with nobody, that does not first lay hold upon her. We should keep a dis- sineca's morals. 51/ Death steals upon us insensibly. tance, therefore, and withdraw into the know- ledge of nature, and of ourselves : we understand the original of things, the order of the world, the circulation of the seasons, the courses of the stars, and that the whole frame of the universe (only the earth excepted) is but a perpetual motion. We know the causes of day and night, of light and of darkness, but it is at a distance : let us- direct our thoughts then to that place, where we shall see all nearer hand. And it is not this hope neither, that makes a wise man resolute at the point of death, because death lies in his way to heaven; for the soul of a wise man is there beforehand: nay, if there were nothing after death to be either expected or feared, he would yet leave this world with as great a mind, though he were to pass into a state of annihila- tion. He that reckons everv hour his last, a day, or an age, is all one to him. Fate is doing our work while we sleep ; death steals upon us insensibly, and the more insensibly, because it passes under the name of life. From childhood we grow up, without perceiving it, to did age ; and this increase of our life, duly considered, is a diminution of it. We take death to be before us, but it is behind us, and has already swallow- ed up all that is past ; wherefore, make use of the present, and trust nothing to the morrow, for delay is just so much time lost. We catch hold 2 Y 518 SENECAS MORALS. Life is a tragi-comedy. of hopes and flatteries of a little longer life, as drowning men do upon thorns or straws, that either hurt us, or deceive us. You will ask, perhaps, what I do myself, that preach at this rate. Truly, I do like some ill husbands, that spend their estates, and yet keep their accounts : I run out, but yet I can tell which way it goes. And I have the fate of ill husbands too another way ; for every body pities me, and nobody helps me. The soul is never in the right place, so long as it fears to quit the body. Why should a man trouble himself to extend life, which, at best, is a kind of punishment ; and at longest amounts to very little more than nothing ? He is ungrateful, that takes the period of pleasure for an injury; and he is foolish, that knows no good but the present. Nay, there are some courses of life, which a man ought to quit, though with life it- self: as the trade of killing others, instead of learning to die himself. Life itself is neither good nor evil, but only a place for good and evil ; it is a kind of tragi-comedy. Let it be well act- ed, and no matter whether it be long or short. We are apt to be misled by the appearance of things, and when they come to us recommended in good terms, and by great example, they will impose many times upon very wise men. The mind is never right, but when it is at peace within itself, and independent upon any thing seneca's morals. 5ig Great goods a;e seldom long-lived. from abroad. The soul is in heaven, even while it is in the flesh, if it be purged of natural cor- ruptions, and taken up with divine thoughts: and, whether any body sees us, or takes notice of us, it matters not. Virtue will of itself break forth, though ever so much pains be taken to suppress it. And it is all one, whether it be known or no; but after-ages, however, will do us right when we are dead, and insensible of the veneration they allow us. He that is wise, will compute the conditions of humanity, and con- tract the subject both of his joys and fears. And it is time well spent, so to abate of the one, that he may likewise diminish the other. By this practice he will come to understand bow short; how uncertain, and how safe, many of those things are, which we are wont to fear. When I see a splendid house, or a glittering train, I look upon it as I do upon courts, which are only the schools of avarice and ambition; and they are, at best, but a pomp which is more for shew than possession. Beside that, great goods are seldom long-lived ; and that is the fairest felicity, which is of the shortest growth. OF TRUE COURAGE. Fortitude is (properly) the contempt of all hazards according to reason, though it be com - mohly and promiscuously used also, for a cod o v a .j20 seneca's morals. Of fortitude. tempt of all hazards, even without, or against reason ; which is rather a daring and a brutal fierceness, than an honourable courage. A brave man fears nothing more than the weakness of being affected with popular glory. His eyes are not dazzled either with gold, or steel ; he tram- ples upon all the terrors and glories of fortune ; he looks upon himself as a citizen and soldier of the world, and, in despite of all accidents and oppositions, he maintains his station. He does not only suffer, but court the most perilous occa- sions of virtue, and those adventures which are most terrible to others ; for he values himself upon experiment, and is more ambitious of being reputed good than happy. Mucius lost his hand with more honour than he could have preserved it : he was a greater conqueror without it, than he could have been with it; for with the very stump of it he overcame two kings, Tarquin and Porsenna. Rutilia followed Cotta into banish- ment ; she stayed and she returned with him too, and soon after she lost him, without so much as shedding a tear : a great instance of her courage- in his banishment, and of her prudence in his death. This (says Epicurus) is the last, and the blessedest day of my life ; when he was ready to expirein an extreme torment of the stone. It is never said of the three hundred Fabii, that they were overcome, but that they were slain ; sexeca's morals. 521 Seciii heca of ii n rov n la nor of Regulus, that he was vanquished by the Carthaginians, but that he was taken. The Spar- tans prohibited all exercises, where the victory was declared by the voice and submission of him that was worsted. When Phaeton begged of Phoe- bus the government of the chariot of the sun for one ■ day, the poets make him so far from being discouraged by his father's telling him of the danger of the undertaking, and how he himself had much ado to keep his seat for fear, when he looked down from the meridian, that it proved a spur to his importunity. " That is the thing," says Phaeton, " that I would be at; to stand firm in that difficulty where Phoebus himself trem- bles." Security is the caution of narrow minds j but, as fire tries gold, so does difficulty and ha- zard try virtuous men. Not but that he may be as valiant that watches upon the tower, as he that fights upon his knees ; only the one has had the good fortune of an occasion for the proof of his resolution. As some creatures are cruel, others crafty, and some timorous, so man is en- dued with a glorious and an excellent spirit, that prompts him, not so much to regard a safe life, as an honest. Providence has made him the master of this lower world, and he reckons it his duty to sacrifice his own particular to the advan- tage of the whole. And yet there is a vast dif- ference, even in the same action done by a brave 2 y 3 522 seneca's morals. It is glorious to die as we ought. person, and by a stupid ; as the death of Cato was honourable, but that of Brutus was shame- ful. Nor is it death itself that we recommend for glorious, but it is a glorious thing to die as we ought. Neither is it poverty, banishment, or pain, that we commend ; but the man that be- haves himself bravely under those afflictions. How were the gladiators contemned that called for quarter; and those on the other side favoured that despised it? Man) 7 a man saves his life by not fearing to lose it, and many a man loses his life for being over-solicitous to save it. We are many times afraid of dying by one thing, and we come to die by another. As for example, we are threatened by an enemy, and we die by a pleurisy. The fear of death enlarges all other things that we fear. To bear it with constancy, we should compute, that whether our lives be long or short, it comes all to a point: seme hours we lose, what if they were days, months, years? What matters it, if I never arrive at that which I must certainly part with when I have it? Life is. but one point of flying time, and that which is to come is no more mine than that which is past. And we have this for our comfort too, that whosoever now fears death, will, some time or other, come to wish it. H death be troublesome, or terrible, the fault is in us, and not in death itself. It is as great mad- seneca's morals. 525 It is as hard to ^ive counsel a* to take it. ness for a man to fear that which he is not to feel, as that which he is not to suffer ; the difference lies in the manner of dying, and not in the issue of death itself. It is a more inglorious death to be smothered with perfumes, than to be torn to pieces with pincers. Provided my mind be not sick, I shall not much heed my body. I am prepared for my last hour, without tormenting mvself when it will come. It is betwixt the Stoics, and other philosophers, as betwixt men and women, they are both equally necessary for society ; only the one is born for government, and the other for subjection. Other sects deal with their disciples as plausible physicians do with their patients, they flatter and humour them ; whereas the Stoics go a bolder way to work, and consider rather their profit than their pleasure. THE ADVANTAGES OF A PRIVATE LIFE, AND THE SLAVERY OF A PUBLIC. Let no man presume to advise others, that has not first given good counsel to himself, and. he may then pretend to help his neighbour. It is, in short, as hard a matter to give good coun- sel, as to take it: let it, however, be agreed, be- twixt the two parties, that the one designs to confer a benefit, and the other to receive it. Some people scorn to be taught, others are Seneca's morals. It is never too late to learn. ashamed of it, as they would be of going to school when they are old : but it is never too late to learn, what it is always necessary to know; and it is no shame to learn so long as we are ignorant, that is to say, so long as we live. When any thing is amiss in our bodies, or estates, we have recourse presently to the physician, or the lawyer,, for help: and why not to the philo- sopher, in the disorders of our mind ? No man lives, but he that applies himself to wisdom ; for he takes into his own life the supplement of all past ages. It is a fair step toward happiness and virtue, to delight in the conversation of good and of wise men; and where that cannot be had, the next point is to keep no company at all. Soli- tude affords business enough, and the entertain- ment is comfortable and easy. Whereas public offices are vexatious and restless. There is a great difference betwixt a life of leisure and of laziness. When people will express their envy of a man in a happy condition, they will say — he lives at his ease. When, in truth, the man is dead, alive. There is a long life, and there is a long death: the former, when we enjoy the benefits of a right mind ; and the other, when the senses are extin- guished, and the body dead before-hand. He that makes me the master of my own time, and places n.e in a state of freedom, lays a great obli- gation upon me. As a merchant, that has a seneca's morals. 