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Perennial Questions in the Pursuit of Happiness
This List Is By:
Thomas C. Behr
University of Houston
Director of Liberal Studies at UH, a new B.A. degree program that has students complete three minors instead of a traditional major and minor. Besides the three minors, students have 42 credit hours of core requirements and two years of a foreign language required. LS majors must also complete a “capstone” class, ILAS 4350 “Senior Seminar in Liberal Studies” that is a great books course, offered every semester.
I’m looking to develop an online reading list for that course for when it is taught during the summer semester in Rome, Italy (five weeks in Rome) beginning this coming summer.
Best regards to my LF friends!
Readings in the “Great Books” to contemplate the perennial questions, to hone critical reasoning, reading, writing, and discussion skills for life-long learning. The required “capstone” course for University of Houston’s B.A. in Liberal Studies. Dr. Thomas Behr, J.D., Ph.D., Director.
1: Moses, The Second Book of Moses, called Exodus (KJV) [1885]
Moses, The Parallel Bible. The Holy Bible containing the Old and New Testaments translated out of the Original Tongues: being the Authorised Version arranged in parallel columns with the Revised Version (Oxford University Press, 1885). The Book of Exodus.
Accessed from oll.libertyfund.org/title/2016 on 2011-05-14
The text is in the public domain.
EXODUS
THE SECOND BOOK OF MOSES, CALLED EXODUS. (A. V.)
1
1 Now * these are the names of the children of Israel, which came into Egypt; every man and his household came with Jacob.
2 Reuben, Simeon, Levi, and Judah,
3 Issachar, Zebulun, and Benjamin,
4 Dan, and Naphtali, Gad, and Asher.
5 And all the souls that came out of the † loins of Jacob were * seventy souls: for Joseph was in Egypt already.
6 And Joseph died, and all his brethren, and all that generation.
7 ¶ * And the children of Israel were fruitful, and increased abundantly, and multiplied, and waxed exceeding mighty; and the land was filled with them.
8 Now there arose up a new king over Egypt, which knew not Joseph.
9 And he said unto his people, Behold, the people of the children of Israel are more and mightier than we:
10 Come on, let us deal wisely with them; lest they multiply, and it come to pass, that, when there falleth out any war, they join also unto our enemies, and fight against us, and so get them up out of the land.
11 Therefore they did set over them taskmasters to afflict them with their burdens. And they built for Pharaoh treasure cities, Pithom and Raamses.
12† But the more they afflicted them, the more they multiplied and grew. And they were grieved because of the children of Israel.
13 And the Egyptians made the children of Israel to serve with rigour:
14 And they made their lives bitter with hard bondage, in morter, and in brick, and in all manner of service in the field: all their service, wherein they made them serve, was with rigour.
15 ¶ And the king of Egypt spake to the Hebrew midwives, of which the name of the one was Shiphrah, and the name of the other Puah:
16 And he said, When ye do the office of a midwife to the Hebrew women, and see them upon the stools; if it be a son, then ye shall kill him: but if it be a daughter, then she shall live.
17 But the midwives feared God, and did not as the king of Egypt commanded them, but saved the men children alive.
18 And the king of Egypt called for the midwives, and said unto them, Why have ye done this thing, and have saved the men children alive?
19 And the midwives said unto Pharaoh, Because the Hebrew women are not as the Egyptian women; for they are lively, and are delivered ere the midwives come in unto them.
20 Therefore God dealt well with the midwives: and the people multiplied, and waxed very mighty.
21 And it came to pass, because the midwives feared God, that he made them houses.
22 And Pharaoh charged all his people, saying, Every son that is born ye shall cast into the river, and every daughter ye shall save alive.
2
1 And there went * a man of the house of Levi, and took to wife a daughter of Levi.
2 And the woman conceived, and bare a son: and when she saw him that he was a goodly child, she * hid him three months.
3 And when she could not longer hide him, she took for him an ark of bulrushes, and daubed it with slime and with pitch, and put the child therein; and she laid it in the flags by the river’s brink.
4 And his sister stood afar off, to wit what would be done to him.
5 ¶ And the daughter of Pharaoh came down to wash herself at the river; and her maidens walked along by the river’s side; and when she saw the ark among the flags, she sent her maid to fetch it.
6 And when she had opened it, she saw the child: and, behold, the babe wept. And she had compassion on him, and said, This is one of the Hebrews’ children.
7 Then said his sister to Pharaoh’s daughter, Shall I go and call to thee a nurse of the Hebrew women, that she may nurse the child for thee?
8 And Pharaoh’s daughter said to her, Go. And the maid went and called the child’s mother.
9 And Pharaoh’s daughter said unto her, Take this child away, and nurse it for me, and I will give thee thy wages. And the woman took the child, and nursed it.
10 And the child grew, and she brought him unto Pharaoh’s daughter, and he became her son. And she called his name ∥ Moses: and she said, Because I drew him out of the water.
11 ¶ And it came to pass in those days, when Moses was grown, that he went out unto his brethren, and looked on their burdens: and he spied an Egyptian smiting an Hebrew, one of his brethren.
12 And he looked this way and that way, and when he saw that there was no man, he slew the Egyptian, and hid him in the sand.
13 And when he went out the second day, behold, two men of the Hebrews strove together: and he said to him that did the wrong, Wherefore smitest thou thy fellow?
14 And he said, Who made thee † a prince and a judge over us? intendest thou to kill me, as thou killedst the Egyptian? And Moses feared, and said, Surely this thing is known.
15 Now when Pharaoh heard this thing, he sought to slay Moses. But Moses fled from the face of Pharaoh, and dwelt in the land of Midian: and he sat down by a well.
16 Now the ∥ priest of Midian had seven daughters: and they came and drew water, and filled the troughs to water their father’s flock.
17 And the shepherds came and drove them away: but Moses stood up and helped them, and watered their flock.
18 And when they came to Reuel their father, he said, How is it that ye are come so soon to day?
19 And they said, An Egyptian delivered us out of the hand of the shepherds, and also drew water enough for us, and watered the flock.
20 And he said unto his daughters, And where is he? why is it that ye have left the man? call him, that he may eat bread.
21 And Moses was content to dwell with the man: and he gave Moses Zipporah his daughter.
22 And she bare him a son, and he called his name * Gershom: for he said, I have been a stranger in a strange land.
23 ¶ And it came to pass in process of time, that the king of Egypt died: and the children of Israel sighed by reason of the bondage, and they cried, and their cry came up unto God by reason of the bondage.
24 And God heard their groaning, and God remembered his * covenant with Abraham, with Isaac, and with Jacob.
25 And God looked upon the children of Israel, and God † had respect unto them.
3
1 Now Moses kept the flock of Jethro his father in law, the priest of Midian: and he led the flock to the backside of the desert, and came to the mountain of God, even to Horeb.
2 And the angel of the Lord appeared unto him in a * flame of fire out of the midst of a bush: and he looked, and, behold, the bush burned with fire, and the bush was not consumed.
3 And Moses said, I will now turn aside, and see this great sight, why the bush is not burnt.
4 And when the Lord saw that he turned aside to see, God called unto him out of the midst of the bush, and said, Moses, Moses. And he said, Here am I.
5 And he said, Draw not nigh hither: * put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground.
6 Moreover he said, * I am the God of thy father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob. And Moses hid his face; for he was afraid to look upon God.
7 ¶ And the Lord said, I have surely seen the affliction of my people which are in Egypt, and have heard their cry by reason of their taskmasters; for I know their sorrows;
8 And I am come down to deliver them out of the hand of the Egyptians, and to bring them up out of that land unto a good land and a large, unto a land flowing with milk and honey; unto the place of the Canaanites, and the Hittites, and the Amorites, and the Perizzites, and the Hivites, and the Jebusites.
9 Now therefore, behold, the cry of the children of Israel is come unto me: and I have also seen the oppression wherewith the Egyptians oppress them.
10 Come now therefore, and I will send thee unto Pharaoh, that thou mayest bring forth my people the children of Israel out of Egypt.
11 ¶ And Moses said unto God, Who am I, that I should go unto Pharaoh, and that I should bring forth the children of Israel out of Egypt?
12 And he said, Certainly I will be with thee; and this shall be a token unto thee, that I have sent thee: When thou hast brought forth the people out of Egypt, ye shall serve God upon this mountain.
13 And Moses said unto God, Behold, when I come unto the children of Israel, and shall say unto them, The God of your fathers hath sent me unto you; and they shall say to me, What is his name? what shall I say unto them?
14 And God said unto Moses, I AM THAT I AM: and he said, Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, I AM hath sent me unto you.
15 And God said moreover unto Moses, Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, The Lord God of your fathers, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, hath sent me unto you: this is my name for ever, and this is my memorial unto all generations.
16 Go, and gather the elders of Israel together, and say unto them, The Lord God of your fathers, the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, appeared unto me, saying, I have surely visited you, and seen that which is done to you in Egypt:
17 And I have said, I will bring you up out of the affliction of Egypt unto the land of the Canaanites, and the Hittites, and the Amorites, and the Perizzites, and the Hivites, and the Jebusites, unto a land flowing with milk and honey.
18 And they shall hearken to thy voice: and thou shalt come, thou and the elders of Israel, unto the king of Egypt, and ye shall say unto him, The Lord God of the Hebrews hath met with us: and now let us go, we beseech thee, three days’ journey into the wilderness, that we may sacrifice to the Lord our God.
19 ¶ And I am sure that the king of Egypt will not let you go, ∥ no, not by a mighty hand
20 And I will stretch out my hand, and smite Egypt with all my wonders which I will do in the midst thereof: and after that he will let you go.
21 And I will give this people favour in the sight of the Egyptians: and it shall come to pass, that, when ye go, ye shall not go empty.
22* But every woman shall borrow of her neighbour, and of her that sojourneth in her house, jewels of silver, and jewels of gold, and raiment: and ye shall put them upon your sons, and upon your daughters; and ye shall spoil ∥ the Egyptians.
4
1 And Moses answered and said, But, behold, they will not believe me, nor hearken unto my voice: for they will say, The Lord hath not appeared unto thee.
2 And the Lord said unto him, What is that in thine hand? And he said, A rod.
3 And he said, Cast it on the ground. And he cast it on the ground, and it became a serpent; and Moses fled from before it.
4 And the Lord said unto Moses, Put forth thine hand, and take it by the tail. And he put forth his hand, and caught it, and it became a rod in his haud:
5 That they may believe that the Lord God of their fathers, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, hath appeared unto thee.
6 ¶ And the Lord said furthermore unto him, Put now thine hand into thy bosom. And he put his hand into his bosom: and when he took it out, behold, his hand was leprous as snow.
7 And he said, Put thine hand into thy bosom again. And he put his hand into his bosom again; and plucked it out of his bosom, and, behold, it was turned again as his other flesh.
8 And it shall come to pass, if they will not believe thee, neither hearken to the voice of the first sign, that they will believe the voice of the latter sign.
9 And it shall come to pass, if they will not believe also these two signs, neither hearken unto thy voice, that thou shalt take of the water of the river, and pour it upon the dry land: and the water which thou takest out of the river † shall become blood upon the dry land.
10 ¶ And Moses said unto the Lord, O my Lord, I am not † eloquent, neither † heretofore, nor since thou hast spoken unto thy servant: but I am slow of speech, and of a slow tongue.
11 And the Lord said unto him, Who hath made man’s mouth? or who maketh the dumb, or deaf, or the seeing, or the blind? have not I the Lord?
12 Now therefore go, and I will be * with thy mouth, and teach thee what thou shalt say.
13 And he said, O my Lord, send, I pray thee, by the hand of him whom thou ∥ wilt send.
14 And the anger of the Lord was kindled against Moses, and he said, Is not Aaron the Levite thy brother? I know that he can speak well. And also, behold, he cometh forth to meet thee: and when he seeth thee, he will be glad in his heart.
15 And thou shalt speak unto him, and put words in his mouth: and I will be with thy mouth, and with his mouth, and will teach you what ye shall do.
16 And he shall be thy spokesman unto the people: and he shall be, even he shall be to thee instead of a mouth, and * thou shalt be to him instead of God.
17 And thou shalt take this rod in thine hand, wherewith thou shalt do signs.
18 ¶ And Moses went and returned to Jethro his father in law, and said unto him, Let me go, I pray thee, and return unto my brethren which are in Egypt, and see whether they be yet alive. And Jethro said to Moses, Go in peace.
19 And the Lord said unto Moses in Midian, Go, return into Egypt: for all the men are dead which sought thy life.
20 And Moses took his wife and his sons, and set them upon an ass, and he returned to the land of Egypt: and Moses took the rod of God in his hand.
21 And the Lord said unto Moses, When thou goest to return into Egypt, see that thou do all those wonders before Pharaoh, which I have put in thine hand: but I will harden his heart, that he shall not let the people go.
22 And thou shalt say unto Pharaoh, Thus saith the Lord, Israel is my son, even my firstborn:
23 And I say unto thee, Let my son go, that he may serve me: and if thou refuse to let him go, behold, I will slay thy son, even thy firstborn.
24 ¶ And it came to pass by the way in the inn, that the Lord met him, and sought to kill him.
25 Then Zipporah took a sharp ∥ stone, and cut off the foreskin of her son, and † cast it at his feet, and said, Surely a bloody husband art thou to me.
26 So he let him go: then she said, A bloody husband thou art, because of the circumcision.
27 ¶ And the Lord said to Aaron, Go into the wilderness to meet Moses. And he went, and met him in the mount of God, and kissed him.
28 And Moses told Aaron all the words of the Lord who had sent him, and all the signs which he had commanded him.
29 ¶ And Moses and Aaron went and gathered together all the elders of the children of Israel:
30 And Aaron spake all the words which the Lord had spoken unto Moses, and did the signs in the sight of the people.
31 And the people believed: and when they heard that the Lord had visited the children of Israel, and that he had looked upon their affliction, then they bowed their heads and worshipped.
5
1 And afterward Moses and Aaron went in, and told Pharaoh, Thus saith the Lord God of Israel, Let my people go, that they may hold a feast unto me in the wilderness.
2 And Pharaoh said, Who is the Lord, that I should obey his voice to let Israel go? I know not the Lord, neither will I let Israel go.
3 And they said, * The God of the Hebrews hath met with us: let us go, we pray thee, three days’ journey into the desert, and sacrifice unto the Lord our God; lest he fall upon us with pestilence, or with the sword.
4 And the king of Egypt said unto them, Wherefore do ye, Moses and Aaron, let the people from their works? get you unto your burdens.
5 And Pharaoh said, Behold, the people of the land now are many, and ye make them rest from their burdens.
6 And Pharaoh commanded the same day the taskmasters of the people, and their officers, saying,
7 Ye shall no more give the people straw to make brick, as heretofore: let them go and gather straw for themselves.
8 And the tale of the bricks, which they did make heretofore, ye shall lay upon them; ye shall not diminish ought thereof: for they be idle; therefore they cry, saying, Let us go and sacrifice to our God.
9† Let there more work be laid upon the men, that they may labour therein; and let them not regard vain words.
10 ¶ And the taskmasters of the people went out, and their officers, and they spake to the people, saying, Thus saith Pharaoh, I will not give you straw.
11 Go ye, get you straw where ye can find it: yet not ought of your work shall be diminished.
12 So the people were scattered abroad throughout all the land of Egypt to gather stubble instead of straw.
13 And the taskmasters hasted them, saying, Fulfil your works, your† daily tasks, as when there was straw.
14 And the officers of the children of Israel, which Pharaoh’s taskmasters had set over them, were beaten, and demanded, Wherefore have ye not fulfilled your task in making brick both yesterday and to day, as heretofore?
15 ¶ Then the officers of the children of Israel came and cried unto Pharaoh, saying, Wherefore dealest thou thus with thy servants?
16 There is no straw given unto thy servants, and they say to us, Make brick: and, behold, thy servants are beaten; but the fault is in thine own people.
17 But he said, Ye are idle, ye are idle: therefore ye say, Let us go and do sacrifice to the Lord.
18 Go therefore now, and work; for there shall no straw be given you, yet shall ye deliver the tale of bricks.
19 And the officers of the children of Israel did see that they were in evil case, after it was said, Ye shall not minish ought from your bricks of your daily task.
20 ¶ And they met Moses and Aaron, who stood in the way, as they came forth from Pharaoh:
21 And they said unto them, The Lord look upon you, and judge; because ye have made our savour † to be abhorred in the eyes of Pharaoh, and in the eyes of his servants, to put a sword in their hand to slay us.
22 And Moses returned unto the Lord, and said, Lord, wherefore hast thou so evil entreated this people? why is it that thou hast sent me?
23 For since I came to Pharaoh to speak in thy name, he hath done evil to this people; † neither hast thou delivered thy people at all.
6
1 Then the Lord said unto Moses, Now shalt thou see what I will do to Pharaoh: for with a strong hand shall he let them go, and with a strong hand shall he drive them out of his land.
2 And God spake unto Moses, and said unto him, I am the Lord:
3 And I appeared unto Abraham, unto Isaac, and unto Jacob, by the name of God Almighty, but by my name JEHOVAH was I not known to them.
4 And I have also established my covenant with them, to give them the land of Canaan, the land of their pilgrimage, wherein they were strangers.
5 And I have also heard the groaning of the children of Israel, whom the Egyptians keep in bondage; and I have remembered my covenant.
6 Wherefore say unto the children of Israel, I am the Lord, and I will bring you out from under the burdens of the Egyptians, and I will rid you out of their bondage, and I will redeem you with a stretched out arm, and with great judgments:
7 And I will take you to me for a people, and I will be to you a God: and ye shall know that I am the Lord your God, which bringeth you out from under the burdens of the Egyptians.
8 And I will bring you in unto the land, concerning the which I did † swear to give it to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob; and I will give it you for an heritage: I am the Lord.
9 ¶ And Moses spake so unto the children of Israel: but they hearkened not unto Moses for † anguish of spirit, and for cruel bondage.
10 And the Lord spake unto Moses, saying,
11 Go in, speak unto Pharaoh king of Egypt, that he let the children of Israel go out of his land.
12 And Moses spake before the Lord, saying, Behold; the children of Israel have not hearkened unto me; how then shall Pharaoh hear me, who am of uncircumcised lips?
13 And the Lord spake unto Moses and unto Aaron, and gave them a charge unto the children of Israel, and unto Pharaoh king of Egypt, to bring the children of Israel out of the land of Egypt.