52S Most men are bad company to themselves. considerable fortune abroad, is more sensible of the blessing of a fair wind and safe passage, than he that has only ballast, or some coarse commo- dity in the vessel ; so that man that employs his privacy upon thoughts divine and precious, is more sensible of the comforts of that freedom, than he that bends his meditation an ill way. For he considers all the benefits of his exemption from common duties, he enjoys himself with infi- nite delight, and makes his gratitude answerable to his obligations. He is the best of subjects, and the happiest of men ; and he lives to nature and to himself. Most men are, to themselves, the worst company they can keep. If they be good, quiet, and temperate, they are as good alone as in company, but if otherwise, let them converse with others and avoid themselves: but he that has made himself good company, can never be too much alone. Many a ship is lost in the harbour, but more in the ocean ; as many an honest man is condemned, but more guilty* This, however, is certain, he that cannot secure himself in privacy, shall be much more exposed in public. That which the world calls felicity, is greedy itself, and exposed to the greediness of others. Prosperity, like a fair gale upon a strong current, carries a man in a trice out of the very sight of peace and quiet; and, if it be not tem- pered and regulated, it is so far from easing us, 526 seneca's morals. Servitude is the faie of palaces. that it proves an oppression to us. A busy, and a fortunate man in the world, calls many men his friends, that are at most but his guests. And if people flock to him, it is but as they do to a fountain, which they both exhaust and trouble. What greater slavery can there be, than that of princes in this very respect, that they are chained to their post, and cannot make them- selves less ? All their words and actions are de- scanted upon, and made public discourse ; and there are many things allowable to a private man, that are not fit for a governor. I can walk alone, where I please, without a sword, without fear, and without company ; whereas a prince must be armed in peace, and cannot, with dignity quit his guards. Fortune has him in custody, a train besets him wherever he goes, and there is no making of any escape, lie is little better than nailed to his place, and it is the perfection of his misery, that he cannot go less. He can no more conceal himself than the sun in the firmament, whereas his subjects may come and go, change habits and humour, without being taken notice of. Servitude is the fate of palaces, the splendor of a crown draws all men's eyes upon it. When Csesar speaks, the whole world hears his voice, and trembles at his displeasure; and where it falls, it shakes whatsoever is near it. His lips are. the oracles of the people, and government is seneca'6 morals. 527 A prince's strength is ha people's love. the cement that bindo them together ; but still, he that is master of many, is the servant yet of more. The power, it is true, of all things be- longs to the prince, but the property to particu- lar persons. And the same thing may be both your's and mine in several respects. "We cannot say that a son, or a servant, has nothing, be- cause a master, or a father, may take it away if he will ; or that he cannot give willingly, be- cause they may hinder it, whether he will or no. This is power and true dominion, and not to rule and command, when we may do it when we please. The strengh of a prince is in the love of his people ; for there is nothing so great, but it must itself perish, when it is become the com- mon safety that it should be so. Tyrants are hated, because they are feared; and because they are hated, they will be feared. They are rendered odious to posterity ; and they had bet- ter never have been born, than to stand upon record for the plagues of mankind. Miserable is that people, where their very keepers are their executioners. And it is not an armed tyranny either, but the unarmed vices of avarice and envv, that we oueht to be most afraid of. Some will not endure to have their vices touched, but will shrink and struggle under the operation, as if they were under the hand of a surgeon. But this shall not hinder me from lancing and prob- 5 528 seneca's morals. The ends of punishments. ing, because of the cries and groans of the pati- ent. Every man should have a monitor at his elbow, to keep him from avarice, by shewing him how rich a man may be with a little: from ambition, by representing the disputes and ha- zards that accompany greatness; which makes him as great a burden to others as he is to him- self. When it comes to that once, fear, anxiety, and weariness, make us philosophers. A sickly fortune produces wholesome councils, and we reap this fruit from our adversity, that it brings us at last to wisdom. Now, though clemency in a prince be so neces- sary and profitable a virtue, and cruelty so dan- gerous an excess, it is yet the office of a gover- nor, as of the master of an hospital, to keep sick and mad men in order; and, in case of ex- tremity, the very member is to be cut off with the ulcer. All punishment is either for amend- ment, or for example, or that others may live more secure. What is the end of destroying those poisonous and dangerous creatures, which are never to be reclaimed, but to prevent mis- chief ? and yet there may be as much hazard in doing too much as too little. A particular mu- tineer may be punished, but when the whole army is in a revolt, there must be a general par- don. The multitude of offenders is their security and protection, for there is no quarrelling with a seneca'« morals. 529 How to be ha,»py. public vice, where the custom of offending takes away the shame of it: and it is not prudent neither, by many punishments to shew a city, that the wicked are so much the major part ; beside, that it is as great a dishonour for a prince to have many executions, as for a physician to have many funerals. Shall a father disinherit a son for the first offence ? let him first admonish, then threaten, and afterward punish him. So long as there is hope, we should apply gentle re- medies. But some nations are intractable, and never willing to serve, nor fit to command; and some persons are incorrigible too. THE TWO BLESSINGS OF LIFE ARE A SOUND BODY AND A QUIET MIND. Epicurus makes the two blessings of life to be a sound body and a quiet mind, which is only a compendious reduction of human felicity to a state of health and of virtue. The way to be happy is to make vice not only odious, but ridi- culous, and every man to mind his own business; ior he that torments himself for other people's misfortunes, shall never be at rest. A virtuous life must be all of a piece ; and not advance by starts and intervals, and then go on where it left, for this is losing of ground. We are to press and persevere, for the main difficulties are yet to come, if I discontinue my course, when shall I come to 2z 530 senega's morals. True happiness is permanent. nounce these words — I am a conqueror ? not a conqueror of barbarous enemies and savage na- tions, but I have subdued avarice, ambition, and those lusts that have subjected even the greatest of conquerors. Who was a greater than Alexander, that extended his empire from Thra- cia to the utmost bounds of the east ? but yet he burnt Persepolis at the request of a prostitute, to gratify his lust. He overcame Darius, and slew many thousands of the Persians, but yet he mur- dered Calisthenes: and that single blot has tar- nished the glory of all his victories. All the wishes of mortals, and all the benefits which we can either give or receive, are of very little con- ducement to a happy life. Those things, which the common people gape after, are transitory and vain. Whereas happiness is permanent ; nor is it to be estimated by number, measure, or parts, for it is full and perfect. I do not speak as if I myself were arrived at that blessed state of re- pose ; but it is something yet to be on the mend- ing hand. It is with me, as with a man that is creeping out of a disease, he feels yet some grudgings of it ; he is every foot examining of his pulse, and suspects every touch of heat to be a relique of his fever. Just at that rate I am jea- lous ot myself. The best remedy that I know, in this case, is to go on with confidence, and not to be misled by the errors of other people. It is seneca's morals. 531 False notions of happiness. with our manners, as with our healths; it is * degree of virtue, the abatement of vice; as it is a degree of health, the abatement of a fit. Some place their happiness in wealth, some in the liberty of the body, and others in the plea- sures of the sense and palate. But, what are metals, tastes, sounds, or colours, to the mind of a reasonable creature ? He that sets his heart upon riches, the very fear of poverty will be grievous to him. He that is ambitious, shall be galled with envy at any man that gets before him, for, in that case, he that is not first, is last. I do not speak against riches neither, for if they hurt a man, it is his own folly. They may be, indeed, a cause of mischief, as they are a temp- tation to those that do it. Instead of courage, they may inspire us with arrogance; and instead of greatness of mind, with insolence ; which is, in truth, but the counterfeit of magnanimity. What is it to be prisoner, and in chains ? it is no more than that condition to which many princes have been reduced, and out of which many men have been advanced to the authority of princes. It is not to say — I have no master ; in time you may have one. Might not Hecuba, Croesus, and the mother of Darius have said as much ? And where is the happiness of luxury either ? when a man divides his life betwixt the kitchen and the stews; betwixt an anxious conscience and a nau- °> 7 9 •V ** *m 532 SENECA S MORALS* The extravagance of Roman luxury. seous stomach ? Caligula, who was born to shew the world what mischief might be done by a con- currence of great wickedness and a great fortune, spent near 10,0001. sterling upon a supper. The works and inventions of it are prodigious, not only in the counterfeiting, of nature, but even in the surpassing it. The Romans had their brooks even in their parlours, and found their dinners under their tables. The mullet was reckoned stale, unless it died in the hand of the guest; and they had their glasses to put them into, that they might the better observe all the changes and mo- tions of them in the last agony betwixt life and death. So that they fed their eyes before their bodies. " Look how it reddens," says one, " there is no vermillion like it. Take notice of these veins, and that same grey brightness upon the head of it. And now he is at his last gasp ; see how pale he turns, and all of a colour." These people would not have given themselves half this trouble with a dying friend ; nay, they would leave a father, or a brother, at his last hour, to entertain themselves with the barbarous spectacle of an expiring fish. And that which enhances the esteem of every thing, is the price of it : insomuch that water itself, which ought to be gratuitous, is exposed to sale, in their conser- vatories of ice and snow. Nay, we are troubled that we cannot buy breath, light, and that v m Seneca's morals. 553 Women become masculine. have the air itself gratis ; as if our conditions- were evil, because nature has left something to us in common. But luxury contrives ways to set a price upon the most necessary and communica- ble benefits in nature ; even those benefits which are free to birds and beasts as well as to men, and serve indifferently for the use of the most sluggish creatures. But, how comes it that foun- tain water is not cold enough to serve us, unless it be bound up into ice ? So long as the stomach is sound, nature discharges her functions without trouble ; but, when the blood comes to be in- flamed with excess of wine, or meats, simple water is not cold enough to allay that heat, and we are forced to make use of remedies, which remedies themselves are vice?. We heap suppers upon dinner?, and dinners upon suppers, without intermission. Good God ! how easy is it to quench a sound and an honest thirst ? but, when the palate is grown callous, we taste nothing ; and that which we take for thirst, is only the ra<*e of a fever. Hippocrates delivered it as an aphorism, that women were never bald, nor gouty, but in one singular case. "Women have not altered their nature since, but they have changed the course of their lives ; for, by taking the liberties of men, they partake as well of their diseases, as of tlieir wickedness. They sit up as Btticlij drink as much; nay, in their very appe- 2 z 3 534 sfetfficVs morals. Moderation siu\ rnplicity >*■ '■ ' ' — ~— — — "■ tites they are masculine too ; they have lost the advantage of their Sex by their vices. Our ancestors, when they were free, lived either in caves, of in arbours ; but slavery came in with gildings and with marble. I would have him that comes into my house, take more notice of the master than of the furniture. The golden age was before architecture; arts came in with luxury, and we do not hear of any philosopher that was either a lock-smith, or a painter. Who was the wiser man, think you, he that invented a saw, or the other, who, upon seeing a boy drink water out of the hollow of his hand, brake his pitcher, with this check to himself — what a fool am I to trouble myself with superfluities ? Carving is one man's trade, cooking is another's j only he is more miserable that teaches it for plea- sure, than he that learns it for necessity. It was luxury, not philosophy, that invented fish-pools, as well as palaces, where, in case of foul wea- ther at sea, they might have fishes to supply their gluttony in harbour. We do not only pam- per our lusts, but provoke them. As if we were to learn the very art of voluptuousness. What was it but avarice, that originally brake the union of society ; and proved the cause of po- verty even to those that were the most wealthy ? Every man possessed all, until the world came to appropriate possessions to themselves. In the seneca's morals. 