14 ¶ These be the heads of their fathers’ houses: * The sons of Reuben the firstborn of Israel; Hanoch, and Pallu, Hezron, and Carmi: these be the families of Reuben.
15* And the sons of Simeon; Jemuel, and Jamin, and Ohad, and Jachin, and Zohar, and Shaul the son of a Canaanitish woman: these are the families of Simeon.
16 ¶ And these are the names of * the sons of Levi according to their generations; Gershon, and Kohath, and Merari: and the years of the life of Levi were an hundred thirty and seven years.
17 The sons of Gershon; Libni, and Shimi, according to their families.
18 And * the sons of Kohath; Amram, and Izhar, and Hebron, and Uzziel: and the years of the life of Kohath were an hundred thirty and three years.
19 And the sons of Merari; Mahali and Mushi: these are the families of Levi according to their generations.
20 And * Amram took him Jochebed his father’s sister to wife; and she bare him Aaron and Moses: and the years of the life of Amram were an hundred and thirty and seven years.
21 ¶ And the sons of Izhar; Korah, and Nepheg, and Zichri.
22 And the sons of Uzziel; Mishael, and Elzaphan, and Zithri.
23 And Aaron took him Elisheba, daughter of Amminadab, sister of Naashon, to wife; and she bare him Nadab, and Abihu, Eleazar, and Ithamar.
24 And the sons of Korah; Assir, and Elkanah, and Abiasaph: these are the families of the Korhites.
25 And Eleazar Aaron’s son took him one of the daughters of Putiel to wife; and * she bare him Phinehas: these are the heads of the fathers of the Levites according to their families.
26 These are that Aaron and Moses, to whom the Lord said, Bring out the children of Israel from the land of Egypt according to their armies.
27 These are they which spake to Pharaoh king of Egypt, to bring out the children of Israel from Egypt: these are that Moses and Aaron.
28 ¶ And it came to pass on the day when the Lord spake unto Moses in the land of Egypt,
29 That the Lord spake unto Moses, saying, I am the Lord: speak thou unto Pharaoh king of Egypt all that I say unto thee.
30 And Moses said before the Lord, Behold, I am of uncircumcised lips, and how shall Pharaoh hearken unto me?
7
1 And the Lord said unto Moses, See, I have made thee a god to Pharaoh: and Aaron thy brother shall be thy prophet.
2 Thou shalt speak all that I command thee: and Aaron thy brother shall speak unto Pharaoh, that he send the children of Israel out of his land.
3 And I will harden Pharaoh’s heart, and multiply my signs and my wonders in the land of Egypt.
4 But Pharaoh shall not hearken unto you, that I may lay my hand upon Egypt, and bring forth mine armies, and my people the children of Israel, out of the land of Egypt by great judgments.
5 And the Egyptians shall know that I am the Lord, when I stretch forth mine hand upon Egypt, and bring out the children of Israel from among them.
6 And Moses and Aaron did as the Lord commanded them, so did they.
7 And Moses was fourscore years old, and Aaron fourscore and three years old, when they spake unto Pharaoh.
8 ¶ And the Lord spake unto Moses and unto Aaron, saying,
9 When Pharaoh shall speak unto you, saying, Shew a miracle for you: then thou shalt say unto Aaron, Take thy rod, and cast it before Pharaoh, and it shall become a serpent.
10 ¶ And Moses and Aaron went in unto Pharaoh, and they did so as the Lord had commanded: and Aaron cast down his rod before Pharaoh, and before his servants, and it became a serpent.
11 Then Pharaoh also called the wise men and the sorcerers: now the magicians of Egypt, they also did in like manner with their enchantments.
12 For they cast down every man his rod, and they became serpents: but Aaron’s rod swallowed up their rods.
13 And he hardened Pharaoh’s heart, that he hearkened not unto them; as the Lord had said
14 ¶ And the Lord said unto Moses, Pharaoh’s heart is hardened, he refuseth to let the people go.
15 Get thee unto Pharaoh in the morning; lo, he goeth out unto the water; and thou shalt stand by the river’s brink against he come; and the rod which was turned to a serpent shalt thou take in thine hand.
16 And thou shalt say unto him, The Lord God of the Hebrews hath sent me unto thee, saying, Let my people go, that they may serve me in the wilderness: and, behold, hitherto thou wouldest not hear.
17 Thus saith the Lord, In this thou shalt know that I am the Lord: behold, I will smite with the rod that is in mine hand upon the waters which are in the river, and they shall be turned to blood.
18 And the fish that is in the river shall die, and the river shall stink; and the Egyptians shall lothe to drink of the water of the river.
19 ¶ And the Lord spake unto Moses, Say unto Aaron, Take thy rod, and stretch out thine hand upon the waters of Egypt, upon their streams, upon their rivers, and upon their ponds, and upon all their † pools of water, that they may become blood; and that there may be blood throughout all the land of Egypt, both in vessels of wood, and in vessels of stone.
20 And Moses and Aaron did so, as the Lord commanded; and he * lifted up the rod, and smote the waters that were in the river, in the sight of Pharaoh, and in the sight of his servants; and all the * waters that were in the river were turned to blood.
21 And the fish that was in the river died; and the river stank, and the Egyptians could not drink of the water of the river; and there was blood throughout all the land of Egypt.
22* And the magicians of Egypt did so with their enchantments: and Pharaoh’s heart was hardened, neither did he hearken unto them; as the Lord had said.
23 And Pharaoh turned and went into his house, neither did he set his heart to this also.
24 And all the Egyptians digged round about the river for water to drink; for they could not drink of the water of the river.
25 And seven days were fulfilled, after that the Lord had smitten the river.
8
1 And the Lord spake unto Moses, Go unto Pharaoh, and say unto him, Thus saith the Lord, Let my people go, that they may serve me.
2 And if thou refuse to let them go, behold, I will smite all thy borders with frogs:
3 And the river shall bring forth frogs abundantly, which shall go up and come into thine house, and into thy bedchamber, and upon thy bed, and into the house of thy servants, and upon thy people, and into thine ovens, and into thy ∥ kneadingtroughs:
4 And the frogs shall come up both on thee, and upon thy people, and upon all thy servants.
5 ¶ And the Lord spake unto Moses, Say unto Aaron, Stretch forth thine hand with thy rod over the streams, over the rivers, and over the ponds, and cause frogs to come up upon the land of Egypt.
6 And Aaron stretched out his hand over the waters of Egypt; and the frogs came up, and covered the land of Egypt.
7* And the magicians did so with their enchantments, and brought up frogs upon the land of Egypt.
8 ¶ Then Pharaoh called for Moses and Aaron, and said, Intreat the Lord, that he may take away the frogs from me, and from my people; and I will let the people go, that they may do sacrifice unto the Lord.
9 And Moses said unto Pharaoh, ∥ Glory over me: ∥ when shall I intreat for thee, and for thy servants, and for thy people, † to destroy the frogs from thee and thy houses, that they may remain in the river only?
10 And he said, ∥ To morrow. And he said, Be it according to thy word: that thou mayest know that there is none like unto the Lord our God.
11 And the frogs shall depart from thee, and from thy houses, and from thy servants, and from thy people; they shall remain in the river only.
12 And Moses and Aaron went out from Pharaoh: and Moses cried unto the Lord because of the frogs which he had brought against Pharaoh.
13 And the Lord did according to the word of Moses; and the frogs died out of the houses, out of the villages, and out of the fields.
14 And they gathered them together upon heaps: and the land stank.
15 But when Pharaoh saw that there was respite, he hardened his heart, and hearkened not unto them; as the Lord had said.
16 ¶ And the Lord said unto Moses. Say unto Aaron, Stretch out thy rod, and smite the dust of the land, that it may become lice throughout all the land of Egypt.
17 And they did so; for Aaron stretched out his hand with his rod, and smote the dust of the earth, and it became lice in man, and in beast; all the dust of the land became lice throughout all the land of Egypt.
18 And the magicians did so with their enchantments to bring forth lice, but they could not: so there were lice upon man, and upon beast.
19 Then the magicians said unto Pharaoh, This is the finger of God: and Pharaoh’s heart was hardened, and he hearkened not unto them; as the Lord had said.
20 ¶ And the Lord said unto Moses, Rise up early in the morning, and stand before Pharaoh; lo, he cometh forth to the water; and say unto him, Thus saith the Lord, Let my people go, that they may serve me.
21 Else, if thou wilt not let my people go, behold, I will send ∥ swarms of flies upon thee, and upon thy servants, and upon thy people, and into thy houses: and the houses of the Egyptians shall be full of swarms of flies, and also the ground whereon they are.
22 And I will sever in that day the land of Goshen, in which my people dwell, that no swarms of flies shall be there; to the end thou mayest know that I am the Lord in the midst of the earth.
23 And I will put † a division between my people and thy people: ∥ to morrow shall this sign be.
24 And the Lord did so; and * there came a grievous swarm of flies into the house of Pharaoh, and into his servants’ houses, and into all the land of Egypt: the land was ∥ corrupted by reason of the swarm of flies.
25 ¶ And Pharaoh called for Moses and for Aaron, and said, Go ye, sacrifice to your God in the land.
26 And Moses said, It is not meet so to do; for we shall sacrifice the abomination of the Egyptians to the Lord our God: lo, shall we sacrifice the abomination of the Egyptians before their eyes, and will they not stone us?
27 We will go three days’ journey into the wilderness, and sacrifice to the Lord our God, as * he shall command us.
28 And Pharaoh said, I will let you go, that ye may sacrifice to the Lord your God in the wilderness; only ye shall not go very far away: intreat for me.
29 And Moses said, Behold, I go out from thee, and I will intreat the Lord that the swarms of flies may depart from Pharaoh, from his servants, and from his people, to morrow: but let not Pharaoh deal deceitfully any more in not letting the people go to sacrifice to the Lord.
30 And Moses went out from Pharaoh, and intreated the Lord.
31 And the Lord did according to the word of Moses; and he removed the swarms of flies from Pharaoh, from his servants, and from his people; there remained not one
32 And Pharaoh hardened his heart at this time also, neither would he let the people go.
9
1 Then the Lord said unto Moses, Go in unto Pharaoh, and tell him, Thus saith the Lord God of the Hebrews, Let my people go, that they may serve me.
2 For if thou refuse to let them go, and wilt hold them still,
3 Behold, the hand of the Lord is upon thy cattle which is in the field, upon the horses, upon the asses, upon the camels, upon the oxen, and upon the sheep: there shall be a very grievous murrain.
4 And the Lord shall sever between the cattle of Israel and the cattle of Egypt: and there shall nothing die of all that is the children’s of Israel.
5 And the Lord appointed a set time, saying, To morrow the Lord shall do this thing in the land.
6 And the Lord did that thing on the morrow, and all the cattle of Egypt died: but of the cattle of the children of Israel died not one.
7 And Pharaoh sent, and, behold, there was not one of the cattle of the Israelites dead. And the heart of Pharaoh was hardened, and he did not let the people go.
8 ¶ And the Lord said unto Moses and unto Aaron, Take to you handfuls of ashes of the furnace, and let Moses sprinkle it toward the heaven in the sight of Pharaoh.
9 And it shall become small dust in all the land of Egypt, and shall be a boil breaking forth with blains upon man, and upon beast, throughout all the land of Egypt.
10 And they took ashes of the furnace, and stood before Pharaoh; and Moses sprinkled it up toward heaven; and it became a boil breaking forth with blains upon man, and upon beast.
11 And the magicians could not stand before Moses because of the boils; for the boil was upon the magicians, and upon all the Egyptians.
12 And the Lord hardened the heart of Pharaoh, and he hearkened not unto them; * as the Lord had spoken unto Moses.
13 ¶ And the Lord said unto Moses, Rise up early in the morning, and stand before Pharaoh, and say unto him, Thus saith the Lord God of the Hebrews, Let my people go, that they may serve me.
14 For I will at this time send all my plagues upon thine heart, and upon thy servants, and upon thy people; that thou mayest know that there is none like me in all the earth.
15 For now I will stretch out my hand, that I may smite thee and thy people with pestilence; and thou shalt be cut off from the earth.
16 And in very deed for * this cause have I † raised thee up, for to shew in thee my power; and that my name may be declared throughout all the earth.
17 As yet exaltest thou thyself against my people, that thou wilt not let them go?
18 Behold, to morrow about this time I will cause it to rain a very grievous hail, such as hath not been in Egypt since the foundation thereof even until now.
19 Send therefore now, and gather thy cattle, and all that thou hast in the field; for upon every man and beast which shall be found in the field, and shall not be brought home, the hail shall come down upon them, and they shall die.
20 He that feared the word of the Lord among the servants of Pharaoh made his servants and his cattle flee into the houses:
21 And he that † regarded not the word of the Lord left his servants and his cattle in the field.
22 ¶ And the Lord said unto Moses, Stretch forth thine hand toward heaven, that there may be hail in all the land of Egypt, upon man, and upon beast, and upon every herb of the field, throughout the land of Egypt.
23 And Moses stretched forth his rod toward heaven: and the Lord sent thunder and hail, and the fire ran along upon the ground; and the Lord rained hail upon the land of Egypt.
24 So there was hail, and fire mingled with the hail, very grievous, such as there was none like it in all the land of Egypt since it became a nation.
25 And the hail smote throughout all the land of Egypt all that was in the field, both man and beast; and the hail smote every herb of the field, and brake every tree of the field.
26 Only in the land of Goshen, where the children of Israel were, was there no hail.
27 ¶ And Pharaoh sent, and called for Moses and Aaron, and said unto them, I have sinned this time: the Lordis righteous, and I and my people are wicked.
28 Intreat the Lord (for it is enough) that there be no more† mighty thunderings and hail; and I will let you go, and ye shall stay no longer.
29 And Moses said unto him, As soon as I am gone out of the city, I will spread abroad my hands unto the Lord;and the thunder shall cease, neither shall there be any more hail; that thou mayest know how that the * earth is the Lord’s.
30 But as for thee and thy servants, I know that ye will not yet fear the Lord God.
31 And the flax and the barley was smitten: for the barley was in the ear, and the flax was bolled.
32 But the wheat and the rie were not smitten: for they were† not grown up.
33 And Moses went out of the city from Pharaoh, and spread abroad his hands unto the Lord: and the thunders and hail ceased, and the rain was not poured upon the earth.
34 And when Pharaoh saw that the rain and the hail and the thunders were ceased, he sinned yet more, and hardened his heart, he and his servants.
35 And the heart of Pharaoh was hardened, neither would he let the children of Israel go; as the Lord had spoken † by Moses.
10
1 And the Lord said unto Moses, Go in unto Pharaoh: * for I have hardened his heart, and the heart of his servants, that I might shew these my signs before him:
2 And that thou mayest tell in the ears of thy son, and of thy son’s son, what things I have wrought in Egypt, and my signs which I have done among them; that ye may know how that I am the Lord.
3 And Moses and Aaron came in unto Pharaoh, and said unto him, Thus saith the Lord God of the Hebrews, How long wilt thou refuse to humble thyself before me? let my people go, that they may serve me.
4 Else, if thou refuse to let my people go, behold, to morrow will I bring the * locusts into thy coast:
5 And they shall cover the † face of the earth, that one cannot be able to see the earth: and they shall eat the residue of that which is escaped, which remaineth unto you from the hail, and shall eat every tree which groweth for you out of the field:
6 And they shall fill thy houses, and the houses of all thy servants, and the houses of all the Egyptians; which neither thy fathers, nor thy fathers’ fathers have seen, since the day that they were upon the earth unto this day. And he turned himself, and went out from Pharaoh.
7 And Pharaoh’s servants said unto him, How long shall this man be a snare unto us? let the men go, that they may serve the Lord their God: knowest thou not yet that Egypt is destroyed?
8 And Moses and Aaron were brought again unto Pharaoh: and he said unto them, Go, serve the Lord your God: but† who are they that shall go?
9 And Moses said, We will go with our young and with our old, with our sons and with our daughters, with our flocks and with our herds will we go; for we must hold a feast unto the Lord.
10 And he said unto them, Let the Lord be so with you, as I will let you go, and your little ones: look to it; for evil is before you.
11 Not so: go now ye that are men, and serve the Lord; for that ye did desire. And they were driven out from Pharaoh’s presence.
12 ¶ And the Lord said unto Moses, Stretch out thine hand over the land of Egypt for the locusts, that they may come up upon the land of Egypt, and eat every herb of the land, even all that the hail hath left.
13 And Moses stretched forth his rod over the land of Egypt, and the Lord brought an east wind upon the land all that day, and all that night; and when it was morning, the east wind brought the locusts.
14 And the locusts went up over all the land of Egypt, and rested in all the coasts of Egypt: very grievous were they; before them there were no such locusts as they, neither after them shall be such.
15 For they covered the face of the whole earth, so that the land was darkened; and they did eat every herb of the land, and all the fruit of the trees which the hail had left: and there remained not any green thing in the trees, or in the herbs of the field, through all the land of Egypt.
16 ¶ Then Pharaoh † called for Moses and Aaron in haste; and he said, I have sinned against the Lord your God, and against you.
17 Now therefore forgive, I pray thee, my sin only this once, and intreat the Lord your God, that he may take away from me this death only.
18 And he went out from Pharaoh, and intreated the Lord.
19 And the Lord turned a mighty strong west wind, which took away the locusts, and † cast them into the Red sea; there remained not one locust in all the coasts of Egypt.
20 But the Lord hardened Pharaoh’s heart, so that he would not let the children of Israel go.
21 ¶ And the Lord said unto Moses, Stretch out thine hand toward heaven, that there may be darkness over the land of Egypt, † even darkness which may be felt.
22 And Moses stretched forth his hand toward heaven; and there was a thick darkness in all the land of Egypt three days:
23 They saw not one another, neither rose any from his place for three days: * but all the children of Israel had light in their dwellings.
24 ¶ And Pharaoh called unto Moses, and said, Go ye, serve the Lord; only let your flocks and your herds be stayed: let your little ones also go with you.
25 And Moses said, Thou must give † us also sacrifices and burnt offerings, that we may sacrifice unto the Lord our God.
26 Our cattle also shall go with us; there shall not an hoof be left behind; for thereof must we take to serve the Lord our God; and we know not with what we must serve the Lord, until we come thither.
27 ¶ But the Lord hardened Pharaoh’s heart, and he would not let them go.
28 And Pharaoh said unto him, Get thee from me, take heed to thyself, see my face no more; for in that day thou seest my face thou shalt die.