535 Of former times. first age, nature was both a law and a guide, and the best governed, which was but according to nature too. The largest and the strongest bull leads the herd ; the goodliest elephant ; and, among men too, in the blessed times of inno- cence, the best was uppermost. They chose go- vernors for their manners, who neither acted any violence, nor suffered any. They protected the weak against the mighty ; and persuaded, or dis- suaded, as they saw occasion. Their prudence provided for their people, their courage kept them safe from dangers, their bounty both sup- plied and adorned their subjects. It was a duty then to command, not a government. No man, in those days, had either a mind to do an injury, or a cause for it. He that commanded well, was well obeyed ; and the worst menace the gover- nors could then make to the disobedient, was, to forsake them. But, with the corruption of times, tyranny crept in, and the world began to have need of laws; and those laws were made by wise men too, as Solon and Lycurgus, who learned their trade in the school of Pythagoras. 53ft senega's morals, We set our hearts uron transitory things. NAN IS COMPOUNDED OF SOUL AND BODY; AND HAS NATURALLY A CIVIL WAR WITHIN HIMSELF. There is not so disproportionate a mixture hi any creature, as that is in man, of soul and body. There is intemperance joined with divinity, follv with severity, sloth with activity, and unclean- ness with purity. But a good sword is never the worse for a» ill scabbard. We are moved more by imaginary fears than truths, for truth has a certainty and foundation ; but, in the other, we are exposed to the licence and conjecture of a distracted mind ; and our enemies are not more imperious than our pleasures. We set our hearts upon transitory things, as if they themselves were everlasting ; or we, on the other side, to possess them for ever. Why do we not rather advance our thoughts to things that are eternal, and con<- template the heavenly original of all beings ? Why do we not, by the divinity of reason, tri- umph over the weaknesses of flesh and blood ? It is by Providence that the world is preserved, and not from any virtue in the matter of it, for the world is as mortal as we are, only the Almighty Wisdom carries it safe through all the motions of corruption. And so by prudence human life it- seneca's morals. 537 Our passions are violent. self may be prolonged, if we will but stint our- selves in those pleasures that bring the greater part of us untimely to our end. Our passions are nothing else, but certain disallowable motions of the mind, sudden and eager, which, by frequency and neglect, turn to a disease ; as a distillation brings first to a cough, and then to a phthisic. We are carried up to the heavens, and down again into the deep, by turns; so long as we are governed by our affections, and not by virtue ; passion and reason are a kind of civil war within us, and as the one cr the other has dominion, we are either good or bad. So that it should be our care, that the worst mixture may not pre- vail. And they are lmked, like the chain of causes and effects, one to another. Betwixt vio- lent passion, and a fluctuation, or wambling of the mind, there is such a difference, as betwixt the agitation of a storm, and all the nauseous sickness of a calm. And they have all of them their symptoms too, as well as our bodily dis- tempers : they that are troubled with the falling- sickness know when the lit is a coming, by the eold of the extreme parts, the dazzling of the eyes, the failing of the memory, the trembling of the nerves, and the giddiness of the head ; so that every man knows his own disease, and should provide against it. Anger, love, sadness^ fear, may be read in the countenance; and ^o 538 seneca's morals. A life of pleasure, may the virtues too. Fortitude makes the eye vigorous, prudence ma.kes it intent, reverence shews itself in modesty, joy in serenity, and truth in openness and simplicity. There are sown the seeds of divine things in moital bodies. If the mind be well cultivated, the fruit answers the original ; and, if not, all runs into weeds. We are all of us sick of curable diseases; and it costs us more to be miserable, than would make us perfectly happy. Consider the peaceable state of clemency, and the turbulency of anger ; the softness and quiet of modesty, and the restless- ness of lust. How cheap and easy to us is the service of virtue, and how dear we pay for our vices ! The sovereign good of man, is a mind that subjects all things to itself, and is itself sub- ject to nothing : his pleasures are modest, severe, and reserved ; and rather the sauce, or the di- version of life, than the entertainment of it. It may be some question, whether such a man goes to heaven, or heaven comes to him: for a good man is influenced by God himself, and has a kind of divinity within him. What if one good man lives in pleasure and plenty, and another in want and misery? it is no virtue to contemn superflui- ties, but necessities; and they are both of them equally good, though under several circumstances, and in different stations. Cato (the censor,.) wai-ed war with the manners of Home ; Scigta senega's morals. 53Q And a life of virtue. with the enemies. Nay, bating the very consci- ence of virtue, who is there, that, upon sober thoughts, would not be an honest man, even for the reputation of it? Virtue you shall find in the temple, in the field, or upon the walls, cc- vered with dust and blood, in the defence of the public. Pleasures you shall find sneaking in the stews, sweating-houses, powdered and painted, &c. Not that pleasures are wholly to be dis- claimed, but to be used with moderation, and to be made subservient to virtue. Good manners always please us, but wickedness is restless, and perpetually changing; not for the better, but for variety. We are torn to pieces betwixt hopes and fears, by which means Providence (which is the greatest blessing of heaven) is turned into a mis- chief. Wild beasts, when they see their dangers, fly from them, and when they have escaped them they are quiet : but wretched man is equally tor- mented, both with things past and to come ; for the memory brings back the anxiety of our past fears, and our foresight anticipates the future; whereas the present makes no man miserable. If we fear all things that are possible, we live with** out any bounds to our miseries. ►40 senega's morals. Death to be found every whejre. WE ABUSE GOD'S BLESSINGS, AND TURN THEM INTO MISCHIEFS. There is nothing so profitable but it may be perverted to an injury. Without the use of trie winds, how should we do for commerce ? beside that, they keep the air sweet and healthful, and bring seasonable rains upon the earth. It was never the intent of Providence, that they should be employed for war and devastation, and yet that is a great part of the use we make of them ; pur- suing one hazard through another. We expose ourselves to tempests, and to death, without so much as the hope of a sepulchre. And all this might be borne too, if we only ran these risks in order to peace ; but when we have escaped so many rocks and flats, thunder and storms, what is the fruit of all our labour and terror ? It is only war, and to burn and ravage, as if the earth were not large enough for the scene of our de- struction. Whereas we might live and die at ease, if we had a mind to it, and draw out our lives in security. Why do we press our own dan- gers then, and provoke our fates ? what do we look for ? only death, which is to be found every where. It will find us in our beds, in our cham- bers ; but, wheresoever it finds us, let it find us innocent, What a madness is it to pursue mis- 5 sbneca's morals. 541 Danger still under our icet. chiefs, to fall foul upon those we do not know, to be angry without a cause ; to over-run whatso- ever is in our way, and, like beasts, to kill what we have no quarrel to ? Nay, worse than beasts, we run great hazards, only to bring us to greater. We force our way to gold, without any regard either to God or man. But, in all this, without any cause of complaint, we abuse the benefits of God, and turn them all into mischiefs. We dig for gold; we leave the light, and abandon the courses of a better nature ; we descend, where we find a new position of things, hideous caves, hollow and hanging rocks, horrid rivers, a deep and perpetual darkness, and not without the ap- prehensions even of hell itself. How little now, and how inconsiderable are those things that men venture for, with the price of their lives ? But, to pass from those hazards that we may avoid, to others which we cannot ; as in the case of earth- quakes. In what condition can any man be safe, when the world itself is shaken, and the only thing that passes for fixed and unmoveable in the universe, trembles, and deceives us ? Whither shall we fly for security, if wheresoever we are the danger be still under our feet ? Upon the cracking of a house, every man takes to his heels, and leaves all to save himself : but what retreat is there, where that which should support us fail* us; 3 a 542 seveca's morals. Of lightning— plague— and an earthquake. when the foundation, not only of cities, but even of the world itself, opens and wavers? What help, or what comfort, where fear itself can never carry us off? An enemy may be kept at a dis- tance with a wall, a castle may put a stop to an army, a port may protect us from the fury of a tempest, fire it-self does not follow him that runs away from it, a vault may defend us against thunder, and we may quit the place in a pesti- lence : there is some remedy in all these evils. Or, however, no man ever knew a whole nation destroyed with lightning. A plague may unpeo- ple a town, but it will not carry it away. There is no evil of such an extent, so inevitable, so greedy, and so publicly calamitous, as an earth- quake. For it does not only devour houses, fa- milies, or single towns, but ruins whole countries and nations: either overturning, or swallowing them up, without so much as leaving any foot- step, or mark, of what they were. Some people have a great horror for this death, than for any other — to be taken away alive, out of the num- ber of the living ! As if all mortals, by what means soever, were not to come to the same end. Nature has eminently this justice, that when we are all dead, we are all alike. And it is not a pin matter, whether I be crushed to pieces by ^ one stone, or by a whole mountain ; whether I perish by the fall of a house, or under the burden SENECA S MORALS. 5-k3r We should arm ourselves against tbe uurst. of the whole earth; whether 1 be swallowed up alone, or with a thousand more for company. What does it signify to me, the noise and dis- course that is made about my death ; when death is every where, and in all cases the same ? We should therefore arm ourselves against that blow, that can neither be avoided, nor foreseen. And it is not the forswearing of those places, that we find infested with earthquakes, that will do our business ; for there is no place than can be war- ranted against them. What if the earth be not yet moved r it is still moveable, for the whole body of it lies under the same law, and exposed to danger, only some part at one time, and some at another. As it is in great cities, where all the houses are subject to ruin, though they do not all fall together : so in the body of the earth, now this part falls, and then that. 1 yre was formerly subject to earthquakes; in Asia twelve cities were swallowed up in a night; Achaia and Ma- cedonia have had their turns, and now Campag- nia. The fate goes round, and strikes at last where it has a great while passed by. Jt falls out oftener, it is true, in some places than in others, but no place is totally free and exempt. And it is not only men, but cities, coasts, nay, the shores and the very sea itself, that suffers under the dominion of fate. And yet we are so vain as to promise ourselves some sort of assur- 3 a 2 544 seneca's morals. The wise are fortified by reason. ance in the goods of fortune, never considering, that the very ground we stand upon is unstable. And, it is not the frailty of this or that place, but the quality of every spot of it: for not one inch of it is so compacted, as not to admit many causes of its revolution, and though the bulk of the earth remain entire, the parts of it may yet be broken. There is not any thing which can promise to it- self a lasting quiet: and it is no small comfort to us, the certainty of our fate ; for it is a folly to fear, where there is a remedy. He that troubles himself sooner than he needs, grieves more also than is necessary ; for the same weakness that makes him anticipate his misery, makes him en- large it too. The wise fortify themselves by rea- son, and fools by despair. That saying, which was applied to a conquered party under fire and gword, might have been spoken to all mankind — that man is in some sense out of danger, that is out of hope. He that would fear nothing, should consider, that if he fears any thing he must fear every thing. Our very meat and drink, sleeping and waking, without measure, are hurt- ful to us. Our bodies are nice and weak, and a small matter does their work. That man has too high an opinion of himself, that is only afraid of thunder and of earthquakes. If he were consci- ous of his own infirmities, he would as much seneca's morals. 54. Mortalitv fear the being choaked with his own phlegm. What do we see in ourselves, that heaven and earth should join in a distemper to procure our dissolution, when the ripping of a hang-nail is sufficient to dispatch us ? We are afraid of inun- dations from the sea, when a glass of wine, if it goes the wrong way, is enough to suffocate us. It is a great comfort in death, the very mortality itself. We creep under ground for fear of thun- der, we dread the sudden concussions of the earth, and the rages of the sea, when yet we carry death in our own veins, and it is at hand in all places, and at all times. There is nothing so little, but it is of force enough to bring us to our last end. Nay, so far should we be from dreading an eminent fate, more than a vulgar, that, on the contrary, since die we must, we should rather rejoice in the breathing of our last under a more glorious circumstance. What it the ground stand still within its bounds, and without any violence ? I shall have it over me at last; and it is all one to me, whether I be laid under that, or that lay itself over me — but it is a terrible thing for the earth to gape and swallow a man up into a profound abyss. And what then ? is death any easier above ground ? what cause have I of complaint, if nature will do me the ho- nour to cover me with a part of her self? Since we must fall, there is a dignity in- the very man- 3 a 3 54-6 seneca's morals, Ignorance causes fear. ner of it, when the world itself is shocked for company. Not that I would wish for a public calamity ; but it is some satisfaction in my death, that I see the world also to be mortal. Neither are we to take these extraordinary re- volutions for divine judgments, as if such motions of the heavens, and of the earth, were the de- nouncings of the wrath of the Almighty: but they have their ordinate and their natural causes, such as, in proportion, we have in our own bo- dies ; and while they seem to act a violence, they suffer it. But yet, for want of knowing the causes of things, they are dreadful to us ; and the more so, because they happen but seldom. But why are we commonly more afraid of that which we are not used to ? Because we look upon nature with our eyes, not with our reason ; rather com- puting what she usually does, than what she is able to do. And we are punished for this negli- gence, by taking those things to which we are not •wonted, to be new and prodigious. The eclipses of the sun and moon, blazing stars and meteors, while we admire them, we fear them; and since we fear them, because we do not understand them, it is worth our while to study them, that we may no longer fear them. Why should I fear a man, a beast, an arrow, or a lance, when I am exposed to the encounter of greater dangers ? We are assaulted by the nobler part of nature it- seneca's morals. 517 All created things are limited. self; by the heavens, by the sea, and the land. Our business is, therefore, to defy death, whether extraordinary, or common. No matter for the menaces of it, so long as it asks no more of us than age itself will take from us, and every petty accident that befals us. lie that contemns death, what does he care for either fire or water, the very dissolution of the universe; or if the earth should open under him, and shew him all the secrets of the infernal pit, he would look down without trouble. In the place that we are all of us to go, there are no earthquakes, or thunder- claps ; no tempestuous seas ; neither war nor pes- tilence. Is it a small matter ? why do we fear it then ? Is it a great matter ? let it rather once fall upon us, than always hang over us. Why should I dread my own end, when I know that an end I must have, and that all created things are limited ? A DISCOURSE OF GOD'S PROVIDENCE IN THE MISFORTUNES OF GOOD MEN. You are troubled, I perceive, that your ser- vant is run away from you, but I do not hear yet, that you are either robbed, or strangled, or poisoned, or betrayed, or accused, by him: so that you have escaped well, in comparison with your fellows. And why should you complain then, especially under the protection of so graci- 54S Seneca's morals. Atriicnons arc the exeicise of virtue. ous a Providence, as suffers no man to be miser- able, but by bis own fault ? Nor is this a subject worthy of a wise man's consideration. Adversity, indeed, is a terrible thing in sound and opinion, and that is all. Some men are banished and stript of their estates; others again are poor in plenty, (which is the basest sort of beggary). Some are overborne by a popular tumult, that breaks out like a tempest, even in the highest security of a calm ; or, like a thunder-clap, that frights all near it : there is but one struck, per- haps, but the fear extends to all, and affects those that may suffer, as well as those that do. As in the discharge of a piece only with powder, it is not the stroke, but the crack, that frights the birds. Adversity, I will grant you, is not a thing to be wished, no more than war; but if it be my lot to be torn with the stone, broken upon the wheel, or to receive wounds, or maims, it shall be my prayer, that I may bear my fortune as becomes a wise and an honest man. We do not pray for tortures, but for patience ; not for war, but for gei.erosity and courage in all the extremities of a war, if it happens. Afflictions are but the exercise of virtue; and an honest man is out of his element when he is idle. It must be practice and patience that perfect it. Do we not see how one wrestler provokes an- other ? and if he find him not to be his match, he ssxbca's morals. 54.9 Good men are thus proved. will call for somebody to help him, that may put him to all his strength. It is a common argument against the justice of Providence, in the matter of reward and punish- ment — the misfortune of good men in this world, and the prosperity of the wicked : but it is an easy matter to vindicate the cause of the gods. There are many things which we call evil, which turn very often to the advantage of those that suffer them ; or, at least for the common good, whereof Providence has the greater care. And farther, they either befal those that bear them willingly, or those that deserve them by their im- patience under them ; and, lastly, they come by divine appointment, and to those that are good men, even for that very reason, because they are good. Nor is there any thing more ordinary, than for that which we feared as a calamity, to prove the foundation of our happiness. How many are there in the world that enjoy all things to their own wish, whom God never thought wor- thy of a trial ? If it might be imagined, that the Almighty should take off his thought from the care of his whole work, what more glorious spec- tacle could he reflect upon, than a valiant man struggling with adverse fortune : or Cato's stand- ing upright, and unmoved, under the shock of a public ruin ? — " Let the whole world," says he, " fall into one band, and let CiEsar encompass mc: 550 seneca's morals. Cato in adversity. with his legions by land, his shipping at sea, and his guard at the gates, Cato will yet cut his way out, and with that weapon, that was untainted even in the civil war, give himself that liberty, which fate denied to his country. Set upon the great work then, and deliver thyself from the clog of thy humanity. Juba and Petreius have already done this good office one for the other, by a generous concurrence of resolution and fate; but Cato is above example, and does as much scorn to ask his death of any man, as his life." With what joy did this great man contemplate immortality, when he took his book and hi sword together, and in cold thoughts dispatched himself! Let this suffice of Cato, whose virtue Providence made use of to cope with all the powers of the earth. His courage took delight in, and sought for all occasions of hazard ; keep- ing his eye still upon the end, without valuing the difficulties of the passage. The sufferance is one part of the glory ; and though one man may escape without wounds, yet he is still more reve- rend and remarkable that comes c^f bloody. The malice of great men is grievous, you will say, and yet he supported the oppositions of Pompey, Caesar, and Crassus. It is troublesome to be re- pulsed ; Vatinius was preferred before him. Prosperity shews a man but one part of human mature. Nobody knows what such a man is good seneca's morals. 551 Calamity the touchstone of valour. for, neither in truth does he understand himself, for want of experiment. Temporal happiness is for weak and vulgar minds ; but the subduing of public terrors is a work that is reserved for more oenerous spirits. Calamity is the touchstone of a brave mind, that resolves to live and die free, and master of itself. The combatant brings no mettle into the field, that was never battered ; he that has lost blood, and yet keeps his stomach; lie that has been under his enemy, and worsted, and yet comes on again, and gathers heart from his misfortunes — that is the man of hope and ^courage. But, is it not a very unjust and a rigorous fate, that good men should be poor and friendless ? All this is no more than the natural work of matter and form. Mean souls are meanly principled; but there goes more to the making up of a brave man, that is to work out his way through diffi- culties and storms. AVe are condemned to terri- ble encounters, and because we cannot, accord- ing to the course of nature, avoid them, we have faculties given us, that will enable us to bear them: or, at the worst, to have a retreat; if we will not fight, we may fly. So that nothing is made more easy to us, than that which is most necessary to us, to die. No man is kept in the world against his will. But adversity is the better for us all : for it is God's mercy to shew the world 552 seneca's morals. A wise man may have liis feelings, fheir errors, and that the things they fear and covet are neither good nor evil, being the com- mon and promiscuous lot both of good men and bad. If they were good, only the good should enjoy them : and if bad, only the wicked should suffer them. One man is taken away in a scuffle for a wench, and another in the defence of his country ; and we find silver and gold both in a temple, and in the stews. Now, to shew you that the virtue which I af- fect is not so imaginary and extravagant as it is taken to be, I will allow a wise man to tremble, to turn pale, nay, and to groan too, and to suffer all the affections of his bodily sense, provided that he keep his mind firm, and free from sub- mission to his body, and that he do not repent of his constancy, (which is in itself so great a vir- tue, that there is some authority even in a perti- nacious error). If the body be brought by exer- cise to the contempt of bruises and wounds, how much more easily then may the mind be fortified against the assaults of fortune ; and though, per- haps, thrown down and trod upon, yet recover itself? The body must have meat and drink, much labour and practice ; whereas the food and the business of the mind is within itself; and virtue maintained without either toil or charge. If you say, that many professors of wisdom are wrought upon by menaces and mischiefs ; these, 4 Seneca's morals. 