29 And Moses said, Thou hast spoken well, I will see thy face again no more.
11
1 And the Lord said unto Moses, Yet will I bring one plague more upon Pharaoh, and upon Egypt; afterwards he will let you go hence: when he shall let you go, he shall surely thrust you out hence altogether.
2 Speak now in the ears of the people, and let every man borrow of his neighbour, and every woman of her neighbour, * jewels of silver, and jewels of gold.
3 And the Lord gave the people favour in the sight of the Egyptians. Moreover the man * Moses was very great in the land of Egypt, in the sight of Pharaoh’s servants, and in the sight of the people.
4 And Moses said, Thus saith the Lord,* About midnight will I go out into the midst of Egypt:
5 And all the firstborn in the land of Egypt shall die, from the firstborn of Pharaoh that sitteth upon his throne, even unto the firstborn of the maidservant that is behind the mill; and all the firstborn of beasts.
6 And there shall be a great cry throughout all the land of Egypt, such as there was none like it, nor shall be like it any more.
7 But against any of the children of Israel shall not a dog move his tongue, against man or beast: that ye may know how that the Lord doth put a difference between the Egyptians and Israel.
8 And all these thy servants shall come down unto me, and bow down themselves unto me, saying, Get thee out, and all the people † that follow thee: and after that I will go out. And he went out from Pharaoh in † a great anger.
9 And the Lord said unto Moses, Pharaoh shall not hearken unto you; that my wonders may be multiplied in the land of Egypt.
10 And Moses and Aaron did all these wonders before Pharaoh: and the Lord hardened Pharaoh’s heart, so that he would not let the children of Israel go out of his land.
12
1 And the Lord spake unto Moses and Aaron in the land of Egypt, saying,
2 This month shall be unto you the beginning of months: it shall be the first month of the year to you.
3 ¶ Speak ye unto all the congregation of Israel, saying, In the tenth day of this month they shall take to them every man a ∥ lamb, according to the house of their fathers, a lamb for an house:
4 And if the household be too little for the lamb, let him and his neighbour next unto his house take it according to the number of the souls; every man according to his eating shall make your count for the lamb.
5 Your lamb shall be without blemish, a male † of the first year: ye shall take it out from the sheep, or from the goats:
6 And ye shall keep it up until the fourteenth day of the same month: and the whole assembly of the congregation of Israel shall kill it † in the evening.
7 And they shall take of the blood, and strike it on the two side posts and on the upper door post of the houses, wherein they shall eat it.
8 And they shall eat the flesh in that night, roast with fire, and unleavened bread; and with bitter herbs they shall eat it.
9 Eat not of it raw, nor sodden at all with water, but roast with fire; his head with his legs, and with the purtenance thereof.
10 And ye shall let nothing of it remain until the morning; and that which remaineth of it until the morning ye shall burn with fire.
11 ¶ And thus shall ye eat it; with your loins girded, your shoes on your feet, and your staff in your hand; and ye shall eat it in haste: it is the Lord’s passover.
12 For I will pass through the land of Egypt this night, and will smite all the firstborn in the land of Egypt, both man and beast; and against all the ∥ gods of Egypt I will execute judgment: I am the Lord.
13 And the blood shall be to you for a token upon the houses where ye are: and when I see the blood, I will pass over you, and the plague shall not be upon you † to destroy you, when I smite the land of Egypt.
14 And this day shall be unto you for a memorial; and ye shall keep it a feast to the Lord throughout your generations; ye shall keep it a feast by an ordinance for ever.
15 Seven days shall ye eat unleavened bread; even the first day ye shall put away leaven out of your houses: for whosoever eateth leavened broad from the first day until the seventh day, that soul shall be cut off from Israel.
16 And in the first day there shall be an holy convocation, and in the seventh day there shall be an holy convocation to you; no manner of work shall be done in them, save that which every † man must eat, that only may be done of you.
17 And ye shall observe the feast of unleavened bread; for in this selfsame day have I brought your armies out of the land of Egypt: therefore shall ye observe this day in your generations by an ordinance for ever.
18 ¶ * In the first month, on the fourteenth day of the month at even, ye shall eat unleavened bread, until the one and twentieth day of the month at even.
19 Seven days shall there be no leaven found in your houses: for whosoever eateth that which is leavened, even that soul shall be cut off from the congregation of Israel, whether he be a stranger, or born in the land.
20 Ye shall eat nothing leavened; in all your habitations shall ye eat unleavened bread.
21 ¶ Then Moses called for all the elders of Israel, and said unto them, Draw out and take you a ∥ lamb according to your families, and kill the passover.
22* And ye shall take a bunch of hyssop, and dip it in the blood that is in the bason, and strike the lintel and the two side posts with the blood that is in the bason; and none of you shall go out at the door of his house until the morning.
23 For the Lord will pass through to smite the Egyptians; and when he seeth the blood upon the lintel, and on the two side posts, the Lord will pass over the door, and will not suffer the destroyer to come in unto your houses to smite you.
24 And ye shall observe this thing for an ordinance to thee and to thy sons for ever.
25 And it shall come to pass, when ye be come to the land which the Lord will give you, according as he hath promised, that ye shall keep this service.
26* And it shall come to pass, when your children shall say unto you, What mean ye by this service?
27 That ye shall say, It is the sacrifice of the Lord’s passover, who passed over the houses of the children of Israel in Egypt, when he smote the Egyptians, and delivered our houses. And the people bowed the head and worshipped.
28 And the children of Israel went away, and did as the Lord had commanded Moses and Aaron, so did they.
29 ¶ * And it came to pass, that at midnight the Lord smote all the firstborn in the land of Egypt, * from the firstborn of Pharaoh that sat on his throne unto the firstborn of the captive that was in the † dungeon; and all the firstborn of cattle.
30 And Pharaoh rose up in the night, he, and all his servants, and all the Egyptians; and there was a great cry in Egypt; for there was not a house where there was not one dead.
31 ¶ And he called for Moses and Aaron by night, and said, Rise up, and get you forth from among my people, both ye and the children of Israel; and go, serve the Lord, as ye have said.
32 Also take your flocks and your herds, as ye have said, and be gone; and bless me also.
33 And the Egyptians were urgent upon the people, that they might send them out of the land in haste; for they said, We be all dead men.
34 And the people took their dough before it was leavened, their ∥ kneadingtroughs being bound up in their clothes upon their shoulders.
35 And the children of Israel did according to the word of Moses; and they borrowed of the Egyptians * jewels of silver, and jewels of gold, and raiment:
36 And the Lord gave the people favour in the sight of the Egyptians, so that they lent unto them such things as they required. And they spoiled the Egyptians.
37 ¶ And * the children of Israel journeyed from Rameses to Succoth, about six hundred thousand on foot that were men, beside children.
38 And † a mixed multitude went up also with them; and flocks, and herds, even very much cattle.
39 And they baked unleavened cakes of the dough which they brought forth out of Egypt, for it was not leavened; because they were thrust out of Egypt, and could not tarry, neither had they prepared for themselves any victual.
40 ¶ Now the sojourning of the children of Israel, who dwelt in Egypt, was* four hundred and thirty years.
41 And it came to pass at the end of the four hundred and thirty years, even the selfsame day it came to pass, that all the hosts of the Lord went out from the land of Egypt.
42 It is† a night to be much observed unto the Lord for bringing them out from the land of Egypt: this is that night of the Lord to be observed of all the children of Israel in their generations.
43 ¶ And the Lord said unto Moses and Aaron, This is the ordinance of the passover: There shall no stranger eat thereof:
44 But every man’s servant that is bought for money, when thou hast circumcised him, then shall he eat thereof.
45 A foreigner and an hired servant shall not eat thereof.
46 In one house shall it be eaten; thou shalt not carry forth ought of the flesh abroad out of the house; * neither shall ye break a bone thereof.
47 All the congregation of Israel shall † keep it.
48 And when a stranger shall sojourn with thee, and will keep the passover to the Lord, let all his males be circumcised, and then let him come near and keep it; and he shall be as one that is born in the land: for no uncircumcised person shall eat thereof.
49 One law shall be to him that is homeborn, and unto the stranger that sojourneth among you.
50 Thus did all the children of Israel; as the Lord commanded Moses and Aaron, so did they.
51 And it came to pass the selfsame day, that the Lord did bring the children of Israel out of the land of Egypt by their armies.
13
1 And the Lord spake unto Moses, saying,
2* Sanctify unto me all the firstborn, whatsoever openeth the womb among the children of Israel, both of man and of beast: it is mine.
3 ¶ And Moses said unto the people, Remember this day, in which ye came out from Egypt, out of the house of † bondage; for by strength of hand the Lord brought you out from this place: there shall no leavened bread be eaten.
4 This day came ye out in the month Abib.
5 ¶ And it shall be when the Lord shall bring thee into the land of the Canaanites, and the Hittites, and the Amorites, and the Hivites, and the Jebusites, which he sware unto thy fathers to give thee, a land flowing with milk and honey, that thou shalt keep this service in this month.
6 Seven days thou shalt eat unleavened bread, and in the seventh day shall be a feast to the Lord.
7 Unleavened bread shall be eaten seven days; and there shall no leavened bread be seen with thee, neither shall there be leaven seen with thee in all thy quarters.
8 ¶ And thou shalt shew thy son in that day, saying, This is done because of that which the Lord did unto me when I came forth out of Egypt.
9 And it shall be for a sign unto thee upon thine hand, and for a memorial between thine eyes, that the Lord’s law may be in thy mouth: for with a strong hand hath the Lord brought thee out of Egypt.
10 Thou shalt therefore keep this ordinance in his season from year to year.
11 ¶ And it shall be when the Lord shall bring thee into the land of the Canaanites, as he sware unto thee and to thy fathers, and shall give it thee,
12* That thou shalt † set apart unto the Lord all that openeth the matrix, and every firstling that cometh of a beast which thou hast; the males shall be the Lord’s.
13 And every firstling of an ass thou shalt redeem with a ∥ lamb; and if thou wilt not redeem it, then thou shalt break his neck: and all the firstborn of man among thy children shalt thou redeem.
14 ¶ And it shall be when thy son asketh thee † in time to come, saying, What is this? that thou shalt say unto him, By strength of hand the Lord brought us out from Egypt, from the house of bondage:
15 And it came to pass, when Pharaoh would hardly let us go, that the Lord slew all the firstborn in the land of Egypt, both the firstborn of man, and the firstborn of beast: therefore I sacrifice to the Lord all that openeth the matrix, being males; but all the firstborn of my children I redeem.
16 And it shall be for a token upon thine hand, and for frontlets between thine eyes: for by strength of hand the Lord brought us forth out of Egypt.
17 ¶ And it came to pass, when Pharaoh had let the people go, that God led them not through the way of the land of the Philistines, although that was near; for God said, Lest peradventure the people repent when they see war, and they return to Egypt:
18 But God led the people about, through the way of the wilderness of the Red sea: and the children of Israel went up ∥ harnessed out of the land of Egypt.
19 And Moses took the bones of Joseph with him: for he had straitly sworn the children of Israel, saying, * God will surely visit you; and ye shall carry up my bones away hence with you.
20 ¶ And * they took their journey from Suecoth, and encamped in Etham, in the edge of the wilderness.
21 And * the Lord went before them by day in a pillar of a cloud, to lead them the way; and by night in a pillar of fire, to give them light; to go by day and night:
22 He took not away the pillar of the cloud by day, * nor the pillar of fire by night, from before the people.
14
1 And the Lord spake unto Moses, saying,
2 Speak unto the children of Israel, that they turn and encamp before * Pi-hahiroth, between Migdol and the sea, over against Baal-zephon: before it shall ye encamp by the sea.
3 For Pharaoh will say of the children of Israel, They are entangled in the land, the wilderness hath shut them in.
4 And I will harden Pharaoh’s heart, that he shall follow after them; and I will be honoured upon Pharaoh, and upon all his host; that the Egyptians may know that I am the Lord. And they did so.
5 ¶ And it was told the king of Egypt that the people fled: and the heart of Pharaoh and of his servants was turned against the people, and they said, Why have we done this, that we have let Israel go from serving us?
6 And he made ready his chariot, and took his people with him:
7 And he took six hundred chosen chariots, and all the chariots of Egypt, and captains over every one of them.
8 And the Lord hardened the heart of Pharaoh king of Egypt, and he pursued after the children of Israel: and the children of Israel went out with an high hand.
9 But the * Egyptians pursued after them, all the horses and chariots of Pharaoh, and his horsemen, and his army, and overtook them encamping by the sea, beside Pi-hahiroth, before Baal-zephon.
10 ¶ And when Pharaoh drew nigh, the children of Israel lifted up their eyes, and, behold, the Egyptians marched after them; and they were sore afraid: and the children of Israel cried out unto the Lord.
11 And they said unto Moses, Because there were no graves in Egypt, hast thou taken us away to die in the wilderness? wherefore hast thou dealt thus with us, to carry us forth out of Egypt?
12*Is not this the word that we did tell thee in Egypt, saying, Let us alone, that we may serve the Egyptians? For it had been better for us to serve the Egyptians, than that we should die in the wilderness.
13 ¶ And Moses said unto the people, Fear ye not, stand still, and see the salvation of the Lord, which he will shew to you to day: ∥ for the Egyptians whom ye have seen to day, ye shall see them again no more for ever.
14 The Lord shall fight for you, and ye shall hold your peace.
15 ¶ And the Lord said unto Moses, Wherefore criest thou unto me? speak unto the children of Israel, that they go forward:
16 But lift thou up thy rod, and stretch out thine hand over the sea, and divide it: and the children of Israel shall go on dry ground through the midst of the sea.
17 And I, behold, I will harden the hearts of the Egyptians, and they shall follow them: and I will get me honour upon Pharaoh, and upon all his host, upon his chariots, and upon his horsemen.
18 And the Egyptians shall know that I am the Lord, when I have gotten me honour upon Pharaoh, upon his chariots, and upon his horsemen.
19 ¶ And the angel of God, which went before the camp of Israel, removed and went behind them; and the pillar of the cloud went from before their face, and stood behind them:
20 And it came between the camp of the Egyptians and the camp of Israel; and it was a cloud and darkness to them, but it gave light by night to these: so that the one came not near the other all the night.
21 And Moses stretched out his hand over the sea; and the Lord caused the sea to go back by a strong east wind all that night, and made the sea dry land, and the waters were * divided.
22 And * the children of Israel went into the midst of the sea upon the dry ground: and the waters were a wall unto them on their right hand, and on their left.
23 ¶ And the Egyptians pursued, and went in after them to the midst of the sea, even all Pharaoh’s horses, his chariots, and his horsemen.
24 And it came to pass, that in the morning watch the Lord looked unto the host of the Egyptians through the pillar of fire and of the cloud, and troubled the host of the Egyptians,
25 And took off their chariot wheels, ∥ that they drave them heavily: so that the Egyptians said, Let us flee from the face of Israel; for the Lord fighteth for them against the Egyptians.
26 ¶ And the Lord said unto Moses, Stretch out thine hand over the sea, that the waters may come again upon the Egyptians, upon their chariots, and upon their horsemen.
27 And Moses stretched forth his hand over the sea, and the sea returned to his strength when the morning appeared; and the Egyptians fled against it; and the Lord† overthrew the Egyptians in the midst of the sea.
28 And the waters returned, and covered the chariots, and the horsemen, and all the host of Pharaoh that came into the sea after them; there remained not so much as * one of them.
29 But the children of Israel walked upon dry land in the midst of the sea; and the waters were a wall unto them on their right hand, and on their left.
30 Thus the Lord saved Israel that day out of the hand of the Egyptians; and Israel saw the Egyptians dead upon the sea shore.
31 And Israel saw that great † work which the Lord did upon the Egyptians: and the people feared the Lord, and believed the Lord, and his servant Moses.
15
1 Then sang * Moses and the children of Israel this song unto the Lord, and spake, saying, I will sing unto the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously: the horse and his rider hath he thrown into the sea.
2 The Lordis my strength and song, and he is become my salvation: he is my God, and I will prepare him an habitation; my father’s God, and I will exalt him.
3 The Lordis a man of war: the Lordis his name.
4 Pharaoh’s chariots and his host hath he cast into the sea: his chosen captains also are drowned in the Red sea.
5 The depths have covered them: they sank into the bottom as a stone.
6 Thy right hand, O Lord, is become glorious in power: thy right hand, O Lord, hath dashed in pieces the enemy.
7 And in the greatness of thine excellency thou hast overthrown them that rose up against thee: thou sentest forth thy wrath, which consumed them as stubble.
8 And with the blast of thy nostrils the waters were gathered together, the floods stood upright as an heap, and the depths were congealed in the heart of the sea.
9 The enemy said, I will pursue, I will overtake, I will divide the spoil; my lust shall be satisfied upon them; I will draw my sword, my hand shall ∥ destroy them.
10 Thou didst blow with thy wind, the sea covered them: they sank as lead in the mighty waters.
11 Who is like unto thee, O Lord, among the ∥ gods? who is like thee, glorious in holiness, fearful in praises, doing wonders?
12 Thou stretchedst out thy right hand, the earth swallowed them.
13 Thou in thy mercy hast led forth the people which thou hast redeemed: thou hast guided them in thy strength unto thy holy habitation.
14* The people shall hear, and be afraid: sorrow shall take hold on the inhabitants of Palestina.
15 Then the dukes of Edom shall be amazed; the mighty men of Moab, trembling shall take hold upon them; all the inhabitants of Canaan shall melt away.
16* Fear and dread shall fall upon them; by the greatness of thine arm they shall be as still as a stone; till thy people pass over, O Lord, till the people pass over, which thou hast purchased.
17 Thou shalt bring them in, and plant them in the mountain of thine inheritance, in the place, O Lord,which thou hast made for thee to dwell in, in the Sanctuary, O Lord, which thy hands have established.
18 The Lord shall reign for ever and ever.
19 For the horse of Pharaoh went in with his chariots and with his horsemen into the sea, and the Lord brought again the waters of the sea upon them; but the children of Israel went on dry land in the midst of the sea.
20 ¶ And Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances.
21 And Miriam answered them, Sing ye to the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously; the horse and his rider hath he thrown into the sea.
22 So Moses brought Israel from the Red sea, and they went out into the wilderness of Shur; and they went three days in the wilderness, and found no water.
23 ¶ And when they came to Marah, they could not drink of the waters of Marah, for they were bitter: therefore the name of it was called ∥ Marah.