551 But stilt be constant and patient. let me tell you, are but proficients, and not as yet arrived at the state of wisdom; they are not strong enough to practise what they know. It is with our dispositions as with our clothes, they will take some colours at one dipping, but others must be steeped over and over, before they will imbibe them. And so for disciplines, they must soak and lie long before they take the tincture. No man can receive an injury, and not be moved at it, but yet he may keep himself free from per- turbations; and so far from being troubled at them, that he may make use of them for the ex- periment and trial of his virtue, keeping himself still moderate, placid, chearful, and safe, in a profound quiet, and fixed in his station. But if •a wise man cannot be poor, how comes it that he is many times without either meat, drink, clothes, or lodging ? If only fools are mad, how comes it then that wise men have their alienations of mind, and talk as idly in a fever as other people J It is one thing, the receiving of an injury, and another thing, the conceiving of an indignation for it ; it is the body in this case that sutlers. (which is the fool's part) but not the mind. That man is never the worse pilot, that by foul weather is forced behind his business. When a ship springs a leak, we do not presently quarrel either with the mariners, or with the vessel ; but some to the pump, others into the hold, to keep 3 B 354 seneca's morals. Cato both forgave and forgot a blow. to keep the ship above water. And if we cannot absolutely master it, we must still work on ; for it is then a great point gained, if we can but keep it at a sta}^. Some men are strangely transported at. the insolence of the porter, that refuses to let them into a great man's house. They forget that the door of a prison is not more strictly guarded than that of a palace. lie that has business must pay for his passage, and sweeten him, as he would do a churlish cur with a sop. That which is to he. sold, is to he bought : he is a weak man, that rates himself according to the civility of a slave. Let him have a reverence for himself, and then no matter who despises him. What if he should break his staff, or cause his master to turn him away, or to correct him ? He that contends, sup- poses an equality; and even when he has got the better of him, admits that there was one. What if he should receive a blow ? Cato (the greatest man of his age) did not only forgive it, but for- get it. It is not to say, that this or that is tolerable to a wise man, or intolerable. If we do not totally subdue fortune, fortune overcomes us. It is the foundation of a happy life, for a man to depend upon himself; but an absolute tranquillity of mind, and a freedom from errors, must be the business of another world. seneca's morals. 555 Wisdom and tolly. A WISE AND A GOOD MAN IS A PROOF AGAINST ALL ACCIDENTS OF FATE. Th e book yon promised me is now come to my hand, and I opened it with an intent to read it ever at leisure ; but when I was once in, I could not lay it down again, until I had gone through with it. At present, I shall only tell you r that I am exceedingly pleased with the choice of the subject, but I am transported with the spirit and gentleness of it. You shall hear farther from me upon a second reading ; and you need not fear the hearing of the truth, for your goodness- leaves a man no place for flattery,. 1 find you still to be one and the same man, which is a areat matter, and only proper to a wise man; for fools are Various, one while thrifty and grave,, another while profuse and vain. Happy is the man that sets himself right at first, and continues so to the end. All fools, we say, are madmen, though they are not all of them m Bethlem. We find some at the bar, some upon the bench, and not a few even in the senate itself. One man's fully is sad, another is wanton, and a third is busy and impertinent. A wise man carries alt his treasure within himself: what fortune gives, she may take, but he leaves nothing at her mer- 3 b 2 b56 seneca's morals. — - ' ... ... i . . i , , ., i . i j The good are proof against all accidents. ey. He stands firm, and keeps his ground against all misfortunes, without so much as changing countenance. He is free, inviolable, unshaken^ proof against all accidents ; and not only invinci- ble, but inflexible. So long as he cannot lose any thing of his own, he never troubles himself for what is another's. He is a friend to Provi- dence, and will not murmur at any thing that comes to pass by God's appointment. He is not only resolute, but generous and good-natured,. and ready to lay down his life in a good cause,. and for the public safety to sacrifice his own. He does not so much consider the pleasure of his life, as the need that the world has of him ; and he is not so nice either, as to be weary of his life, while he may either serve his wife, or his friends, Nor is it all, that his life is profitable to them, but it is likewise delightful to himself, and carries its own reward ;. for what can be more comfortable, than to be so dear to another, as for that very reason to become dearer to him- self? If he loses a child, he is pensive; he is compassionate to the sick ; and only troubled, when he sees men wallow in infamy and vice. Whereas, on the other side, you shall see no- thing but restlessness ; one man hankering after his neighbour's wife, another in pain about his own, a th'^d in grief for a repulse, another as much out of humour for his success. If he loses sexeca's morals. 5 57 Prosperity renders adversity grievous. an estate, he parts with it as a thing that wps only adventitious ; or, if it was of his own ac- quiring, he computes the possession and less, and says thus to himself — I shall live as well afterward, as I did before, Our houses, says he, may be burnt, or robbed ; our hinds taken from us; and we can call nothing our own, that is under the dominion of fortune. It is a foolish avarice, that restrains all things to a propriety, and believes nothing to be a man's own that is public. Whereas a wise man judges nothing so much his own, as that wherein mankind is al- lowed a share. It is not with the blessings of Providence, as it is with a dole, where every man receives so much a head, but every man there- has all. That which we eat, and either gi\e, or receive, with the hand, may be broken into parts; but peace, and freedom of mind, are not to be divided. He that has first cast off the em- pire of fortune, needs not fear that of great men, for they are but fortune's hands ; nor was ever any man broken by adversity, that was not first betrayed by prosperity. But what signifies phi- losophy, you will say, if there be a fate ; if we be governed by fortune, or some over-ruling power? for certainties are unchangeable, and there is no providing against uncertainties. If what I shall do, and resolve, be determined, what use of philosophy ? Yes, great use; for, taking 3 E 3 558 seneca's morals. 1 hough fait* be unchangeable, all this for granted, philosophy instructs, and ad- vises us to obey God, and to follow him willingly % to oppose fortune resolutely, and to bear all ac- cidents. Fate is an irrevocable, an invincible,, and an unchangeable decree; a necessity of all things and actions, according to eternal appointment. Like the course of a river, it moves forward with- out contradiction, or delay, in an irresistible flux, where one wave pushes on another. He knows little of God, that imagines it may be con- trouled. There is no changing of the purpose- even of a wise man ; for he sees beforehand what will be the best for the future. How much more unchangeable then is the Almighty, to whom alt iuturity is always present I To what end then is it, if fate be inexorable, to offer up prayers and' sacrifices any farther, than to relieve the scruples and the weakness of sickly minds ? My answer is, first, that the gods take no delight in the sa- crifices of beasts r or in the images of gold and silver, but in a pious and obedient will ; and, secondly, that by prayers and sacrifices, dangers and afflictions may be sometimes removed, some- times lessened, other whiles deferred, and all this without any offence to the power, or necessity of fate. There are some things which Providence has left so far in suspence, that they seem to be (in a manner) conditional ; in such sort,, that Seneca's morals. 559 S .1 • 'icationsare necessary. even appearing evils may, upon our prayers and supplications, be turned into goods* Which is so far from being against fate, that it is even a part of fate itself. You will say— that either this shall eome to pass, or not ; if the former, it will be the same thing if we do not pray ; and if the other, it will be the same thing if we do. To this I must reply, that the proposition is false,, for want of the middle exception betwixt the one and the other. This will be, (say I) that is, if there shall any prayers interpose in the case. But then, do they object on the other side, that this very thing also is necessary; for it is likewise deter- mined by fate, either that we shall pray, or not. What if I should now grant you, that there s a fate also even in our very prayers - T a deter- mination that we shall pray ; and that therefore we shall pray ? It is decreed that a man shall be eloquent, but, upon condition that he apply himself to letters ; by the same fate, it is decreed that he shall so apply himself, and that therefore he shall learn. Such a man shall be rich, if he betake himself to navigation ; but the same fate that promises him a great estate, appoints also that he shall sail, and therefore he puts to sea. It is the same case in expiations: a man shall avoid dangers, if he can, by his prayers, avoid the threatenings of divine vengeance ; but this is part of his fate also, that he shall so do, and 56*0 seneca's morals. Judgments may be averted by prayers. therefore he does it. These arguments are made use of, to prove, that there is nothing left to our will, but that we are all over-ruled by fatalities. When we come to handle that matter,, we shall shew the consistency of free-will with fate, having already made it appear, that notwithstanding the certain order of fate, judgments may be averted, by prayers and supplications, and without any repugnance to fate ; for they are part even of the law of fate itself. You will say, perhaps — what am I the better for the priest, or the prophet : for whether he bids me sacrifice, or no, I lie under the necessity of doing it. Yes,, in this I am the better for it, as he is a. minister, of fate.. We may as well say,, that it is matter of fate that we are in health : and yet we are indebted for it to the physician; because the benefit of that fate is conveyed to us by his hand.. ALL THINGS ARE PRODUCED OUT OF CAUSE AND MATTER. I had yesterday but the one half of it to my- self: my distemper took up the morning; the afternoon was my own. My first trial was, how far I could endure reading, and when 1 saw I could bear that, I fell to writing, and pitched upon a subject difficult enough, for it required- great intention ; but yet I was resolved not to be overcome. Some of my friends coming in, toltL 2 SEXECa's MORALS. 56l All art is but an imitation of nature. me that I did ill, and took me oft'; so that from writing we passed into discourse, and made you judge of the matter in question. The Stoics, you know, will have all things to be produced out of cause and matter. The matter is dull and passive, susceptible of any thing, but not capa- ble of doing any thing itself. The cause is that power that forms the matter, this or that way, at pleasure. Something there must be, of which every thing is made ; and then there must be a workman to form every thing. All art is but an imitation of nature ; and that which I speak m general of the world, holds in the case of every particular person. As for example : the matter of a statue is the wood, the stone, or the metal ; the statuary shapes it, and is the cause of it. Aristotle assigns four causes to every thing. The material, which is the sine qua nan (or that with- out which it could not be). — The efficient, as the workman. — The formal, as that which is stamped upon all operations. — And the final, which is the •design of the whole work. Now to explain this. The first cause of the statue (for the purpose) is the copper ; for it had never been made, if there had not been something to work upon. The se- cond is the artificer ; for if he had not understood his art, it had never succeeded. The third cause is the form; for it could never properly havs 562 Seneca's mora m§. Of causes. been the statue of sucb, or such a person, if sucb a resemblance had not been put upon it. The fourth cause is the end of making it, without which it had never been made : as money, if it were made for sale ; glory, if the workmen made it for his credit; or religion, if he designed the bestowing of it upon a temple. Plato adds a- fifth, which he calls the idea, or the exemplar,, by which the workman draws his copy. And he makes God to be full of these figures, which he represents to be inexhaustible, unchangeable, and immortal. Now, upon the whole matter, give, us your opinion. To me it seems, that here are- cither too many causes assigned, or too few ; and thev might as well have introduced time and place, as some of the rest. Either clear the matter in question, or deal plainly, and tell us that you cannot j and so let us return to those cases, wherein all mankind is agreed, the reform- ing of our lives, and the regulation of our man- ners. For these subtilties are but time lost. Let us search ourselves in the first place, and after- ward the world- There is no great hurt in passing over those things which we are never the better for when we know ; and, it is so ordered by Providence,, that there is no great difficulty in learning, or ac- quiring, those tilings which make us either hap- ssneca's morals. 563 The universe noi the work of chance. pier, or better. Beside that, whatsoever is hurt- ful to us, we have drawn out of the very bowels of the earth. Every man knows, without telling, that this wonderful fabric of the universe is not without a governor, and that a constant order cannot be the work of chance ; for the parts would then fail foul one upon another. The motions of the stars, and their influences, are acted by the command of an eternal decree. It is by the dictate of an Almighty Powep, that the heavy body of the earth hangs in balance. Whence come the revo- lutions of the seasons, and the flux of rivers? The wonderful virtue of the smallest seeds? (as un oak to arise frora-an acorn). To say nothing of those things that seem to be most irregular and uncertain, as clouds, rain, thunder, the erup- tions of fire out of mountains, earthquakes, and those tumultuary motions in the lower region of the air, which have their ordinate causes; and so have those things too, which appear to us more admirable, because less frequent. As scald- ing fountains, and new islands started out of the sea; or, what shall we say of the ebbing and flowing of the ocean, the constant times and mea- sures of the tides, according to the changes of the moon that influences most bodies ? but this needs not ; for it is not that we doubt of Providence, 5b*4 senega's morals. A gallant man is fortune's match. 1 , ' i » ' ~*: but complain of it : and it were a good office to reconcile mankind to the gods, who are undoubt- edly best to the best. It is against nature that good should hurt good. A good man is not only the friend of God, but the very image, the disci- ple, and the imitator of him, and the true child of his heavenly father. He is true to himself; and acts with constancy and resolution. Scipio, by a cross wind, being forced into the power of his enemies, cast himself upon the point of his sword : and, as the people werfc enquiring what was become of the general — " The general," says Scipio, " is very well," and so he expired. What is it for a, man to fall, if we consider the end, beyond which no man can fall ? We must repair to wisdom for arms against fortune ; for it were unreasonable for her to furnish arms against her- self. A gallant man is fortune's match ; his cou- rage provokes and despises those terrible appear- ances, that would otherwise enslave us. A wise man is out of the reach of fortune, but not free frcm the malice of it; and all attempts upon him are no more than Xerxes's arrows, they may darken the day, but they cannot strike the sun, There is nothing so holy, as to be privileged from sacrilege. But, to strike, and not to wound, is anger lost; and he is invulnerable, that is struck, and not hurt. PI is resolution is tried ; the waves ■seneca's morals. 56\5 Of thunder. « — '- may dash themselves upon a rock, but not break it. Temples mav be prophaned and demolished, but the Deity still remains untouched. SOME TRADITIONS OF THE ANCIENTS CO VCETtN I N« 1HUNDER AND LIGHTNING; WITH THE author's CONTEMPLATION THEREUPON. There is no question, but that Providence has given to mortals the tokens, or forerunners, of things to come, and by those means laid open, in some measure, the decrees of fate; only we take notice of some things, without giving any heed to others. There is not any thing done, ac- cording to the course of nature, which is not either the cause, or the sign of something that follows ; so that wheresoever there is order, there is place for prediction. But there is no judgment to be given upon accidents. Now, though it is a very hard matter to arrive at the foreknowledge Gf things to come, and to predict particularly what shall hereafter fall out, upon a certain know- ledge of the power and influences of the stars, it is yet unquestionable that they have a power, though we cannot expressly say what it is. In the subject of thunder there are several opinions, as to the significations of it. The Stoics hold, that because the cloud is broken, therefore tl e 4>olt is short, (according to common speech)* 3C 566 seneca's morals. Three sorts of lightning. Others conjecture, that the cloud is broken to that very end, that it may discharge the thunder- bolt, referring all in such sort to God, as if the signification did not arise from the thing done, but as the thing itself were done for the significa- tion sake; but, whether the signification ^oes before, or follows, it comes all to the same point. There are three sorts of lightning: the first is so pure and subtile, that it pierces through whatso- ever it encounters ; the second shatters and breaks every thing to pieces; the other burns, either by blasting, consuming, inflaming, or discolouring, and the like. Some lightnings are monitory, some are menacing, and others they fancy to be promising. They allot to Jupiter three sorts, the first is only monitory and gentle, which he casts of his own accord : the second they make to be an act of counsel, as being done by the vote and advice of twelve gods. — This, they say, does many times some good, but not without some mischief too ; as the destruction of one man may prove the caution of another. The third is the result of a council of the superior deities, from whence proceed great mischiefs, both public and private. !Now this is a great folly to imagine, that Jupiter would wreak his displeasure upon pillars, trees, nay, upon temples themselves, and yet let the sacrilegious go free : to strike sheep, and consume altars; and all this upon a consul- senega's morals. 567 Whatsoever nature dots, God does. tation of the gods, as if he wanted either skill, or justice, to govern his own affairs by himself, either in sparing the guilty, or in destroying the innocent. Now, what should be the mystery of all this ? The wisdom of our forefathers found it necessary, to keep wicked people in awe, by the apprehension of a superior power ; and, to fright them into their good behaviour by the fear of an armed, and an avenging justice over their heads. But how comes it, that the lightning, which comes from Jupiter himself, should be said to be harm- less ; and that which he casts upon counsel and advice to be dangerous and mortal? The moral of it is this, that all kings should have Jupiter's example, do all good- by themselves ; and when severity is necessary, permit that to be done by others; beside that, as crimes are unequal, so also should be the punishments. Neither did they believe that Jupiter to be the thunderer, whose image was worshipped in the capital, and in other places ; but intended it for the Maker and Governor of the universe, by what name s< - ever we shall call him. Now, in truth, Jupiter does not immediately cast the lightning himself, but leaves nature to her ordinary method of ope- ration ; so that what he does not immediately by himself, he does yet cause to be done; for what- soever nature does, God does. There may be something gathered out of all tilings, that are 3 c 2 66S seneca's morals. Fortune has no power over the dead. either said, or done, that a man may be the bet- ter for ; and he does a greater thing, that mas- ters the fear of thunder, than he that discovers the reason of it. We are surrounded and beset with ill accidents,, and since we cannot avoid the stroke of them, let us prepare ourselves honestly to bear them. But how must that be ? by the contempt of death we do also contemn all things in the way to it, as wounds, shipwrecks, the fury of wild beasts, or any other violence whatsoever, which, at the worst, can but part the soul and the body : and we have this for our comfort* though our lives are at the mercy of fortune, she has yet no power over the dead. How many are there that call for death, in the distress of their heart?, even for the very fear of it ? and this unadvised desire of death does, in ommon, affect both the best and the worst of men; only with this difference, the former de- spise, and the other are weary of it. It is a nauseous thing to serve the body, and to be so many years a doing so many beastly things, over and over. It is well, if in our lives >ve can please others; but whatever we do in our deaths, let us be sure to please ourselves. Death i-s a thing which no care can avoid, no felicity can time it, no power overcome it ; other things are disposed of by chance and fortune, but death treats all men alike* seneca's morals. 56 ( J DitTeient philo — The prosperous must die, as well as the unfor- tunate ; and, methinks, the very despair of over- coming our fate, should inspire us with courage to encounter it : for there is no resolution so ob- stinate, as that which arises from necessity. It makes a coward as bold as Julrus Cassar, though upon different principles. "We are all of us re- served for death ; and, as nature brings forth one generation, she calls back another. The whole dispute is about the time, but nobody doubts about the thing itself. A COM TEMPTATION OF HEAVEN AND HEA- VENLY THINGS — OF GOD — AND OF THE SOUL. There is a great difference betwixt philosophy and other arts ; and a greater yet, betwixt that philosophy itself, which is of divine contempla- tion, and that which has a regard to things here below. It is much hicher and braver, it takes a larger scope ; and, being unsatisfied with what it sees, it aspires to the knowledge of something that is greater and fairer, and which nature has placed out of our kem The one only .teaches us what is to be done upon earth ; the other reveals to us that which actually is done in heaven — the one discusses our errors, and holds the light to us, by which we distinguish in the ambiguities of life; the other surmounts that darkness which 3 c 3 570 Seneca's morals. i Of God. we are wrapt up in r and carries us up to the foun- tain of light itself. And then it is that we are m a special manner to acknowledge the infinite grace and bounty of the nature of things; when we see it not only where it is public and common, but in the very secrets of it, as being admitted into the cabinet of the divinity itself. There it is that we are taught to understand what is the matter cf the world, who is the author and preserver of it. What God himself is, and whether he be wholly intent upon himself, or at any time descends -to consider us. "Whether he has done his work once for all, or whether he be still in action ; whether he be a part of the world, or the world itself;; whether he be at liberty, or no, to determine any thing anew to-day, and to controuT, or derogate, from the law of fate ; whether it be anydiminu-' tion of his wisdom, or any confession of error, to- do and undo, or to have made things that were afterward to be altered : for the same things must of necessity always please him, who can never be pleased but with that which is best. Now this is no lessening, either of his liberty, or of his power; for he himself is his own necessity .. Without the benefit and the comfort of these thoughts, it had been even as well for us never to have been born. For, to what end do we live; is it only to eat and to drink? To stuff upr an infirm and fluid carcass^ that would perish sr.Nr.CA r s morals". 