24 And the people murmured against Moses, saying, What shall we drink?
25 And he cried unto the Lord; and the Lord shewed him a * tree, which when he had cast into the waters, the waters were made sweet: there he made ‡ for them a statute and an ordinance, and there he proved them,
26 And said, If thou wilt diligently hearken to the voice of the Lord thy God, and wilt do that which is right in his sight, and wilt give ear to his commandments, and keep all his statutes, I will put none of these diseases upon thee, which I have brought upon the Egyptians: for I am the Lord that healeth thee.
27 ¶ * And they came to Elim, where were twelve wells of water, and threescore and ten palm trees: and they encamped there by the waters.
16
1 And they took their journey from Elim, and all the congregation of the children of Israel came unto the wilderness of Sin, which is between Elim and Sinai, on the fifteenth day of the second month after their departing out of the land of Egypt.
2 And the whole congregation of the children of Israel murmured against Moses and Aaron in the wilderness:
3 And the children of Israel said unto them, Would to God we had died by the hand of the Lord in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the flesh pots, and when we did eat bread to the full; for ye have brought us forth into this wilderness, to kill this whole assembly with hunger.
4 ¶ Then said the Lord unto Moses, Behold, I will rain bread from heaven for you; and the people shall go out and gather † a certain rate every day, that I may prove them, whether they will walk in my law, or no.
5 And it shall come to pass, that on the sixth day they shall prepare that which they bring in; and it shall be twice as much as they gather daily.
6 And Moses and Aaron said unto all the children of Israel, At even, then ye shall know that the Lord hath brought you out from the land of Egypt:
7 And in the morning, then ye shall see the glory of the Lord; for that he heareth your murmurings against the Lord: and what are we, that ye murmur against us?
8 And Moses said, This shall be, when the Lord shall give you in the evening flesh to eat, and in the morning bread to the full; for that the Lord heareth your murmurings which ye murmur against him: and what are we? your murmurings are not against us, but against the Lord.
9 ¶ And Moses spake unto Aaron, Say unto all the congregation of the children of Israel, Come near before the Lord: for he hath heard your murmurings.
10 And it came to pass, as Aaron spake unto the whole congregation of the children of Israel, that they looked toward the wilderness, and, behold, the glory of the Lord* appeared in the cloud.
11 ¶ And the Lord spake unto Moses, saying,
12 I have heard the murmurings of the children of Israel: speak unto them, saying, At even ye shall eat flesh, and in the morning ye shall be filled with bread; and ye shall know that I am the Lord your God.
13 And it came to pass, that at even * the quails came up, and covered the camp: and in the morning the dew lay round about the host.
14 And when * the dew that lay was gone up, behold, upon the face of the wilderness there lay a small round thing, as small as the hoar frost on the ground.
15 And when the children of Israel saw it, they said one to another, ∥ It is manna: for they wist not what it was. And Moses said unto them, * This is the bread which the Lord hath given you to eat.
16 ¶ This is the thing which the Lord hath commanded, Gather of it every man according to his eating, an omer † for every man, according to the number of your † persons; take ye every man for them which are in his tents.
17 And the children of Israel did so, and gathered, some more, some less.
18 And when they did mete it with an omer, * he that gathered much had nothing over, and he that gathered little had no lack; they gathered every man according to his eating.
19 And Moses said, Let no man leave of it till the morning.
20 Notwithstanding they hearkened not unto Moses; but some of them left of it until the morning, and it bred worms, and stank: and Moses was wroth with them.
21 And they gathered it every morning, every man according to his eating: and when the sun waxed hot, it melted.
22 ¶ And it came to pass, that on the sixth day they gathered twice as much bread, two omers for one man: and all the rulers of the congregation came and told Moses.
23 And he said unto them, This is that which the Lord hath said, To morrow is the rest of the holy sabbath unto the Lord: bake that which ye will bake to day, and seethe that ye will seethe; and that which remaineth over lay up for you to be kept until the morning.
24 And they laid it up till the morning, as Moses bade: and it did not stink, neither was there any worm therein.
25 And Moses said, Eat that to day; for to day is a sabbath unto the Lord: to day ye shall not find it in the field.
26 Six days ye shall gather it; but on the seventh day, which is the sabbath, in it there shall be none.
27 ¶ And it came to pass, that there went out some of the people on the seventh day for to gather, and they found none.
28 And the Lord said unto Moses, How long refuse ye to keep my commandments and my laws?
29 See, for that the Lord hath given you the sabbath, therefore he giveth you on the sixth day the bread of two days; abide ye every man in his place, let no man go out of his place on the seventh day.
30 So the people rested on the seventh day.
31 And the house of Israel called the name thereof Manna: and it was like coriander seed, white; and the taste of it was like wafers made with honey.
32 ¶ And Moses said, This is the thing which the Lord commandeth, Fill an omer of it to be kept for your generations; that they may see the bread wherewith I have fed you in the wilderness, when I brought you forth from the land of Egypt.
33 And Moses said unto Aaron, Take a pot, and put an omer full of manna therein, and lay it up before the Lord, to be kept for your generations.
34 As the Lord commanded Moses, so Aaron laid it up before the Testimony, to be kept.
35 And the children of Israel did eat manna forty years, * until they came to a land inhabited; they did eat manna, until they came unto the borders of the land of Canaan.
36 Now an omer is the tenth part of an ephah.
17
1 And all the congregation of the children of Israel journeyed from the wilderness of Sin, after their journeys, according to the commandment of the Lord, and pitched in Rephidim: and there was no water for the people to drink.
2 Wherefore * the people did chide with Moses, and said, Give us water that we may drink. And Moses said unto them, Why chide ye with me? wherefore do ye tempt the Lord?
3 And the people thirsted there for water; and the people murmured against Moses, and said. Wherefore is this that thou hast brought us up out of Egypt, to kill us and our children and our cattle with thirst?
4 And Moses cried unto the Lord, saying, What shall I do unto this people? they be almost ready to stone me.
5 And the Lord said unto Moses, Go on before the people, and take with thee of the elders of Israel; and thy rod, wherewith * thou smotest the river, take in thine hand, and go.
6* Behold, I will stand before thee there upon the rock in Horeb; and thou shalt smite the rock, and there shall come water out of it, that the people may drink. And Moses did so in the sight of the elders of Israel.
7 And he called the name of the place ∥ Massah, and ∥ Meribah, because of the chiding of the children of Israel, and because they tempted the Lord, saying, Is the Lord among us, or not?
8 ¶ * Then came Amalek, and fought with Israel in Rephidim.
9 And Moses said unto * Joshua, Choose us out men, and go out, fight with Amalek: to morrow I will stand on the top of the hill with the rod of God in mine hand.
10 So Joshua did as Moses had said to him, and fought with Amalek: and Moses, Aaron, and Hur went up to the top of the hill.
11 And it came to pass, when Moses held up his hand, that Israel prevailed: and when he let down his hand, Amalek prevailed.
12 But Moses’ hands were heavy; and they took a stone, and put it under him, and he sat thereon; and Aaron and Hur stayed up his hands, the one on the one side, and the other on the other side; and his hands were steady until the going down of the sun.
13 And Joshua discomfited Amalek and his people with the edge of the sword.
14 And the Lord said unto Moses, Write this for a memorial in a book, and rehearse it in the ears of Joshua: for * I will utterly put out the remembrance of Amalek from under heaven.
15 And Moses built an altar, and called the name of it ∥ Jehovah-nissi:
16 For he said, ∥ Because † the Lord hath sworn that the Lordwill have war with Amalek from generation to generation.
18
1 When * Jethro, the priest of Midian, Moses’ father in law, heard of all that God had done for Moses, and for Israel his people, and that the Lord had brought Israel out of Egypt;
2 Then Jethro, Moses’ father in law, took Zipporah, Moses’ wife, after he had sent her back,
3 And her two sons; of which the * name of the one was∥ Gershom; for he said, I have been an alien in a strange land:
4 And the name of the other was∥ Eliezer; for the God of my father, said he, was mine help, and delivered me from the sword of Pharaoh:
5 And Jethro, Moses’ father in law, came with his sons and his wife unto Moses into the wilderness, where he encamped at the mount of God:
6 And he said unto Moses, I thy father in law Jethro am come unto thee, and thy wife, and her two sons with her.
7 ¶ And Moses went out to meet his father in law, and did obeisance, and kissed him; and they asked each other of their† welfare; and they came into the tent.
8 And Moses told his father in law all that the Lord had done unto Pharaoh and to the Egyptians for Israel’s sake, and all the travail that had † come upon them by the way, and how the Lord delivered them.
9 And Jethro rejoiced for all the goodness which the Lord had done to Israel, whom he had delivered out of the hand of the Egyptians.
10 And Jethro said, Blessed be the Lord, who hath delivered you out of the hand of the Egyptians, and out of the hand of Pharaoh, who hath delivered the people from under the hand of the Egyptians.
11 Now I know that the Lordis greater than all gods: * for in the thing wherein they dealt proudly he was above them.
12 And Jethro, Moses’ father in law, took a burnt offering and sacrifices for God: and Aaron came, and all the elders of Israel, to eat bread with Moses’ father in law before God.
13 ¶ And it came to pass on the morrow, that Moses sat to judge the people: and the people stood by Moses from the morning unto the evening.
14 And when Moses’ father in law saw all that he did to the people, he said, What is this thing that thou doest to the people? why sittest thou thyself alone, and all the people stand by thee from morning unto even?
15 And Moses said unto his father in law, Because the people come unto me to enquire of God:
16 When they have a matter, they come unto me; and I judge between † one and another, and I do make them know the statutes of God, and his laws.
17 And Moses’ father in law said unto him, The thing that thou doest is not good.
18† Thou wilt surely wear away, both thou, and this people that is with thee: for this thing is too heavy for thee; * thou art not able to perform it thyself alone.
19 Hearken now unto my voice, I will give thee counsel, and God shall be with thee: Be thou for the people to God-ward, that thou mayest bring the causes unto God:
20 And thou shalt teach them ordinances and laws, and shalt shew them the way wherein they must walk, and the work that they must do.
21 Moreover thou shalt provide out of all the people able men, such as fear God, men of truth, hating covetousness; and place such over them, to be rulers of thousands, and rulers of hundreds, rulers of fifties, and rulers of tens:
22 And let them judge the people at all seasons: and it shall be, that every great matter they shall bring unto thee, but every small matter they shall judge: so shall it be easier for thyself, and they shall bear the burden with thee.
23 If thou shalt do this thing, and God command thee so, then thou shalt be able to endure, and all this people shall also go to their place in peace.
24 So Moses hearkened to the voice of his father in law, and did all that he had said.
25 And Moses chose able men out of all Israel, and made them heads over the people, rulers of thousands, rulers of hundreds, rulers of fifties, and rulers of tens.
26 And they judged the people at all seasons: the hard causes they brought unto Moses, but every small matter they judged themselves.
27 ¶ And Moses let his father in law depart; and he went his way into his own land.
19
1 In the third month, when the children of Israel were gone forth out of the land of Egypt, the same day came they into the wilderness of Sinai.
2 For they were departed from Rephidim, and were come to the desert of Sinai, and had pitched in the wilderness; and there Israel camped before the mount.
3 And * Moses went up unto God, and the Lord called unto him out of the mountain, saying, Thus shalt thou say to the house of Jacob, and tell the children of Israel;
4* Ye have seen what I did unto the Egyptians, and how I bare you on eagles’ wings, and brought you unto myself.
5 Now * therefore, if ye will obey my voice indeed, and keep my covenant, then ye shall be a peculiar treasure unto me above all people: for * all the earth is mine:
6 And ye shall be unto me a * kingdom of priests, and an holy nation. These are the words which thou shalt speak unto the children of Israel.
7 ¶ And Moses came and called for the elders of the people, and laid before their faces all these words which the Lord commanded him.
8 And * all the people answered together, and said, All that the Lord hath spoken we will do. And Moses returned the words of the people unto the Lord.
9 And the Lord said unto Moses, Lo, I come unto thee in a thick cloud, that the people may hear when I speak with thee, and believe thee for ever. And Moses told the words of the people unto the Lord.
10 ¶ And the Lord said unto Moses, Go unto the people, and sanctify them to day and to morrow, and let them wash their clothes,
11 And be ready against the third day: for the third day the Lord will come down in the sight of all the people upon mount Sinai.
12 And thou shalt set bounds unto the people round about, saying, Take heed to yourselves, that ye go not up into the mount, or touch the border of it: * whosoever toucheth the mount shall be surely put to death:
13 There shall not an hand touch it, but he shall surely be stoned, or shot through; whether it be beast or man, it shall not live: when the ∥ trumpet soundeth long, they shall come up to the mount.
14 ¶ And Moses went down from the mount unto the people, and sanctified the people; and they washed their clothes.
15 And he said unto the people, Be ready against the third day: come not at your wives
16 ¶ And it came to pass on the third day in the morning, that there were thunders and lightnings, and a thick cloud upon the mount, and the voice of the trumpet exceeding loud; so that all the people that was in the camp trembled.
17 And Moses brought forth the people out of the camp to meet with God; and they stood at the nether part of the mount.
18 And * mount Sinai was altogether on a smoke, because the Lord descended upon it in fire: and the smoke thereof ascended as the smoke of a furnace, and the whole mount quaked greatly.
19 And when the voice of the trumpet sounded long, and waxed louder and louder, Moses spake, and God answered him by a voice.
20 And the Lord came down upon mount Sinai, on the top of the mount: and the Lord called Moses up to the top of the mount; and Moses went up.
21 And the Lord said unto Moses, Go down, † charge the people, lest they break through unto the Lord to gaze, and many of them perish.
22 And let the priests also, which come near to the Lord, sanctify themselves, lest the Lord break forth upon them.
23 And Moses said unto the Lord, The people cannot come up to mount Sinai: for thou chargedst us, saying, Set bounds about the mount, and sanctify it.
24 And the Lord said unto him, Away, get thee down, and thou shalt come up, thou, and Aaron with thee: but let not the priests and the people break through to come up unto the Lord, lest he break forth upon them.
25 So Moses went down unto the people, and spake unto them.
20
1 And God spake all these words, saying,
2* I am the Lord thy God, which have brought thee out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of † bondage.
3 Thou shalt have no other gods before me.
4* Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth:
5 Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me;
6 And shewing mercy unto thousands of them that love me, and keep my commandments.
7* Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain; for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain.
8 Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy.
9* Six days shalt thou labour, and do all thy work:
10 But the seventh day is the sabbath of the Lord thy God: in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy manservant, nor thy maidservant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger that is within thy gates:
11 For *in six days the Lord made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that in them is, and rested the seventh day: wherefore the Lord blessed the sabbath day, and hallowed it.
12 ¶ * Honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.
13* Thou shalt not kill.
14 Thou shalt not commit adultery.
15 Thou shalt not steal.
16 Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour.
17* Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbour’s.
18 ¶ And * all the people saw the thunderings, and the lightnings, and the noise of the trumpet, and the mountain smoking: and when the people saw it, they removed, and stood afar off.
19 And they said unto Moses, * Speak thou with us, and we will hear: but let not God speak with us, lest we die.
20 And Moses said unto the people, Fear not: for God is come to prove you, and that his fear may be before your faces, that ye sin not.
21 And the people stood afar off, and Moses drew near unto the thick darkness where God was.
22 ¶ And the Lord said unto Moses, Thus thou shalt say unto the children of Israel, Ye have seen that I have talked with you from heaven.
23 Ye shall not make with me gods of silver, neither shall ye make unto you gods of gold.
24 ¶ An altar of earth thou shalt make unto me, and shalt sacrifice thereon thy burnt offerings, and thy peace offerings, thy sheep, and thine oxen: in all places where I record my name I will come unto thee, and I will bless thee.
25 And * if thou wilt make me an altar of stone, thou shalt not † build it of hewn stone: for if thou lift up thy tool upon it, thou hast polluted it.
26 Neither shalt thou go up by steps unto mine altar, that thy nakedness be not discovered thereon.
21
1 Now these are the judgments which thou shalt set before them.
2* If thou buy an Hebrew servant, six years he shall serve: and in the seventh he shall go out free for nothing.
3 If he came in † by himself, he shall go out by himself: if he were married, then his wife shall go out with him.
4 If his master have given him a wife, and she have born him sons or daughters; the wife and her children shall be her master’s, and he shall go out by himself.
5 And if the servant † shall plainly say, I love my master, my wife, and my children; I will not go out free:
6 Then his master shall bring him unto the judges; he shall also bring him to the door, or unto the door post; and his master shall bore his ear through with an aul; and he shall serve him for ever.
7 ¶ And if a man sell his daughter to be a maid-servant, she shall not go out as the menservants do.
8 If she † please not her master, who hath betrothed her to himself, then shall he let her be redeemed: to sell her unto a strange nation he shall have no power, seeing he hath dealt deceitfully with her.
9 And if he have betrothed her unto his son, he shall deal with her after the manner of daughters.
10 If he take him another wife; her food, her raiment, and her duty of marriage, shall he not diminish.
11 And if he do not these three unto her, then shall she go out free without money.
12 ¶ * He that smiteth a man, so that he die, shall be surely put to death.
13 And if a man lie not in wait, but God deliver him into his hand; then * I will appoint thee a place whither he shall flee.
14 But if a man come presumptuously upon his neighbour, to slay him with guile; thou shalt take him from mine altar, that he may die.
15 ¶ And he that smiteth his father, or his mother, shall be surely put to death.
16 ¶ And he that stealeth a man, and selleth him, or if he be found in his hand, he shall surely be put to death.
17 ¶ And * he that ∥ curseth his father, or his mother, shall surely be put to death.
18 ¶ And if men strive together, and one smite ∥ another with a stone, or with his first, and he die not, but keepeth his bed:
19 If he rise again, and walk abroad upon his staff, then shall he that smote him be quit: only he shall pay for† the loss of his time, and shall cause him to be thoroughly healed.
20 ¶ And if a man smite his servant, or his maid, with a rod, and he die under his hand; he shall be surely † punished.
21 Notwithstanding, if he continue a day or two, he shall not be punished: for he is his money.
22 ¶ If men strive, and hurt a woman with child, so that her fruit depart from her, and yet no mischief follow: he shall be surely punished, according as the woman’s husband will lay upon him; and he shall pay as the judges determine.
23 And if any mischief follow, then thou shalt give life for life,
24* Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot,
25 Burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.
26 ¶ And if a man smite the eye of his servant, or the eye of his maid, that it perish; he shall let him go free for his eye’s sake.