57 J Of the soul. without it ; and to live only to a servant to one that is sick ? To fear death, to which we are all born ? Take away this inestimable good, and life itself is not worth the labour and the care of it. Oh ! how wretched, how contemptible a thino- were man, if he should not advance him- self above the state of human affairs ! So long as we struggle with our passions-, what is there in this world that we do, which is glorious? Nay, if we advance ourselves so far as to overcome them, it is but the destroying of so many mon- sters. And have we not then a mighty exploit to value ourselves upon, when we have made our- selves a little more tolerable than the worst of men r Is it not a wonderous matter to brag, that we are a little stronger than a man that is sick ? Alas ! alas ! my friend, there is a large difference betwixt strength and health. You have not a wicked mind, perhaps; you may have a clear brow, a tongue that will not flatter, and a single heart; you have not that avarice, perchance, that refuses to itself whatsoever it takes from other people ; nor that luxury, that squanders away money shamefully, and yet more shamefully repairs it ; nor that ambition, that leads you by unworthy ways to places of preferment. These are only negatives ; and you have got nothing all this while. You will tell me, that you have escaped many things ; but you have not yet 572 i seneca's morals. Iieflections. escaped yourself. The virtue that we recommend is high and illustrious. Not that it is a happi- ness in itself to be free from evil, but because it dignifies and enlarges the mind ; because it pre- pares for the knowledge of heavenly things, and makes it capable even of conversing with God himself. It is then arrived at the highest pitch of human felicity, when it soars aloft, and enters into the privacies of nature, trampling all that is evil, or vulgar, under his feet. V\ 7 hat a delight* what a transport is it, for a soul that is wander- ing among the stars, to look down and laugh at the palaces of princes, and the whole globe of the earth, and all its treasures ! I do not speak of that only that is converted into money and plate, but of that also which is reserved in the bowels of the earth, to gratify the insatiable co- veto usness of posterity. Nor can we ever bring ourselves to the absolute contempt of luxurious^ ornaments, rich furniture, stately buildings, plea- sant gardens and fountains, until we have the x world under us, and until looking down from the heavens, and beholding that spot of ground we live upon, the greater part of it covered with the sea, beside a great deal of it desolate, and either scorched, or frozen; we shall say thus to our- selves: — Is this miserable point the ball of con- tention, that is divided among so many nations with fire and sword ? How ridiculous are the 2 seneca's morals. 573 bounds, as well as the contests of mortals ; Such a prince must not pass such a river; nor another prince those mountains; and, why do not the very pismires canton out their posts and jurisdic- tions too ? For, what does the bustle of troops and armies amount to, more than the business- of a swarm of ants upon a mole-hill ? The scene of all the important actions here below, where, both at sea and land, we tug and scuffle for domi- nion and wealth, is but a wretched point of earth; whereas the dominions of the soul above are boundless. This very contemplation gives us force, liberty, and nourishment : the mind is there at home ; and it has this argument of its divi- nity, that it takes delight in what is divine. It contemplates the rising and the failing of the stars, and the admirable harmony of order, even in their various motions ; discussing and enquir- ing into every thing, as properly appertaining unto itself. With how much scorn does it then reflect upon the narrowness of its former habita- tion ? There it is, that it learns the end of its proper being, the knowledge of God. And, what is God? An immense and an almighty power; great, without limits; and he does whatsoever pleases him. He that applies himself to this study, transcends the very lot and condition of bis mortality. That almighty power is all that 374 Seneca's morals. The weakness and arrogance of some. we do see, and all that we do not see. What is the difference betwixt the divine nature and ours? Man is compounded, and his best part is his mind ; but the Almighty is all mind, and all rea- son ; and yet mortals are so blind, that the ac- tions of this incomprehensible power, so excellent ior beauty,, constancy, and disposition, are look- ed upon by many men only as fortuitous, and the work of chance j and subject to all the tumults of thunder, clouds, and tempests, that affect poor mortals. And this is not only the folly and mad- ness of the common people, but the weakness also of the wise men. There are, that arrogate to themselves the faculties of Providence and reason, and the skill of disposing, as well .other people's affairs as their own, and yet these very men are so besotted, as to imagine the world only to be governed by an unadvised rashness ; as if nature knew not what she did. How profitable would it be for us to know the truth of things,, and to allow them their due terms and measures ? To enquire into the power of the Almighty, and the method of his workings ; whether he made the matter itself, or found it ready to his hand ; and whether was first, the matter itself, or the idea of it ? Whether or no he does what he pleases ; and what may be the reason of so many seeming imperfections in his operations I It is. se^eca's morals. 573 Our notions of ihe diviniiy are obscure. -well said of Aristotle, that we should handle di- vine matters with modesty and reverence. When we enter into a temple, or approach the altar, we compose our looks and our actions to all the de- cencies of humility and respect: how much more then does it concern us, when we treat of heavenly things, to deal candidly, and not to let one syl- lable pass our lips that may savour of confidence, rashness, or ignorance ? Truth lies deep, and must be fetched up at leisure. How many myste- ries are there, which God has placed out of our sight; and which are only to be reached by thought and contemplation ! The notions of the ■divinity are profound and obscure; or else, per- haps, we see them, without understanding them. But tlie Divine Majesty is only accessible to the mind. What this is (without which nothing is) we are not able to determine ; and when we have guessed at some sparks of it, the greater part lies yet concealed from us. How many creatures have we now in this age, that never were known to us before ! and how many more will the next age know, more than we do ! and many yet will be still reserved for after-times. The very rites of religion are at this day a secret, and unknown to many people. Nay, the very thing that we most eagerly pursue, we are not yet arrived at; that is to say, a perfection in wickedness. Vice 576 seneca's morals. Philosophy disregarded. is still upon the improvement; luxury, immo desty, and a prostitute dissolution of manners will find still new matter to work upon. Our men are grown effeminate in their habits, in their mo- tions, and in their ornaments, even to the degree of whorishness. There is nobody minds philoso- phy, but for want of a comedy, perhaps, or in foul weather, when there is nothing else to be done. senega's morals. 577 Occasional remarks. POSTSCRIPT. JLSeFORE I take my last leave of Seneca, I will here discharge my conscience, as if I were upon my last leave with the whole world. I have been so just, both to the reader and to the author, that I have neither left out any thing in the original, which I thought the one might be the better for ; nor added any thing of my own, to make the other fare the worse. I have done, in this collection of Epistles, as a good husband does with his cold meat; they are only hash, made up of the frag- ments that remained of the two former parts, which 1 could not well dispose of in any other form; or so properly publish under any other title. Let me not yet be understood to im* pose this piece upon the public, as an abstract of Seneca's Epistles, any more than I did the other, for the abstracts of his Benefits and Happy Life. It is, in works of this nature, as it is in cordial waters, we taste all the ingredients, without be- 3d 57$ seneca's morals. No book pleases all palates. ing able to separate this from that but still we find the virtue of every plant in every drop. To return to my allegory, books and dishes have this common fate; there was never any one of either of them that pleased all palates. And, in truth, it is a thing as little to be wished for, as expected: for an universal applause is at least two-thirds of a scandal. So that, though I de- liver up these papers to the press, I invite no man to the reading of them; and whosoever reads, and repents, it is his own fault. To conclude, as I made this composition principally for myself, so it agrees exceedingly well with my constitution ; and yet, if any man has a mind to take part with me, he has free leave and welcome. But let him carry this consideration along with him — that he is a very unmannerly guest, that presses upon another body's table, and then quarrels with his dinner. / seneca's morals. 579 Truth not to be estimated by fancy. AFTER - THOUGHT. T> HIS abstract has now passed the fifth impres*- sion, but ihe world has not been altogether so kind, of late, to my politics as to my morals. And what is the meaning of it, bat that we live in an age that will better bear the image of what people ought to do, than the history of what they do ; and that is the difference they put be- twixt the one and the other. We are not yet to take an estimate of the intrinsic value of truth, honesty, or reason, by fancy, or imagination ; as if the standard of virtue were to be accommo- dated to the various changes and vicissitudes of times, interests, and contending parties: but so k falls cut, that some verities, and some good of- fices, will take a false colour better than others, and set off an imposture with more credit and countenance to the common people. Dairy ex- perience tells us, that our affections are as liable 3 d 2 680 slneca's morals. The present work is an epitome to be vitiated as our palates; insomuch, that the most profitable of meats, drinks, or remedies, lose not only their effect, but their very savour, and give us a loathing at one time, for that we longed for, and took delight in at another. But then we are to consider, that the humour may come about again ; and that writings and opinions have their seasons too, and take their turns, as well as all other changeable things under the sun. So that let error, corruption, or iniquity, be ever so strong, ever so popular ; let the ignorance of things, necessary to be known, be ever so dark and palpable, we may yet assure ourselves, that however truth and justice may suffer a temporary eclipse, they will yet, at the long run, as cer- tainly vindicate themselves, and recover their original glory, as the setting sun shall rise again. When I speak of my Morals, let me not be un- derstood to play the plagiary, and to assume the subject matter of this work to myself; for it is Seneca's, every thought and line of it, though it would be as hard to refer each sentence, text, and precept, to the very place whence it was drawn, as to bring every distinct drop in a cask of wine to the particular grape from whence it was pressed. So that I have no other claim to the merit of this composition, than the putting of things in order that I found in confusion, and digesting the loose minutes and the broken medi- Seneca's motials. 