27 And if he smite out his manservant’s tooth, or his maidservant’s tooth; he shall let him go free for his tooth’s sake.
28 ¶ If an ox gore a man or a woman, that they die: then * the ox shall be surely stoned, and his flesh shall not be eaten; but the owner of the ox shall be quit.
29 But if the ox were wont to push with his horn in time past, and it hath been testified to his owner, and he hath not kept him in, but that he hath killed a man or a woman; the ox shall be stoned, and his owner also shall be put to death.
30 If there be laid on him a sum of money, then he shall give for the ransom of his life whatsoever is laid upon him.
31 Whether he have gored a son, or have gored a daughter, according to this judgment shall it be done unto him.
32 If the ox shall push a manservant or a maidservant; he shall give unto their master thirty shekels ‡ of silver, and the ox shall be stoned.
33 ¶ And if a man shall open a pit, or if a man shall dig a pit, and not cover it, and an ox or an ass fall therein;
34 The owner of the pit shall make it good, and give money unto the owner of them; and the dead beast shall be his.
35 ¶ And if one man’s ox hurt another’s, that he die; then they shall sell the live ox, and divide the money of it; and the dead ox also they shall divide.
36 Or if it be known that the ox hath used to push in time past, and his owner hath not kept him in; he shall surely pay ox for ox; and the dead shall be his own.
22
1 If a man shall steal an ox, or a ∥ sheep, and kill it, or sell it; he shall restore five oxen for an ox, and * four sheep for a sheep.
2 ¶ If a thief be found breaking up, and be smitten that he die, there shall no blood be shed for him.
3 If the sun be risen upon him, there shall be blood shed for him; for he should make full restitution; if he have nothing, then he shall be sold for his theft.
4 If the theft be certainly found in his hand alive, whether it be ox, or ass, or sheep; he shall restore double.
5 ¶ If a man shall cause a field or vineyard to be eaten, and shall put in his beast, and shall feed in another man’s field; of the best of his own field, and of the best of his own vineyard, shall he make restitution.
6 ¶ If fire break out, and catch in thorns, so that the stacks of corn, or the standing corn, or the field, be consumed therewith; he that kindled the fire shall surely make restitution.
7 ¶ If a man shall deliver unto his neighbour money or stuff to keep, and it be stolen out of the man’s house; if the theif be found, let him pay double.
8 If the thief be not found, then the master of the house shall be brought unto the judges, to see whether he have put his hand unto his neighbour’s goods.
9 For all manner of trespass, whether it be for ox, for ass, for sheep, for raiment, or for any manner of lost thing, which another challengeth to be his, the cause of both parties shall come before the judges; and whom the judges shall condemn, he shall pay double unto his neighbour.
10 If a man deliver unto his neighbour an ass, or an ox, or a sheep, or any beast, to keep; and it die, or be hurt, or driven away, no man seeing it:
11Then shall an oath of the Lord be between them both, that he hath not put his hand unto his neighbour’s goods; and the owner of it shall accept thereof, and he shall not make it good.
12 And * if it be stolen from him, he shall make restitution unto the owner thereof.
13 If it be torn in pieces, then let him bring it for witness, and he shall not make good that which was torn.
14 ¶ And if a man borrow ought of his neighbour, and it be hurt, or die, the owner thereof being not with it, he shall surely make it good.
15But if the owner thereof be with it, he shall not make it good: if it be an hired thing, it came for his hire.
16 ¶ And * if a man entice a maid that is not betrothed, and lie with her, he shall surely endow her to be his wife.
17 If her father utterly refuse to give her unto him, he shall † pay money according to the dowry of virgins.
18 ¶ Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.
19 ¶ Whosoever lieth with a beast shall surely be put to death.
20 ¶ * He that sacrificeth unto any god, save unto the Lord only, he shall be utterly destroyed.
21 ¶ * Thou shalt neither vex a stranger, nor oppress him: for ye were strangers in the land of Egypt.
22 ¶ * Ye shall not afflict any widow, or fatherless child.
23 If thou afflict them in any wise, and they cry at all unto me, I will surely hear their cry;
24 And my wrath shall wax hot, and I will kill you with the sword; and your wives shall be widows, and your children fatherless.
25 ¶ * If thou lend money to any of my people that is poor by thee, thou shalt not be to him as an usurer, neither shalt thou lay upon him usury.
26 If thou at all take thy neighbour’s raiment to pledge, thou shalt deliver it unto him by that the sun goeth down:
27 For that is his covering only, it is his raiment for his skin: wherein shall he sleep? and it shall come to pass, when he crieth unto me, that I will hear; for I am gracious.
28 ¶ * Thou shalt not revile the ∥ gods, nor curse the ruler of thy people.
29 ¶ Thou shalt not delay to offer† the first of thy ripe fruits, and of thy † liquors. * the firstborn of thy sons shalt thou give unto me.
30 Likewise shalt thou do with thine oxen, and with thy sheep: seven days it shall be with his dam; on the eighth day thou shalt give it me.
31 ¶ And ye shall be holy men unto me: * neither shall ye eat any flesh that is torn of beasts in the field; ye shall cast it to the dogs.
23
1 Thou shalt not ∥ raise a false report: put not thine hand with the wicked to be an unrighteous witness.
2 ¶ Thou shalt not follow a multitude to do evil; neither shalt thou † speak in a cause to dechne after many to wrest judgment:
3 ¶ Neither shalt thou countenance a poor man in his cause.
4 ¶ If thou meet thine enemy’s ox or his ass going astray, thou shalt surely bring it back to him again.
5* If thou see the ass of him that hateth thee lying under his burden, ∥ and wouldest forbear to help him, thou shalt surely help with him
6 Thou shalt not wrest the judgment of thy poor in his cause.
7 Keep thee far from a false matter; and the innocent and righteous slay thou not: for I will not justify the wicked.
8 ¶ And * thou shalt take no gift: for the gift blindeth † the wise, and perverteth the words of the righteous.
9 ¶ Also thou shalt not oppress a stranger: for ye know the † heart of a stranger, seeing ye were strangers in the land of Egypt.
10 And * six years thou shalt sow thy land, and shalt gather in the fruits thereof:
11 But the seventh year thou shalt let it rest and lie still; that the poor of thy people may eat: and what they leave the beasts of the field shall eat. In like manner thou shalt deal with thy vineyard, and with thy ∥ oliveyard.
12* Six days thou shalt do thy work, and on the seventh day thou shalt rest: that thine ox and thine ass may rest, and the son of thy handmaid, and the stranger, may be refreshed.
13 And in all things that I have said unto you be circumspect: and make no mention of the ‡ name of other gods, neither let it be heard out of thy mouth.
14 ¶ * Three times thou shalt keep a feast unto me in the year.
15* Thou shalt keep the feast of unleavened bread: (thou shalt eat unleavened bread seven days, as I commanded thee, in the time appointed of the month Abib; for in it thou camest out from Egypt: * and none shall appear before me empty:)
16 And the feast of harvest, the firstfruits of thy labours, which thou hast sown in the field: and the feast of ingathering, which is in the end of the year, when thou hast gathered in thy labours out of the field.
17 Three times in the year all thy males shall appear before the Lord God.
18 Thou shalt not offer the blood of my sacrifice with leavened bread; neither shall the fat of my ∥ sacrifice remain until the morning.
19* The first of the firstfruits of thy land thou shalt bring into the house of the Lord thy God. * Thou shalt not seethe a kid in his mother’s milk
20 ¶ * Behold, I send an Angel before thee, to keep thee in the way, and to bring thee into the place which I have prepared.
21 Beware of him, and obey his voice, provoke him not; for he will not pardon your transgressions: for my name is in him.
22 But if thou shalt indeed obey his voice, and do all that I speak; then I will be an enemy unto thine enemies, and an ∥ adversary unto thine adversaries.
23* For mine Angel shall go before thee, and * bring thee in unto the Amorites, and the Hittites, and the Perizzites, and the Canaanites, the Hivites, and the Jebusites: and I will cut them off.
24 Thou shalt not bow down to their gods, nor serve them, nor do after their works: * but thou shalt utterly overthrow them, and quite break down their images.
25 And ye shall serve the Lord your God, and he shall bless thy bread, and thy water; and I will take sickness away from the midst of thee.
26 ¶ * There shall nothing cast their young, nor be barren, in thy land: the number of thy days I will fulfil.
27 I will send my fear before thee, and will destroy all the people to whom thou shalt come, and I will make all thine enemies turn their † backs unto thee.
28 And * I will send hornets before thee, which shall drive out the Hivite, the Canaanite, and the Hittite, from before thee.
29 I will not drive them out from before thee in one year; lest the land become desolate, and the beast of the field multiply against thee.
30 By little and little I will drive them out from before thee, until thou be increased, and inherit the land.
31 And I will set thy bounds from the Red sea even unto the sea of the Philistines, and from the desert unto the river: for I will deliver the inhabitants of the land into your hand; and thou shalt drive them out before thee.
32* Thou shalt make no covenant with them, nor with their gods.
33 They shall not dwell in thy land, lest they make thee sin against me: for if thou serve their gods, * it will surely be a snare unto thee.
24
1 And he said unto Moses, Come up unto the Lord, thou, and Aaron, Nadab, and Abihu, and seventy of the elders of Israel; and worship ye afar off.
2 And Moses alone shall come near the Lord: but they shall not come nigh; neither shall the people go up with him.
3 ¶ And Moses came and told the people all the words of the Lord, and all the judgments: and all the people answered with one voice, and said, * All the words which the Lord hath said will we do.
4 And Moses wrote all the words of the Lord, and rose up early in the morning, and builded an altar under the hill, and twelve pillars, according to the twelve tribes of Israel.
5 And he sent young men of the children of Israel, which offered burnt offerings, and sacrificed peace offerings of oxen unto the Lord.
6 And Moses took half of the blood, and put it in basons; and half of the blood he sprinkled on the altar.
7 And he took the book of the covenant, and read in the audience of the people: and they said, * All that the Lord hath said will we do, and be obedient.
8 And Moses took the blood, and sprinkled it on the people, and said, Behold * the blood of the covenant, which the Lord hath made with you concerning all these words.
9 ¶ Then went up Moses, and Aaron, Nadab, and Abihu, and seventy of the elders of Israel:
10 And they saw the God of Israel: and there was under his feet as it were a paved work of a sapphire stone, and as it were the body of heaven in his clearness.
11 And upon the nobles of the children of Israel he laid not his hand: also they saw God, and did eat and drink.
12 ¶ And the Lord said unto Moses, Come up to me into the mount, and be there: and I will give thee tables of stone, and a law, and commandments which I have written; that thou mayest teach them.
13 And Moses rose up, and his minister Joshua and Moses went up into the mount of God.
14 And he said unto the elders, Tarry ye here for us, until we come again unto you: and, behold, Aaron and Hur are with you: if any man have any matters to do, let him come unto them.
15 And Moses went up into the mount, and a cloud covered the mount.
16 And the glory of the Lord abode upon mount Sinai, and the cloud covered it six days: and the seventh day he called unto Moses out of the midst of the cloud.
17 And the sight of the glory of the Lordwas like devouring fire on the top of the mount in the eyes of the children of Israel.
18 And Moses went into the midst of the cloud, and gat him up into the mount: and * Moses was in the mount forty days and forty nights.
25
1 And the Lord spake unto Moses, saying,
2 Speak unto the children of Israel, that they † bring me an † offering: * of every man that giveth it willingly with his heart ye shall take my offering.
3 And this is the offering which ye shall take of them; gold, and silver, and brass,
4 And blue, and purple, and scarlet, and ∥ fine linen, and goats’ hair,
5 And rams’ skins dyed red, and badgers’ skins, and shittim wood,
6 Oil for the light, spices for anointing oil, and for sweet incense,
7 Onyx stones, and stones to be set in the * ephod, and in the * breastplate.
8 And let them make me a sanctuary; that I may dwell among them.
9 According to all that I shew thee, after the pattern of the tabernacle, and the pattern of all the instruments thereof, even so shall ye make it.
10 ¶ * And they shall make an ark of shittim wood: two cubits and a half shall be the length thereof, and a cubit and a half the breadth thereof, and a cubit and a half the height thereof.
11 And thou shalt overlay it with pure gold, within and without shalt thou overlay it, and shalt make upon it a crown of gold round about.
12 And thou shalt cast four rings of gold for it, and put them in the four corners thereof; and two rings shall be in the one side of it, and two rings in the other side of it.
13 And thou shalt make staves of shittim wood, and overlay them with gold.
14 And thou shalt put the staves into the rings by the sides of the ark, that the ark may be borne with them.
15 The staves shall be in the rings of the ark: they shall not be taken from it.
16 And thou shalt put into the ark the testimony which I shall give thee.
17 And thou shalt make a mercy seat of pure gold: two cubits and a half shall be the length thereof, and a cubit and a half the breadth thereof.
18 And thou shalt make two cherubims of gold, of beaten work shalt thou make them, in the two ends of the mercy seat.
19 And make one cherub on the one end, and the other cherub on the other end: even∥ of the mercy seat shall ye make the cherubims on the two ends thereof.
20 And the cherubims shall stretch forth their wings on high, covering the mercy seat with their wings, and their faces shall look one to another; toward the mercy seat shall the faces of the cherubims be.
21 And thou shalt put the mercy seat above upon the ark; and in the ark thou shalt put the testimony that I shall give thee.
22 And there I will meet with thee, and I will commune with thee from above the mercy seat, from * between the two cherubims which are upon the ark of the testimony, of all things which I will give thee in commandment unto the children of Israel.
23 ¶ * Thou shalt also make a table of shittim wood: two cubits shall be the length thereof, and a cubit the breadth thereof, and a cubit and a half the height thereof.
24 And thou shalt overlay it with pure gold, and make thereto a crown of gold round about.
25 And thou shalt make unto it a border of an hand breadth round about, and thou shalt make a golden crown to the border thereof round about.
26 And thou shalt make for it four rings of gold, and put the rings in the four corners that are on the four feet thereof.
27 Over against the border shall the rings be for places of the staves to bear the table.
28 And thou shalt make the staves of shittim wood, and overlay them with gold, that the table may be borne with them.
29 And thou shalt make the dishes thereof, and spoons thereof, and covers thereof, and bowls thereof, ∥ to cover withal: of pure gold shalt thou make them.
30 And thou shalt set upon the table shewbread before me alway.
31 ¶ * And thou shalt make a candlestick of pure gold: of beaten work shall the candlestick be made: his shaft, and his branches, his bowls, his knops, and his flowers, shall be of the same.
32 And six branches shall come out of the sides of it; three branches of the candlestick out of the one side, and three branches of the candlestick out of the other side:
33 Three bowls made like unto almonds, with a knop and a flower in one branch; and three bowls made like almonds in the other branch, with a knop and a flower: so in the six branches that come out of the candlestick.
34 And in the candlestick shall be four bowls made like unto almonds, with their knops and their flowers.
35 And there shall be a knop under two branches of the same, and a knop under two branches of the same, and a knop under two branches of the same, according to the six branches that proceed out of the candlestick.
36 Their knops and their branches shall be of the same: all it shall be one beaten work of pure gold.
37 And thou shalt make the seven lamps thereof: and they shall ∥ light the lamps thereof, that they may give light over against † it.
38 And the tongs thereof, and the snuffdishes thereof, shall be of pure gold.
39Of a talent of pure gold shall he make it, with all these vessels.
40 And * look that thou make them after their pattern, † which was shewed thee in the mount.
26
1 Moreover thou shalt make the tabernacle with ten curtains of fine twined linen, and blue, and purple, and scarlet: with cherubims † of cunning work shalt thou make them.
2 The length of one curtain shall be eight and twenty cubits, and the breadth of one curtain four cubits: and every one of the curtains shall have one measure.
3 The five curtains shall be coupled together one to another; and other five curtains shall be coupled one to another.
4 And thou shalt make loops of blue upon the edge of the one curtain from the selvedge in the coupling; and likewise shalt thou make in the uttermost edge of another curtain, in the coupling of the second.
5 Fifty loops shalt thou make in the one curtain, and fifty loops shalt thou make in the edge of the curtain that is in the coupling of the second; that the loops may take hold one of another.
6 And thou shalt make fifty taches of gold, and couple the curtains together with the teaches: and it shall be one tabernacle.
7 ¶ And thou shalt make curtains of goats’ hair to be a covering upon the tabernacle: eleven curtains shalt thou make.
8 The length of one curtain shall be thirty cubits, and the breadth of one curtain four cubits: and the eleven ‡ curtains shall be all of one measure.
9 And thou shalt couple five curtains by themselves, and six curtains by themselves, and shalt double the sixth curtain in the forefront of the tabernacle.
10 And thou shalt make fifty loops on the edge of the one curtain that is outmost in the coupling, and fifty loops in the edge of the curtain which coupleth the second.
11 And thou shalt make fifty taches of brass, and put the taches into the loops, and couple the ∥ tent together, that it may be one.
12 And the remnant that remaineth of the curtains of the tent, the half curtain that remaineth, shall hang over the backside of the tabernacle.
13 And a cubit on the one side, and a cubit on the other side † of that which remaineth in the length of the curtains of the tent, it shall hang over the sides of the tabernacle on this side and on that side, to cover it.
14 And thou shalt make a covering for the tent of rams’ skins dyed red, and a covering above of badgers’ skins.
15 ¶ And thou shalt make boards for the tabernacle of shittim wood standing up.
16 Ten cubits shall be the length of a board, and a cubit and a half shall be the breadth of one board.
17 Two † tenons shall there be in one board, set in order one against another: thus shalt thou make for all the boards of the tabernacle.
18 And thou shalt make the boards for the tabernacle, twenty boards on the south side southward.
19 And thou shalt make forty sockets of silver under the twenty boards; two sockets under one board for his two tenous, and two sockets under another board for his two tenons.
20 And for the second side of the tabernacle on the north side there shall be twenty boards:
21 And their forty sockets of silver; two sockets under one board, and two sockets under another board.
22 And for the sides of the tabernacle westward thou shalt make six boards.
23 And two boards shalt thou make for the corners of the tabernacle in the two sides.
24 And they shall be † coupled together beneath, and they shall be coupled together above the head of it unto one ring: thus shall it be for them both; they shall be for the two corners.
25 And they shall be eight boards, and their sockets of silver, sixteen sockets; two sockets under one board, and two sockets under another board.
26 ¶ And thou shalt make bars of shittim wood; five for the boards of the one side of the tabernacle,
27 And five bars for the boards of the other side of the tabernacle, and five bars for the boards of the side of the tabernacle, for the two sides westward.
28 And the middle bar in the midst of the boards shall reach from end to end.
29 And thou shalt overlay the boards with gold, and make their rings of gold for places for the bars: and thou shalt overlay the bars with gold.
30 And thou shalt rear up the tabernacle * according to the fashion thereof which was shewed thee in the mount.
31 ¶ And thou shalt make a vail of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen of cunning work: with cherubims shall it be made:
32 And thou shalt hang it upon four pillars of shittim wood overlaid with gold: their hooks shall be of gold, upon the four sockets of silver.
33 ¶ And thou shalt hang up the vail under the taches, that thou mayest bring in thither within the vail the ark of the testimony: and the vail shall divide unto you between the holy place and the most holy.
34 And thou shalt put the mercy seat upon the ark of the testimony in the most holy place.
35 And thou shalt set the table without the vail, and the candlestick over against the table on the side of the tabernacle toward the south: and thou shalt put the table on the north side.
36 And thou shalt make an hanging for the door of the tent, of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen, wrought with needlework.
37 And thou shalt make for the hanging five pillars of shittim wood, and overlay them with gold, and their hooks shall be of gold: and thou shalt cast five sockets of brass for them.
27
1 And thou shalt make an altar of shittim wood, five cubits long, and five cubits broad; the altar shall be foursquare: and the height thereof shall be three cubits.
2 And thou shalt make the horns of it upon the four corners thereof: his horns shall be of the same: and thou shalt overlay it with brass.
3 And thou shalt make his pans to receive his ashes, and his shovels, and his basons, and his fleshhooks, and his firepans: all the vessels thereof thou shalt make of brass.
4 And thou shalt make for it a grate of network of brass; and upon the net shalt thou make four brasen rings in the four corners thereof.
5 And thou shalt put it under the compass of the altar beneath, that the net may be even to the midst of the altar.
6 And thou shalt make staves for the altar, staves of shittim wood, and overlay them with brass.
7 And the staves shall be put into the rings, and the staves shall be upon the two sides of the altar, to bear it.
8 Hollow with boards shalt thou make it: as † it was shewed thee in the mount, so shall they make it.
9 ¶ And thou shalt make the court of the tabernacle: for the south side southward there shall be hangings for the court of fine twined linen of an hundred cubits long for one side:
10 And the twenty pillars thereof and their twenty sockets shall be of brass; the hooks of the pillars and their fillets shall be of silver.
11 And likewise for the north side in length there shall be hangings of an hundred cubits long, and his twenty pillars and their twenty sockets of brass; the hooks of the pillars and their fillets of silver.
12 ¶ And for the breadth of the court on the west side shall be hangings of fifty cubits: their pillars ten, and their sockets ten.
13 And the breadth of the court on the east side eastward shall be fifty cubits.
14 The hangings of one side of the gate shall be fifteen cubits: their pillars three, and their sockets three.
15 And on the other side shall be hangings fifteen cubits their pillars three, and their sockets three
16 ¶ And for the gate of the court shall be an hanging of twenty cubits, of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen, wrought with needlework: and their pillars shall be four, and their sockets four.
17 All the pillars round about the court shall be filleted with silver; their hooks shall be of silver, and their sockets of brass.
18 ¶ The length of the court shall be an hundred cubits, and the breadth † fifty every where, and the height five cubits of fine twined linen, and their sockets of brass.
19 All the vessels of the tabernacle in all the service thereof, and all the pins thereof, and all the pins of the court, shall be of brass.
20 ¶ And thou shalt command the children of Israel, that they bring thee pure oil olive beaten for the light, to cause the lamp † to burn always.
21 In the tabernacle of the congregation without the vail, which is before the testimony, Aaron and his sons shall order it from evening to morning before the Lord:it shall be a statute for ever unto their generations on the behalf of the children of Israel.
28
1 And take thou unto thee Aaron thy brother, and his sons with him, from among the children of Israel, that he may minister unto me in the priest’s office, even Aaron, Nadab and Abihu, Eleazar and Ithamar, Aaron’s sons.
2 And thou shalt make holy garments for Aaron thy brother for glory and for beauty.
3 And thou shalt speak unto all that are wise hearted, whom I have filled with the spirit of wisdom, that they may make Aaron’s garments to consecrate him, that he may minister unto me in the priest’s office.
4 And these are the garments which they shall make; a breastplate, and an ephod, and a robe, and a broidered coat, a mitre, and a girdle: and they shall make holy garments for Aaron thy brother, and his sons, that he may minister unto me in the priest’s office.
5 And they shall take gold, and blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine linen.
6 ¶ And they shall make the ephod of gold, of blue, and of purple, of scarlet, and fine twined linen, with cunning work.
7 It shall have the two shoulderpieces thereof joined at the two edges thereof; and so it shall be joined together.
8 And the ∥ curious girdle of the ephod, which is upon it, shall be of the same, according to the work thereof; even of gold, of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen.
9 And thou shalt take two onyx stones, and grave on them the names of the children of Israel:
10 Six of their names on one stone, and the other six names of the rest on the other stone, according to their birth.
11* With the work of an engraver in stone, like the engravings of a signet, shalt thou engrave the two stones with the names of the children of Israel: thou shalt make them to be set in ouches of gold.
12 And thou shalt put the two stones upon the shoulders of the ephod for stones of memorial unto the children of Israel: and Aaron shall bear their names before the Lord upon his two shoulders for a memorial.
13 ¶ And thou shalt make ouches of gold;
14 And two chains of pure gold at the ends; of wreathen work shalt thou make them, and fasten the wreathen chains to the ouches.
15 ¶ And thou shalt make the breastplate of judgment with cunning work; after the work of the ephod thou shalt make it; of gold, of blue, and of purple, and of scarlet, and of fine twined linen, shalt thou make it.
16 Foursquare it shall be being doubled; a span shall be the length thereof, and a span shall be the breadth thereof.
17 And thou shalt † set in it settings of stones, even four rows of stones: the first row shall be a ∥ sardius, a topaz, and a carbuncle: this shall be the first row.
18 And the second row shall be an emerald, a sapphire, and a diamond.
19 And the third row a ligure, an agate, and an amethyst.
20 And the fourth row a beryl, and an onyx, and a jasper: they shall be set in gold in their † inclosings.
21 And the stones shall be with the names of the children of Israel, twelve, according to their names, like the engravings of a signet; every one with his name shall they be according to the twelve tribes.
22 ¶ And thou shalt make upon the breastplate chains at the ends of wreathen work of pure gold.
23 And thou shalt make upon the breastplate two rings of gold, and shalt put the two rings on the two ends of the breastplate.
24 And thou shalt put the two wreathen chains of gold in the two rings which are on the ends of the breastplate.
25 And the other two ends of the two wreathen chains thou shalt fasten in the two ouches, and put them on the shoulderpieces of the ephod before it.
26 ¶ And thou shalt make two rings of gold, and thou shalt put them upon the two ends of the breastplate in the border thereof, which is in the side of the ephod inward.
27 And two other rings of gold thou shalt make, and shalt put them on the two sides of the ephod underneath, toward the forepart thereof, over against the other coupling thereof, above the curious girdle of the ephod.
28 And they shall bind the breastplate by the rings thereof unto the rings of the ephod with a lace of blue, that it may be above the curious girdle of the ephod, and that the breastplate be not loosed from the ephod.
29 And Aaron shall bear the names of the children of Israel in the breastplate of judgment upon his heart, when he goeth in unto the holy place, for a memorial before the Lord continually.
30 ¶ And thou shalt put in the breastplate of judgment the Urim and the Thummim; and they shall be upon Aaron’s heart, when he goeth in before the Lord: and Aaron shall bear the judgment of the children of Israel upon his heart before the Lord continually.
31 ¶ And thou shalt make the robe of the ephod all of blue.
32 And there shall be an hole in the top of it, in the midst thereof: it shall have a binding of woven work round about the hole of it, as it were the hole of an habergeon, that it be not rent.
33 ¶ And beneath upon the ∥ hem of it thou shalt make pomegranates of blue, and of purple, and of scarlet, round about the hem thereof; and bells of gold between them round about:
34 A golden bell and a pomegranate, a golden bell and a pomegranate, upon the hem of the robe round about.
35* And it shall be upon Aaron to minister: and his sound shall be heard when he goeth in unto the holy place before the Lord, and when he cometh out, that he die not.
36 ¶ And thou shalt make a plate of pure gold, and grave upon it, like the engravings of a signet, HOLINESS TO THE LORD.
37 And thou shalt put it on a blue lace, that it may be upon the mitre; upon the forefront of the mitre it shall be
38 And it shall be upon Aaron’s forehead, that Aaron may bear the iniquity of the holy things, which the children of Israel shall hallow in all their holy gifts; and it shall be always upon his forehead, that they may be accepted before the Lord
39 ¶ And thou shalt embroider the coat of fine linen, and thou shalt make the mitre of fine linen, and thou shalt make the girdle of needlework.
40 ¶ And for Aaron’s sons thou shalt make coats, and thou shalt make for them girdles, and bonnets shalt thou make for them, for glory and for beauty
41 And thou shalt put them upon Aaron thy brother, and his sons with him; and shalt anoint them, and † consecrate them, and sanctify them, that they may minister unto me in the priest’s office.
42 And thou shalt make them linen breeches to cover † their nakedness; from the loins even unto the thighs they shall † reach.
43 And they shall be upon Aaron, and upon his sons, when they come in unto the tabernacle of the congregation, or when they come near unto the altar to minister in the holy place; that they bear not iniquity, and die: it shall be a statute for ever unto him and his seed after him.
29
1 And this is the thing that thou shalt do unto them to hallow them, to minister unto me in the priest’s office: * Take one young bullock, and two rams without blemish,
2 And unleavened bread, and cakes unleavened tempered with oil, and wafers unleavened anointed with oil: of wheaten flour shalt thou make them
3 And thou shalt put them into one basket, and bring them in the basket, with the bullock and the two rams.
4 And Aaron and his sons thou shalt bring unto the door of the tabernacle of the congregation, and shalt wash them with water.
5 And thou shalt take the garments, and put upon Aaron the coat, and the robe of the ephod, and the ephod, and the breastplate, and gird him with the curious girdle of the ephod:
6 And thou shalt put the mitre upon his head, and put the holy crown upon the mitre.
7 Then shalt thou take the anointing * oil, and pour it upon his head, and anoint him.
8 And thou shalt bring his sons, and put coats upon them.
9 And thou shalt gird them with girdles, Aaron and his sons, and † put the bonnets on them: and the priest’s office shall be theirs for a perpetual statute: and thou shalt †* consecrate Aaron and his sons.
10 And thou shalt cause a bullock to be brought before the tabernacle of the congregation: and * Aaron and his sons shall put their hands upon the head of the bullock
11 And thou shalt kill the bullock before the Lord,by the door of the tabernacle of the congregation.
12 And thou shalt take of the blood of the bullock, and put it upon the horns of the altar with thy finger, and pour all the blood beside the bottom of the altar.
13 And * thou shalt take all the fat that covereth the inwards, and ∥ the caul that is above the liver, and the two kidneys, and the fat that is upon them, and burn them upon the altar.
14 But the flesh of the bullock, and his skin, and his dung, shalt thou burn with fire without the camp: it is a sin offering.
15 ¶ Thou shalt also take one ram; and Aaron and his sons shall put their hands upon the head of the ram.
16 And thou shalt slay the ram, and thou shalt take his blood, and sprinkle it round about upon the altar.
17 And thou shalt cut the ram in pieces, and wash the inwards of him, and his legs, and put them unto his pieces, and ∥ unto his head.
18 And thou shalt burn the whole ram upon the altar: it is a burnt offering unto the Lord: it is a sweet savour, an offering made by fire unto the Lord.
19 ¶ And thou shalt take the other ram; and Aaron and his sons shall put their hands upon the head of the ram.
20 Then shalt thou kill the ram, and take of his blood, and put it upon the tip of the right ear of Aaron, and upon the tip of the right ear of his sons, and upon the thumb of their right hand, and upon the great toe of their right foot, and sprinkle the blood upon the altar round about.
21 And thou shalt take of the blood that is upon the altar, and of the anointing oil, and sprinkle it upon Aaron, and upon his garments, and upon his sons, and upon the garments of his sons with him: and he shall be hallowed, and his garments, and his sons, and his sons’ garments with him.
22 Also thou shalt take of the ram the fat and the rump, and the fat that covereth the inwards, and the caul above the liver, and the two kidneys, and the fat that is upon them, and the right shoulder; for it is a ram of consecration:
23 And one loaf of bread, and one cake of oiled bread, and one wafer out of the basket of the unleavened bread that is before the Lord:
24 And thou shalt put all in the hands of Aaron, and in the hands of his sons; and shalt ∥ wave them for a wave offering before the Lord.
25 And thou shalt receive them of their hands, and burn them upon the altar for a burnt offering, for a sweet savour before the Lord: it is an offering made by fire unto the Lord.
26 And thou shalt take the breast of the ram of Aaron’s ‡ consecration, and wave it for a wave offering before the Lord: and it shall be thy part.
27 And thou shalt sanctify the breast of the wave offering, and the shoulder of the heave offering, which is waved, and which is heaved up, of the ram of the consecration, even of that which is for Aaron, and of that which is for his sons:
28 And it shall be Aaron’s and his sons’ by a statute for ever from the children of Israel: for it is an heave offering and it shall be an heave offering from the children of Israel of the sacrifice of their peace offerings, even their heave offering unto the Lord.
29 ¶ And the holy garments of Aaron shall be his sons’ after him, to be anointed therein, and to be consecrated in them.
30And† that son that is priest in his stead shall put them on seven days, when he cometh into the tabernacle of the congregation to minister in the holy place.
31 ¶ And thou shalt take the ram of the consecration, and seethe his flesh in the holy place.
32 And Aaron and his sons shall eat the flesh of the ram, and the * bread that is in the basket, by the door of the tabernacle of the congregation.
33 And they shall eat those things wherewith the atonement was made, to consecrate and to sanctify them: but a stranger shall not eat thereof, because they are holy.
34 And if ought of the flesh of the consecrations, or of the bread, remain unto the morning, then thou shalt burn the remainder with fire: it shall not be eaten, because it is holy.
35 And thus shalt thou do unto Aaron, and to his sons, according to all things which I have commanded thee: seven days shalt thou consecrate them.
36 And thou shalt offer every day a bullock for a sin offering for atonement: and thou shalt cleanse the altar, when thou hast made an atonement for it, and thou shalt anoint it, to sanctify it.
37 Seven days thou shalt make an atonement for the altar, and sanctify it; and it shall be an altar most holy: whatsoever toucheth the altar shall be holy.
38 ¶ Now this is that which thou shalt offer upon the altar; * two lambs of the first year day by day continually.
39 The one lamb thou shalt offer in the morning; and the other lamb thou shalt offer at even:
40 And with the one lamb a tenth deal of flour mingled with the fourth part of an hin of beaten oil; and the fourth part of an hin of wine for a drink offering.
41 And the other lamb thou shalt offer at even, and shalt do thereto according to the meat offering of the morning, and according to the drink offering thereof, for a sweet savour, an offering made by fire unto the Lord.
42This shall be a continual burnt offering throughout your generations at the door of the tabernacle of the congregation before the Lord: where I will meet you, to speak there unto thee.
43 And there I will meet with the children of Israel, and ∥the tabernacle shall be sanctified by my glory.
44 And I will sanctify the tabernacle of the congregation, and the altar: I will sanctify also both Aaron and his sons, to minister to me in the priest’s office.
45 ¶ And * I will dwell among the children of Israel, and will be their God.
46 And they shall know that I am the Lord their God, that brought them forth out of the land of Egypt, that I may dwell among them: I am the Lord their God.
30
1 And thou shalt make an altar to burn incense upon: of shittim wood shalt thou make it.
2 A cubit shall be the length thereof, and a cubit the breadth thereof; foursquare shall it be: and two cubits shall be the height thereof: the horns thereof shall be of the same.
3 And thou shalt overlay it with pure gold, the † top thereof, and the † sides thereof round about, and the horns thereof; and thou shalt make unto it a crown of gold round about.
4 And two golden rings shalt thou make to it under the crown of it, by the two † corners thereof, upon the two sides of it shalt thou make it; and they shall be for places for the staves to bear it withal.
5 And thou shalt make the staves of shittim wood, and overlay them with gold.
6 And thou shalt put it before the vail that is by the ark of the testimony, before the mercy seat that is over the testimony, where I will meet with thee.
7 And Aaron shall burn thereon † sweet incense every morning: when he dresseth the lamps, he shall burn incense upon it.
8 And when Aaron ∥† lighteth the lamps † at even, he shall burn incense upon it, a perpetual incense before the Lord throughout your generations.
9 Ye shall offer no strange incense thereon, nor burnt sacrifice, nor meat offering; neither shall ye pour drink offering thereon.
10 And Aaron shall make an atonement upon the horns of it once in a year with the blood of the sin offering of atonements: once in the year shall he make atonement upon it throughout your generations: it is most holy unto the Lord.
11 ¶ And the Lord spake unto Moses, saying,
12* When thou takest the sum of the children of Israel after † their number, then shall they give every man a ransom for his soul unto the Lord, when thou numberest them; that there be no plague among them, when thou numberest them.
13 This they shall give, every one that passeth among them that are numbered, half a shekel after the shekel of the sanctuary: (* a shekel is twenty gerahs:) an half shekel shall be the offering of the Lord.
14 Every one that passeth among them that are numbered, from twenty years old and above, shall give an offering unto the Lord.
15 The rich shall not † give more, and the poor shall not † give less than half a shekel, when they give an offering unto the Lord, to make an atonement for your souls.
16 And thou shalt take the atonement money of the children of Israel, and shalt appoint it for the service of the tabernacle of the congregation; that it may be a memorial unto the children of Israel before the Lord, to make an atonement for your souls.
17 ¶ And the Lord spake unto Moses, saying,
18 Thou shalt also make a laver of brass, and his foot also of brass, to wash withal: and thou shalt put it between the tabernacle of the congregation and the altar, and thou shalt put water therein.
19 For Aaron and his sons shall wash their hands and their feet thereat:
20 When they go into the tabernacle of the congregation, they shall wash with water, that they die not; or when they come near to the altar to minister, to burn offering made by fire unto the Lord:
21 So they shall wash their hands and their feet, that they die not: and it shall be a statute for ever to them, even to him and to his seed throughout their generations.