581 Of Seneca's philosophy concerning manners. tations of that divine heathen, into a kind of sys- tem of good counsels and of good manners. But bow faithfully soever 1 have dealt with my au- thor, in a just and genuine representation of his sense and meaning, so have I, on the other hand, with no less conscience and afiection, consulted the benefit, the ease, and the satisfaction of the English reader, in the plainness and simplicity of the style, and in the perspicuity of the method. And yet, after all this, there is somewhat still wanting, methinks,- toward the doing of a full right to Seneca, to the world, and to myself, and to the thorough- finishing of this piece; a thing that I have had in. my head long and often, and and which I have as good a will to prosecute, even at this instant, as ever, if I could but flatter myself with day enough before me to go through with it. But before I come to the point under deliberation, it will do well, first, to take a view ©f the true* state of the matter in hand, upon "what ground we stand at present. Secondly, to consider from whence it is that we are to take our rise to it, and so to open, briefly > and by degrees, into the thing itself. This abstract, I say, is entirely Seneca's ; and though little more in bulk than the third part of the original, it is, in effect, a summary of the - whole body of his philosophy concerning manners, contracted into this epitome, without either over- 3d3 582 seneca's morals. The author's profession was to give liglits'and hints; charging it with things idle and superfluous, or leaving out any thing, which I thought might contribute to the order and dignity of the work. As to his school-questions, and philosophical dis- quisitions upon the natural reason of things, I have almost totally cast them out, as curiosities that hold little or no intelligence with the govern- ment of our passions, and the forming of our lives ; and as matters, consequently, that are al- together foreign to my province. I have taken the liberty also, in many cases, where our author inculcates and enforces the same conceptions over and over again in variety of phrase, to extract the spirit of them, and, instead of dressing up the same thought in several shapes, to make some one adequate word, or sentence, serve for all. But when all is said that can be said, nay, and when all is done too that can be done, within the compass of an essay of this qualit)', though ever so correct in the kind, it is, at the best, but an abstract still; and a bare abstract will never do the business as it ought to be done. It is not one jot derogatory to Seneca's charac- terj to observe upon him, that he made it his profession rather to give lights and hints to the world, than to write corpus's of morality, and prescribe rules and measures in a set course of philosophy, for the common instruction of man- kind: so that many of his thoughts seem to spring seneca's mctrals. 583 He was a man made for ine 'ration. only like sparks upon a kind of collision, or a striking of fire within himself, and with a very little dependence sometimes one upon another. What if those incomparable starts, and strictures of his, that no translator can lay hold of, shall be yet allowed, by the common voice of man- kind, to be as much superior to those parts of him that will bear the turning, as the faculties and operations of the soul are to the functions of the body ? and no way of conveying the benignity of those influences to the world, but by a specu- lation upon them in paraphrase. In few words, Seneca was a man made for meditation. He was undoubtedly a man of choice thoughts, and he employed the vigour of them upon a most illus- trious subject. Beside that, that this ranging humour of his (as Mr. Hobbs expresses it), is accompanied with so wonderful a felicity of lively and pertinent reflections, even in the most ordi- nary occurrences of life; and his applications so happy also, that every man reads him over again within himself, and feels, and confesses in his own heart, the truth of his doctrine. What can be done more than this now in the whole world, to- ward establishing of a right principle ? for there is no test of the truth and reason of things, like that which has along with it the assent of univer- sal nature. As he was much given to thinking, =o he wrote principally for thinking men; the pe- 584 seneca's biohals. The author's innuendns riods that he lays most stress upon, are only so many detachments of one select thought from an- other, and every fresh hint furnishes a new text to work upon. So that the reading of Seneca, without reading upon him, does but the one half of our business ; for his innuendos are infinitely snore instructive than his words at length, and there is no coming at him- in those heights with- out a paraphrase. It will be here objected, that a paraphrase is but the reading upon a text, or an arbitrary de- scant upon the original, at the will and pleasure of the interpreter: if we have all of Seneca's that is good already, there is no place left for a sup- plement; and the animadversion wiLl be no more Seneca's, at last, than our comments upon the word of God are holy writ. A paraphrase, it is true, may be loose, arbi- trary, and extravagant. And so may any thing, eke «hat ever was committed to writing.; nay,, the best, and the most necessary of duties, facul- ties, and things, may degenerate by the abuse of them, into acts of. sin, shame, and folly. Men may blaspheme in their prayers; they may poison, one another in their cups, or in their porridge,. They mav talk treason, and, in short, they may do a million of extravagant things in all cases and offices, that any man can imagine under the sun. And what is the objector's inference now 7 . seneca's morals. 58.j from the possibility of this abuse, but that we are neither to pray, nor to eat, nor to drink, nor to open our mouths, nor, in fine, to do any thing else, for fear of more possibilities, as dangerous as the other? It is suggested again, that the pa- raphrase is foreign to the text, and that the ani- madvertor may make the author speak what he pleases. Now the question is not the possibility of a vain, an empty, a flat, or an unedifying ex- position : but the need, the use, the means, the possibility, nay, and the easiness of furnishing a good one ; beside that, there is no hurt at all, on the one hand, to countervail a very considerable advantage to all men of letters, and of common honesty ,°on the other. A short, or an idle com- ment, does only disgrace the writer of it, while the reputation of the author stands nevertheless as firm as ever it did : but he that finishes Se- neca's Minutes, with proper and reasonable sup- plements, where he does not speak his own thoughts out at large, does a necessary right, both to the dead aud to the living, and a common ser- vice to mankind. He does a right to the dead, I say, more ways than one; for over and above the justice and re- spect that is due to his memory, it is, in a tan- equity of construction, a performance of the very will of the dead. For all his fragments of hint and essay, were manifestly designed for other 5§6 seneca's morals. Though a great paraphrase upon himself, people to meditate, read, and speculate upon ; and a great part of the end of them is lost, with- out such an improvement; so that the very man- ner of his writings call for a paraphrase ; a para- phrase he expected, and a paraphrase is due to him ; and, in short, we owe a paraphrase to our- selves too j for the meaning of his hints and mi- nutes does as well deserve to be expounded, as the sense and energy of his words. Nay, and when all is done, whoever considers how he diver- sifies the same thing over and over, in a change of phrase; how many several ways he winds and moulds his own thoughts ; and now he labours under the difficulty of clearing even his own mean- ing : whoever considers this, I say, will find Se- neca, upon the whole matter, to be in a great mea- sure a paraphrase upon himself. He gives you his first sense of things, and then he enlarges upon it, improves it, distinguishes, expounds, dilates, &c and \\ hen he finds at last that he cannot bring up the force of his words to the purity and vigour of his conception, so as to extricate himself in all respects to h;s own satisfaction,, it is his course, commonly, to draw the stress of the question to a point, and there to let it rest; as a theme of light that stands effectually recommended to far- ther consideration. This must not be taken as if Seneca could not speak his own mind as full and as home as any man ; or as if he left any thing seneca's morals. 587 He -tiimilates reader to pursue.- b : . - imperfect because be could not finish it himself; but it was a turn of art in him, by breaking off with an &c. to create an appetite in the reader of pursuing the hint ; over and above the flowing of matter so fast upon him, that it was impossi- ble for his words to keep pace with his thoughts. Be this now spoken with all reverence to his divine Essays upon Providence, Happy Life, Be- nefits, Anger, Clemency, Human Frailty, -&c. where he shews as much skill in the distribution of his matter, the congruity and proportion of the parts, and the harmony of the whole in the con- text, as he does of a natural felicity in adapting the tendency and the virtue of his sententious raptures to the use of human life. So that he was evidently in possession of both faculties, (of springing game, that is, and of flying it home,) though he made choice of exercising the one of- jener than the other. There is a vein in this mixture, that runs through ail his discourses, whether broken, or continued; albeit that there is no touching any piece of Ins to advantage, after he lias finished it ; there is room abundantly yet 'for explication, and for supplement, in other cases, where he snaps off short, wiih a kind of cetera desiderantur ; and so leaves a foundation for those to build upon that shall come after him. Now these independent thoughts are the touches that I would otfer to a farther improvement ; and 4 5S8 sejteca's morals. Commentators should adhere to their theme. only here and there one of the most elevated, even of them too, which will amount to no more* in the conclusion, than a discourse upon this or that theme, or text, under what name or title the expositor pleases. I would not, however, have the comment break in upon the context; and I would so scrupulously confine it to the bounds of modesty and conscience, as not to de- part, upon any terms, either from the intent of the original, or from the reason of the matter in question : this office performed, would raise an- other Seneca out of the ashes of the former, and make, perhaps, a manual of salutary precepts, for the ordering of uur passions, and for the re- gulation of our lives, not inferior to any other whatsoever, the divine oracles of holy inspiration only excepted. For it w r ould reach all states of men, all conditions of fortune, all distresses of body, all perturbations of mind ; and, in fine, it would answer all the ends that are worthy of an honest man's case. It was once in my head to digest the whole into such an abstract as might, at the same time, do the office also of a para- phrase, both under one ; but what with the scru- ple of either assuming any of Seneca's excellen- k ies to myself, or of imputing any of my weak- nesses to Seneca, I compounded the matter thus within myself: that though both would do well, ihe doing of them separate and apart would be seneca's morals. 5S