22 ¶ Moreover the Lord spake unto Moses, saying,
23 Take thou also unto thee principal spices, of pure myrrh five hundred shekels, and of sweet cinnamon half so much, even two hundred and fifty shekels, and of sweet calamus two hundred and fifty shekels,
24 And of cassia five hundred shekels, after the shekel of the sanctuary, and of oil olive an * hin:
25 And thou shalt make it an oil of holy ointment, an ointment compound after the art of the ∥ apothecary: it shall be an holy anointing oil.
26 And thou shalt anoint the tabernacle of the congregation therewith, and the ark of the testimony,
27 And the table and all his vessels, and the candlestick and his vessels, and the altar of incense,
28 And the altar of burnt offering with all his vessels, and the laver and his foot.
29 And thou shalt sanctify them, that they may be most holy: whatsoever toucheth them shall be holy.
30 And thou shalt anoint Aaron and his sons, and consecrate them, that they may minister unto me in the priest’s office.
31 And thou shalt speak unto the children of Israel, saying, This shall be an holy anointing oil unto me throughout your generations.
32 Upon man’s flesh shall it not be poured, neither shall ye make any other like it, after the composition of it: it is holy, and it shall be holy unto you.
33 Whosoever compoundeth any like it, or whosoever putteth any of it upon a stranger, shall even be cut off from his people.
34 ¶ And the Lord said unto Moses, Take unto thee sweet spices, stacte, and onycha, and galbanum; these sweet spices with pure frankincense: of each shall there be a like weight:
35 And thou shalt make it a perfume, a confection after the art of the apothecary, † tempered together, pure and holy:
36 And thou shalt beat some of it very small, and put of it before the testimony in the tabernacle of the congregation, where I will meet with thee: it shall be unto you most holy.
37 And as for the perfume which thou shalt make, ye shall not make to yourselves according to the composition thereof, it shall be unto thee holy for the Lord.
38 Whosoever shall make like unto that, to smell thereto, shall even be cut off from his people.
31
1 And the Lord spake unto Moses, saying,
2 See, I have called by name Bezaleel the * son of Uri, the son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah:
3 And I have filled him with the spirit of God, in wisdom, and in understanding, and in knowledge, and in all manner of workmanship,
4 To devise cunning works, to work in gold, and in silver, and in brass,
5 And in cutting of stones, to set them, and in carving of timber, to work in all manner of workmanship.
6 And I, behold, I have given with him Aholiab, the son of Ahisamach, of the tribe of Dan: and in the hearts of all that are wise hearted I have put wisdom, that they may make all that I have commanded thee;
7 The tabernacle of the congregation, and the ark of the testimony, and the mercy seat that is thereupon, and all the † furniture of the tabernacle,
8 And the table and his furniture, and the pure candlestick with all his furniture, and the altar of incense,
9 And the altar of burnt offering with all his furniture, and the laver and his foot,
10 And the cloths of service, and the holy garments for Aaron the priest, and the garments of his sons, to minister in the priest’s office,
11 And the anointing oil, and sweet incense for the holy place: according to all that I have commanded thee shall they do.
12 ¶ And the Lord spake unto Moses, saying,
13 Speak thou also unto the children of Israel, saying, Verily my sabbaths ye shall keep: for it is a sign between me and you throughout your generations; that ye may know that I am the Lord that doth sanctify you.
14* Ye shall keep the sabbath therefore; for it is holy unto you: every one that defileth it shall surely be put to death: for whosoever doeth any work therein, that soul shall be cut off from among his people.
15 Six days may work be done; but in the seventh is the sabbath of rest, † holy to the Lord. whosoever doeth any work in the sabbath day, he shall surely be put to death.
16 Wherefore the children of Israel shall keep the sabbath, to observe the sabbath throughout their generations, for a perpetual covenant.
17 It is a sign between me and the children of Israel for ever: for *in six days the Lord made heaven and earth, and on the seventh day he rested, and was refreshed.
18 ¶ And he gave unto Moses, when he had made an end of communing with him upon mount Sinai, * two tables of testimony, tables of stone, written with the finger of God.
32
1 And when the people saw that Moses delayed to come down out of the mount, the people gathered themselves together unto Aaron, and said unto him, * Up, make us gods, which shall go before us; for as for this Moses, the man that brought us up out of the land of Egypt, we wot not what is become of him.
2 And Aaron said unto them, Break off the golden earrings, which are in the ears of your wives, of your sons, and of your daughters, and bring them unto me.
3 And all the people brake off the golden earrings which were in their ears, and brought them unto Aaron.
4* And he received them at their hand, and fashioned it with a graving tool, after he had made it a molten calf: and they said, These be thy gods, O Israel, which brought thee up out of the land of Egypt.
5 And when Aaron saw it, he built an altar before it; and Aaron made proclamation, and said, To morrow is a feast to the Lord.
6 And they rose up early on the morrow, and offered burnt offerings, and brought peace offerings; and the * people sat down to eat and to drink, and rose up to play.
7 ¶ And the Lord said unto Moses, * Go, get thee down; for thy people, which thou broughtest out of the land of Egypt, have corrupted themselves:
8* They have turned aside quickly out of the way which I commanded them: they have made them a molten calf, and have worshipped it, and have sacrificed thereunto, and said, These be thy gods, O Israel, which have brought thee up out of the land of Egypt.
9 And the Lord said unto Moses, * I have seen this people, and, behold, it is a stiffnecked people:
10 Now therefore let me alone, that my wrath may wax hot against them, and that I may consume them: and I will make of thee a great nation.
11* And Moses besought † the Lord his God, and said, Lord, why doth thy wrath wax hot against thy people, which thou hast brought forth out of the land of Egypt with great power, and with a mighty hand?
12* Wherefore should the Egyptians speak, and say, For mischief did he bring them out, to slay them in the mountains, and to consume them from the face of the earth? Turn from thy fierce wrath, and repent of this evil against thy people.
13 Remember Abraham, Isaac, and Israel, thy servants, to whom thou swarest by thine own self, and saidst unto them, * I will multiply your seed as the stars of heaven, and all this land that I have spoken of will I give unto your seed, and they shall inherit it for ever.
14 And the Lord repented of the evil which he thought to do unto his people.
15 ¶ And Moses turned, and went down from the mount, and the two tables of the testimony were in his hand: the tables were written on both their sides; on the one side and on the other were they written.
16 And the * tables were the work of God, and the writing was the writing of God, graven upon the tables.
17 And when Joshua heard the noise of the people as they shouted, he said unto Moses, There is a noise of war in the camp.
18 And he said, It is not the voice of them that shout for mastery, neither is it the voice of them that cry for † being overcome: but the noise of them that sing do I hear.
19 ¶ And it came to pass, as soon as he came nigh unto the camp, that he saw the calf, and the dancing: and Moses’ anger waxed hot, and he cast the tables out of his hands, and brake them beneath the mount.
20* And he took the calf which they had made, and burnt it in the fire, and ground it to powder, and strawed it upon the water, and made the children of Israel drink of it.
21 And Moses said unto Aaron, What did this people unto thee, that thou hast brought so great a sin upon them?
22 And Aaron said, Let not the anger of my lord wax hot: thou knowest the people, that they are set on mischief.
23 For they said unto me, Make us gods, which shall go before us: for as for this Moses, the man that brought us up out of the land of Egypt, we wot not what is become of him.
24 And I said unto them, Whosoever hath any gold, let them break it off. So they gave it me: then I cast it into the fire, and there came out this calf.
25 ¶ And when Moses saw that the people were naked; (for Aaron had made them naked unto their shame among † their enemies.)
26 Then Moses stood in the gate of the camp, and said, Who is on the Lord’s side? let him come unto me. And all the sons of Levi gathered themselves together unto him
27 And he said unto them, Thus saith the Lord God of Israel, Put every man his sword by his side, and go in and out from gate to gate throughout the camp, and slay every man his brother, and every man his companion, and every man his neighbour.
28 And the children of Levi did according to the word of Moses: and there fell of the people that day about three thousand men.
29∥ For Moses had said, † Consecrate yourselves to day to the Lord, even every man upon his son, and upon his brother; that he may bestow upon you a blessing this day.
30 ¶ And it came to pass on the morrow, that Moses said unto the people, Ye have sinned a great sin: and now I will go up unto the Lord; peradventure I shall make an atonement for your sin.
31 And Moses returned unto the Lord, and said, Oh, this people have sinned a great sin, and have made them gods of gold.
32 Yet now, if thou wilt forgive their sin—; and if not, blot me, I pray thee, out of thy book which thou hast written.
33 And the Lord said unto Moses, Whosoever hath sinned against me, him will I blot out of my book.
34 Therefore now go, lead the people unto the place of which I have spoken unto thee: behold, mine Angel shall go before thee: nevertheless in the day when I visit I will visit their sin upon them.
35 And the Lord plagued the people, because they made the calf, which Aaron made
33
1 And the Lord said unto Moses, Depart, and go up hence, thou and the people which thou hast brought up out of the land of Egypt, unto the land which I sware unto Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob, saying, * Unto thy seed will I give it:
2* And I will send an angel before thee; and I will drive out the Canaanite, the Amorite, and the Hittite, and the Perizzite, the Hivite, and the Jebusite:
3 Unto a land flowing with milk and honey: for I will not go up in the midst of thee; for thou art a * stiffnecked people: lest I consume thee in the way.
4 ¶ And when the people heard these evil tidings, they mourned: and no man did put on him his ornaments.
5 For the Lord had said unto Moses, Say unto the children of Israel, Ye are a stiffnecked people: I will come up into the midst of thee in a moment, and consume thee: therefore now put off thy ornaments from thee, that I may know what to do unto thee.
6 And the children of Israel stripped themselves of their ornaments by the mount Horeb.
7 And Moses took the tabernacle, and pitched it without the camp, afar off from the camp, and called it the Tabernacle of the congregation. And it came to pass, that every one which sought the Lord went out unto the tabernacle of the congregation, which was without the camp.
8 And it came to pass, when Moses went out unto the tabernacle, that all the people rose up, and stood every man at his tent door, and looked after Moses, until he was gone into the tabernacle.
9 And it came to pass, as Moses entered into the tabernacle, the cloudy pillar descended, and stood at the door of the tabernacle, and the Lord talked with Moses.
10 And all the people saw the cloudy pillar stand at the tabernacle door: and all the people rose up and worshipped, every man in his tent door.
11 And the Lord spake unto Moses face to face, as a man speaketh unto his friend. And he turned again into the camp: but his servant Joshua, the son of Nun, a young man, departed not out of the tabernacle.
12 ¶ And Moses said unto the Lord, See, thou sayest unto me, Bring up this people: and thou hast not let me know whom thou wilt send with me. Yet thou hast said, I know thee by name, and thou hast also found grace in my sight.
13 Now therefore, I pray thee, if I have found grace in thy sight, shew me now thy way, that I may know thee, that I may find grace in thy sight: and consider that this nation is thy people.
14 And he said, My presence shall go with thee, and I will give thee rest.
15 And he said unto him, If thy presence go not with me, carry us not up hence.
16 For wherein shall it be known here that I and thy people have found grace in thy sight? is it not in that thou goest with us? so shall we be separated, I and thy people, from all the people that are upon the face of the earth.
17 And the Lord said unto Moses, I will do this thing also that thou hast spoken: for thou hast found grace in my sight, and I know thee by name.
18 And he said, I beseech thee, shew me thy glory.
19 And he said, I will make all my goodness pass before thee, and I will proclaim the name of the Lord before thee; * and will be gracious to whom I will be gracious, and will shew mercy on whom I will shew mercy.
20 And he said, Thou canst not see my face: for there shall no man see me, and live.
21 And the Lord said, Behold, there is a place by me, and thou shalt stand upon a rock:
22 And it shall come to pass, while my glory passeth by, that I will put thee in a clift of the rock, and will cover thee with my hand while I pass by:
23 And I will take away mine hand, and thou shalt see my back parts: but my face shall not be seen.
34
1 And the Lord said unto Moses, * Hew thee two tables of stone like unto the first: and I will write upon these tables the words that were in the first tables, which thou brakest.
2 And be ready in the morning, and come up in the morning unto mount Sinai, and present thyself there to me in the top of the mount.
3 And no man shall * come up with thee, neither let any man be seen throughout all the mount; neither let the flocks nor herds feed before that mount.
4 ¶ And he hewed two tables of stone like unto the first; and Moses rose up early in the morning, and went up unto mount Sinai, as the Lord had commanded him, and took in his hand the two tables of stone.
5 And the Lord descended in the cloud, and stood with him there, and proclaimed the name of the Lord.
6 And the Lord passed by before him, and proclaimed, The Lord, The Lord God, merciful and gracious, longsuffering, and abundant in goodness and truth,
7 Keeping mercy for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin, and that will by no means clear the guilty;* visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children, and upon the children’s children, unto the third and to the fourth generation.
8 And Moses made haste, and bowed his head toward the earth, and worshipped.
9 And he said, If now I have found grace in thy sight, O Lord, let my Lord, I pray thee, go among us; for it is a stiffnecked people; and pardon our iniquity and our sin, and take us for thine inheritance.
10 ¶ And he said, Behold, * I make a covenant: before all thy people I will do marvels, such as have not been done in all the earth, nor in any nation: and all the people among which thou art shall see the work of the Lord: for it is a terrible thing that I will do with thee.
11 Observe thou that which I command thee this day: behold, I drive out before thee the Amorite, and the Canaanite, and the Hittite, and the Perizzite, and the Hivite, and the Jebusite.
12* Take heed to thyself, lest thou make a covenant with the inhabitants of the land whither thou goest, lest it be for a snare in the midst of thee:
13 But ye shall destroy their altars, break their † images, and cut down their groves:
14 For thou shalt worship no other god for the Lord, whose name is Jealous, is a * jealous God:
15 Lest thou make a covenant with the inhabitants of the land, and they go a whoring after their gods, and do sacrifice unto their gods, and one call thee, and thou eat of his sacrifice;
16 And thou take of * their daughters unto thy sons, and their daughters go a whoring after their gods, and make thy sons go a whoring after their gods.
17 Thou shalt make thee no molten gods.
18 ¶ The feast of * unleavened bread shalt thou keep. Seven days thou shalt eat unleavened bread, as I commanded thee, in the time of the month Abib: for in the * month Abib thou camest out from Egypt.
19* All that openeth the matrix is mine; and every firstling among thy cattle, whether ox or sheep, that is male.
20 But the firstling of an ass thou shalt redeem with a ∥ lamb and if thou redeem him not, then shalt thou break his neck. All the firstborn of thy sons thou shalt redeem. And none shall appear before me * empty.
21 ¶ * Six days thou shalt work, but on the seventh day thou shalt rest: in earing time and in harvest thou shalt rest.
22 ¶ * And thou shalt observe the feast of weeks, of the firstfruits of wheat harvest, and the feast of ingathering at the † year’s end
23 ¶ * Thrice in the year shall all your men-children appear before the Lord God, the God of Israel.
24 For I will cast out the nations before thee, and enlarge thy borders: neither shall any man desire thy land, when thou shalt go up to appear before the Lord thy God thrice in the year.
25* Thou shalt not offer the blood of my sacrifice with leaven; neither shall the sacrifice of the feast of ‡ the passover be left unto the morning.
26 The first of the firstfruits of thy land thou shalt bring unto the house of the Lord thy God. Thou shalt not seethe a * kid in his mother’s milk.
27 And the Lord said unto Moses, Write thou * these words: for after the tenor of these words I have made a covenant with thee and with Israel.
28* And he was there with the Lord forty days and forty nights; he did neither eat bread, nor drink water. And he wrote upon the tables the words of the covenant, the ten † commandments.
29 ¶ And it came to pass, when Moses came down from mount Sinai with the two tables of testimony in Moses’ hand, when he came down from the mount, that Moses wist not that the skin of his face shone while he talked with him.
30 And when Aaron and all the children of Israel saw Moses, behold, the skin of his face shone; and they were afraid to come nigh him.
31 And Moses called unto them; and Aaron and all the rulers of the congregation returned unto him: and Moses talked with them.
32 And afterward all the children of Israel came nigh: and he gave them in commandment all that the Lord had spoken with him in mount Sinai.
33 And till Moses had done speaking with them, he put * a vail on his face.
34 But when Moses went in before the Lord to speak with him, he took the vail off, until he came out. And he came out, and spake unto the children of Israel that which he was commanded.
35 And the children of Israel saw the face of Moses, that the skin of Moses’ face shone: and Moses put the vail upon his face again, until he went in to speak with him.
35
1 And Moses gathered all the congregation of the children of Israel together, and said unto them, These are the words which the Lord hath commanded, that ye should do them
2* Six days shall work be done, but on the seventh day there shall be to you † an holy day, a sabbath of rest to the Lord: whosoever doeth work therein shall be put to death.
3 Ye shall kindle no fire throughout your habitations upon the sabbath day.
4 ¶ And Moses spake unto all the congregation of the children of Israel, saying. This is the thing which the Lord commanded, saying.
5 Take ye from among you an offering unto the Lord:* whosoever is of a willing heart, let him bring it, an offering of the Lord; gold, and silver, and brass,
6 And blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine linen, and goats’ hair,
7 And rams’ skins dyed red, and badgers’ skins, and shittim wood,
8 And oil for the light, and spieces for anointing oil, and for the sweet incense,
9 And onyx stones, and stones to be set for the ephod, and for the breastplate.
10 And every wise hearted among you shall come, and make all that the Lord hath commanded;
11* The tabernacle, his tent, and his covering, his taches, and ‡ his boards, his bars, his pillars, and his sockets,
12 The ark, and the staves thereof, with the mercy seat, and the vail of the covering,
13 The table, and his staves, and all his vessels, and the shewbread,
14 The candlestick also for the light, and his furniture, and his lamps, with the oil for the light,
15* And the incense altar, and his staves, and the anointing oil, and the sweet incense, and the hanging for the door at the entering in of the tabernacle,
16* The altar of burnt offering, with his brasen grate, his staves, and all his vessels, the laver and his foot,
17 The hangings of the court, his pillars, and their sockets, and the hanging for the door of the court,
18 The pins of the tabernacle, and the pins of the court, and their cords,
19 The cloths of service, to do service in the holy place, the holy garments for Aaron the priest, and the garments of his sons, to minister in the priest’s office.
20 ¶ And all the congregation of the children of Israel departed from the presence of Moses.
21 And they came, every one whose heart stirred him up, and every one whom his spirit made willing, and they brought the Lord’s offering to the work of the tabernacle of the congregation, and for all his service, and for the holy garments.
22 And they came, both men and women, as many as were willing hearted, and brought bracelets, and earrings, and rings, and tablets, all jewels of gold: and every man that offered offered an offering of gold unto the Lord.
23 And every man, with whom was found blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine linen, and goats’ hair, and red skins of rams, and badgers’ skins, brought them.
24 Every one that did offer an offering of silver and brass brought the Lord’s offering: and every man, with whom was found shittim wood for any work of the service, brought it.
25 And all the women that were wise hearted did spin with their hands, and brought that which they had spun, both of blue, and of purple, and of scarlet, and of fine linen.
26 And all the women whose heart stirred them up in wisdom spun goats’ hair.
27 And the rulers brought onyx stones, and stones to be set, for the ephod, and for the breastplate;
28 And * spice, and oil for the light, and for the anointing oil, and for the sweet incense.
29 The children of Israel brought a willing offering unto the Lord, every man and woman, whose heart made them willing to bring for all manner of work, which the Lord had commanded to be made by the ‡ hand of Moses.
30 ¶ And Moses said unto the children of Israel, See, * the Lord hath called by name Bezaleel the son of Uri, the son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah;
31 And he hath filled him with the spirit of God, in wisdom, in understanding, and in knowledge, and in all manner of workmanship;
32 And to devise curious works, to work in gold, and in silver, and in brass,
33 And in the cutting of stones, to set them, and in carving of wood, to make any manner of cunning work.
34 And he hath put in his heart that he may teach, both he, and Aholiab, the son of Ahisamach, of the tribe of Dan.
35 Them hath he filled with wisdom of heart, to work all manner of work, of the engraver, and of the cunning workman, and of the embroiderer, in blue, and in purple, in scarlet, and in fine linen, and of the weaver, even of them that do any work, and of those that devise cunning work.
36
1 Then wrought Bezaleel and Aholiab, and every wise hearted man, in whom the Lord put wisdom and understanding to know how to work all manner of work for the service of the sanctuary, according to all that the Lord had commanded.
2 And Moses called Bezaleel and Aholiab, and every wise hearted man, in whose heart the Lord had put wisdom, even every one whose heart stirred him up to come unto the work to do it:
3 And they received of Moses all the offering, which the children of Israel had brought for the work of the service of the sanctuary, to make it withal. And they brought yet unto him free offerings every morning.
4 And all the wise men, that wrought all the work of the sanctuary, came every man from his work which they made;
5 ¶ And they spake unto Moses, saying, The people bring much more than enough for the service of the work, which the Lord commanded to make.
6 And Moses gave commandment, and they caused it to be proclaimed throughout the camp, saying, Let neither man nor woman make any more work for the offering of the sanctuary. So the people were restrained from bringing.
7 For the stuff they had was sufficient for all the work to make it, and too much.
8 ¶ * And every wise hearted man among them that wrought the work of the tabernacle made ten curtains of fine twined linen, and blue, and purple, and scarlet: with cherubims of cunning work made he them.
9 The length of one curtain was twenty and eight cubits, and the breadth of one curtain four cubits: the curtains were all of one size.
10 And he coupled the five curtains one unto another: and the other five curtains he coupled one unto another.
11 And he made loops of blue on the edge of one curtain from the selvedge in the coupling: likewise he made in the uttermost side of another curtain, in the coupling of the second.
12* Fifty loops made he in one curtain, and fifty loops made he in the edge of the curtain which was in the coupling of the second: the loops held one curtain to another.
13 And he made fifty taches of gold, and coupled the curtains one unto another with the taches: so it became one tabernacle.
14 ¶ And he made curtains of goats’ hair for the tent over the tabernacle: eleven curtains he made them.
15 The length of one curtain was thirty cubits, and four cubits was the breadth of one curtain: the eleven curtains were of one size.
16 And he coupled five curtains by themselves, and six curtains by themselves.
17 And he made fifty loops upon the uttermost edge of the curtain in the coupling, and fifty loops made he upon the edge of the curtain which coupleth the second.
18 And he made fifty taches of brass to couple the tent together, that it might be one.
19 And he made a covering for the tent of rams’ skins dyed red, and a covering of badgers’ skins above that.
20 ¶ And he made boards for the tabernacle of shittim wood, standing up.
21 The length of a board was ten cubits, and the breadth of a board one cubit and a half.
22 One board had two tenons, equally distant one from another: thus did he make for all the boards of the tabernacle.
23 And he made boards for the tabernacle; twenty boards for the south side southward:
24 And forty sockets of silver he made under the twenty boards; two sockets under one board for his two tenons, and two sockets under another board for his two tenons.
25 And for the other side of the tabernacle, which is toward the north corner, he made twenty boards,
26 And their forty sockets of silver; two sockets under one board, and two sockets under another board.
27 And for the sides of the tabernacle westward he made six boards.
28 And two boards made he for the corners of the tabernacle in the two sides.
29 And they were † coupled beneath, and coupled together at the head thereof, to one ring: thus he did to both of them in both the corners.
30 And there were eight boards; and their sockets were sixteen sockets of silver, † under every board two sockets.
31 ¶ And he made * bars of shittim wood; five for the boards of the one side of the tabernacle,
32 And five bars for the boards of the other side of the tabernacle, and five bars for the boards of the tabernacle for the sides westward.
33 And he made the middle bar to shoot through the boards from the one end to the other.
34 And he overlaid the boards with gold, and made their rings of gold to be places for the bars, and overlaid the bars with gold.
35 ¶ And he made a vail of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen: with cherubims made he it of cunning work.
36 And he made thereunto four pillars of shittim wood, and overlaid them with gold: their hooks were of gold; and he cast for them four sockets of silver.
37 ¶ And he made an hanging for the tabernacle door of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen, † of needlework;
38 And the five pillars of it with their hooks: and he overlaid their chapiters and their fillets with gold: but their five sockets were of brass.
37
1 And Bezaleel * made the ark of shittim wood: two cubits and a half was the length of it, and a cubit and a half the breadth of it, and a cubit and a half the height of it:
2 And he overlaid it with pure gold within and without, and made a crown of gold to it round about.
3 And he cast for it four rings of gold, to be set by the four corners of it; even two rings upon the one side of it, and two rings upon the other side of it.
4 And he made staves of shittim wood, and overlaid them with gold.
5 And he put the staves into the rings by the sides of the ark, to bear the ark.
6 ¶ And he made the * mercy seat of pure gold: two cubits and a half was the length thereof, and one cubit and a half the breadth thereof.
7 And he made two cherubims of gold, beaten out of one piece made he them, on the two ends of the mercy seat;
8∥ One cherub ∥ on the end on this side, and another cherub on the other end on that side: out of the mercy seat made he the cherubims on the two ends thereof.
9 And the cherubims spread out their wings on high, and covered with their wings over the mercy seat, with their faces one to another; even to the mercy seatward were the faces of the cherubims.
10 ¶ And he made the table of shittim wood: two cubits was the length thereof, and a cubit the breadth thereof, and a cubit and a half the height thereof:
11 And he overlaid it with pure gold, and made thereunto a crown of gold round about.
12 Also he made thereunto a border of an handbreadth round about; and made a crown of gold for the border thereof round about.
13 And he cast for it four rings of gold, and put the rings upon the four corners that were in the four feet thereof.
14 Over against the border were the rings, the places for the staves to bear the table.
15 And he made the staves of shittim wood, and overlaid them with gold, to bear the table.
16 And he made the vessels which were upon the table, his * dishes, and his spoons, and his bowls, and his covers ∥ to cover withal, of pure gold.
17 ¶ And he made the * candlestick of pure gold: of beaten work made he the candlestick; his shaft, and his branch, his bowls, his knops, and his flowers, were of the same:
18 And six branches going out of the sides thereof; three branches of the candlestick out of the one side thereof, and three branches of the candlestick out of the other side thereof:
19 Three bowls ‡ made after the fashion of almonds in one branch, a knop and a flower; and three bowls made like almonds in another branch, a knop and a flower: so throughout the six branches going out of the candlestick.
20 And in the candlestick were four bowls made like almonds, his knops, and his flowers:
21 And a knop under two branches of the same, and a knop under two branches of the same, and a knop under two branches of the same, according to the six branches going out of it.
22 Their knops and their branches were of the same: all of it was one beaten work of pure gold.
23 And he made his seven lamps, and his snuffers, and his snuffdishes, of pure gold.
24Of a talent of pure gold made he it, and all the vessels thereof.
25 ¶ * And he made the incense altar of shittim wood: the length of it was a cubit, and the breadth of it a cubit; it was foursquare; and two cubits was the height of it; the horns thereof were of the same.
26 And he overlaid it with pure gold, both the top of it, and the sides thereof round about, and the horns of it: also he made unto it a crown of gold round about.
27 And he made two rings of gold for it under the crown thereof, by the two corners of it, upon the two sides thereof, to be places for the staves to bear it withal.
28 And he made the staves of shittim wood, and overlaid them with gold.
29 ¶ And he made * the holy anointing oil, and the pure incense of sweet spices, according to the work of the apothecary.
38
1 And * he made the altar of burnt offering of shittim wood: five cubits was the length thereof, and five cubits the breadth thereof; it was foursquare; and three cubits the height thereof.
2 And he made the horns thereof on the four corners of it; the horns thereof were of the same: and he overlaid it with brass.
3 And he made all the vessels of the altar, the pots, and the shovels, and the basons, and the fleshhooks, and the firepans: all the vessels thereof made he of brass.
4 And he made for the altar a brasen grate of network under the compass thereof beneath unto the midst of it.
5 And he cast four rings for the four ends of the grate of brass, to be places for the staves.
6 And he made the staves of shittim wood, and overlaid them with brass.
7 And he put the staves into the rings on the sides of the altar, to bear it withal; he made the altar hollow with boards.
8∥ ¶ And he made the laver of brass, and the foot of it of brass, of the lookingglasses of the women† assembling, which assembled at the door of the tabernacle of the congregation.
9 ¶ And he made the court: on the south side southward the hangings of the court were of fine twined linen, an hundred cubits:
10 Their pillars were twenty, and their brasen sockets twenty, the hooks of the pillars and their fillets were of silver.
11 And for the north side the hangings were an hundred cubits, their pillars were twenty, and their sockets of brass twenty; the hooks of the pillars and their fillets of silver.
12 And for the west side were hangings of fifty cubits, their pillars ten, and their sockets ten; the hooks of the pillars and their fillets of silver.
13 And for the east side eastward fifty cubits.
14 The hangings of the one side of the gate were fifteen cubits; their pillars three, and their sockets three.
15 And for the other side of the court gate, on this hand and that hand, were hangings of fifteen cubits; their pillars three, and their sockets three.
16 All the hangings of the court round about were of fine twined linen.
17 And the sockets for the pillars were of brass; the hooks of the pillars and their fillets of silver; and the overlaying of their chapiters of silver; and all the pillars of the court were filleted with silver.
18 And the hanging for the gate of the court was needlework, of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen: and twenty cubits was the length, and the height in the breadth was five cubits, answerable to the hangings of the court.
19 And their pillars were four, and their sockets of brass four; their hooks of silver, and the overlaying of their chapiters and their fillets of silver.
20 And all the * pins of the tabernacle, and of the court round about, were of brass.
21 ¶ This is the sum of the tabernacle, even of the tabernacle of testimony, as it was counted, according to the commandment of Moses, for the service of the Levites, by the hand of Ithamar, son to Aaron the priest.
22 And Bezaleel the son of Uri, the son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah, made all that the Lord commanded Moses.
23 And with him was Aholiab, son of Ahisamach, of the tribe of Dan, an engraver, and a cunning workman, and an embroiderer in blue, and in purple, and in scarlet, and fine linen.
24 All the gold that was occupied for the work in all the work of the holy place, even the gold of the offering, was twenty and nine talents, and seven hundred and thirty shekels, after the shekel of the sanctuary.
25 And the silver of them that were numbered of the congregation was an hundred talents, and a thousand seven hundred and threescore and fifteen shekels, after the shekel of the sanctuary:
26 A bekah for † every man, that is, half a shekel, after the shekel of the sanctuary, for every one that went to be numbered, from twenty years old and upward, for six hundred thousand and three thousand and five hundred and fifty men.
27 And of the hundred talents of silver were cast the sockets of the sanctuary, and the sockets of the vail; an hundred sockets of the hundred talents, a talent for a socket.
28 And of the thousand seven hundred seventy and five shekels he made hooks for the pillars, and overlaid their chapiters, and filleted them.
29 And the brass of the offering was seventy talents, and two thousand and four hundred shekels.
30 And therewith he made the sockets to the door of the tabernacle of the congregation, and the brasen altar, and the brasen grate for it, and all the vessels of the altar,
31 And the sockets of the court round about, and the sockets of the court gate, and all the pins of the tabernacle, and all the pins of the court round about.
39
1 And of the blue, and purple, and scarlet, they made cloths of service, to do service in the holy place, and * made the holy garments for Aaron; as the Lord commanded Moses.
2 And he made the ephod of gold, blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen.
3 And they did beat the gold into thin plates, and cut it into wires, to work it in the blue, and in the purple, and in the scarlet, and in the fine linen, with cunning work.
4 They made shoulderpieces for it, to couple it together: by the two edges was it coupled together.
5 And the curious girdle of his ephod, that was upon it, was of the same, according to the work thereof; of gold, blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen; as the Lord commanded Moses.
6 ¶ * And they wrought onyx stones inclosed in ouches of gold, graven, as signets are graven, with the names of the children of Israel.
7 And he put them on the shoulders of the ephod, that they should be stones for a * memorial to the children of Israel; as the Lord commanded Moses.
8 ¶ And he made the breastplate of cunning work, like the work of the ephod; of gold, blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen.
9 It was foursquare; they made the breastplate double: a span was the length thereof, and a span the breadth thereof, being doubled.
10 And they set in it four rows of stones: the first row was a ∥ sardius, a topaz, and a carbuncle: this was the first row.
11 And the second row, an emerald, a sapphire, and a diamond.
12 And the third row, a ligure, an agate, and an amethyst.
13 And the fourth row, a beryl, an onyx, and a jasper: they were inclosed in ouches of gold in their inclosings.
14 And the stones were according to the names of the children of Israel, twelve, according to their names, like the engravings of a signet, every one with his name, according to the twelve tribes.
15 And they made upon the breastplate chains at the ends, of wreathen work of pure gold.
16 And they made two ouches of gold, and two gold rings; and put the two rings in the two ends of the breastplate.
17 And they put the two wreathen chains of gold in the two rings on the ends of the breastplate.
18 And the two ends of the two wreathen chains they fastened in the two ouches, and put them on the shoulderpieces of the ephod, before it.
19 And they made two rings of gold, and put them on the two ends of the breastplate, upon the border of it, which was on the side of the ephod inward.
20 And they made two other golden rings, and put them on the two sides of the ephod underneath, toward the forepart of it, over against the other coupling thereof, above the curious girdle of the ephod.
21 And they did bind the breastplate by his rings unto the rings of the ephod with a lace of blue, that it might be above the curious girdle of the ephod, and that the breastplate might not be loosed from the ephod; as the Lord commanded Moses.
22 ¶ And he made the robe of the ephod of woven work, all of blue.
23 And there was an hole in the midst of the robe, as the hole of an habergeon, with a band round about the hole, that it should not rend.
24 And they made upon the hems of the robe pomegranates of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and twined linen.
25 And they made * bells of pure gold, and put the bells between the pomegranates upon the hem of the robe, round about between the pomegranates;
26 A bell and a pomegranate, a bell and a pomegranate, round about the hem of the robe to minister in; as the Lord commanded Moses.
27 ¶ And they made costs of fine linen of woven work for Aaron, and for his sons,
28 And a mitre of fine linen, and goodly bonnets of fine linen, and * linen breeches of fine twined linen,
29 And a girdle of fine twined linen, and blue, and purple, and scarlet, of needlework; as the Lord commanded Moses.
30 ¶ And they made the plate of the holy crown of pure gold, and wrote upon it a writing, like to the engravings of a signet, * HOLINESS TO THE LORD.
31 And they tied unto it a lace of blue, to fasten it on high upon the mitre; as the Lord commanded Moses.
32 ¶ Thus was all the work of the tabernacle of the tent of the congregation finished: and the children of Israel did according to all that the Lord commanded Moses, so did they.
33 ¶ And they brought the tabernacle unto Moses, the tent, and all his furniture, his taches, his boards, his bars, and his pillars, and his sockets,
34 And the covering of rams’ skins dyed red, and the covering of badgers’ skins, and the vail of the covering,
35 The ark of the testimony, and the staves thereof, and the mercy seat,
36 The table, and all the vessels thereof, and the shewbread,
37 The pure candlestick, with the lamps thereof, even with the lamps to be set in order, and all the vessels thereof, and the oil for light,
38 And the golden altar, and the anointing oil, and † the sweet incense, and the hanging for the tabernacle door,
39 The brasen altar, and his grate of brass, his staves, and all his vessels, the laver and his foot,
40 The hangings of the court, his pillars, and his sockets, and the hanging for the court gate, his cords, and his pins, and all the vessels of the service of the tabernacle, for the tent of the congregation,
41 The cloths of service to do service in the holy place, and the holy garments for Aaron the priest, and his sons’ garments, to minister in the priest’s office.
42 According to all that the Lord commanded Moses, so the children of Israel made all the work.
43 And Moses did look upon all the work, and, behold, they had done it as the Lord had commanded, even so had they done it: and Moses blessed them.
40
1 And the Lord spake unto Moses, saying,
2 On the first day of the first month shalt thou set up the tabernacle of the tent of the congregation.
3 And thou shalt put therein the ark of the testimony, and cover the ark with the vail.
4 And * thou shalt bring in the table, and set in order † the things that are to be set in order upon it; and thou shalt bring in the candlestick, and light the lamps thereof.
5 And thou shalt set the altar of gold for the incense before the ark of the testimony, and put the hanging of the door to the tabernacle.
6 And thou shalt set the altar of the burnt offering before the door of the tabernacle of the tent of the congregation.
7 And thou shalt set the laver between the tent of the congregation and the altar, and shalt put water therein.
8 And thou shalt set up the court round about, and hang up the hanging at the court gate.
9 And thou shalt take the anointing oil, and anoint the tabernacle, and all that is therein, and shalt hallow it, and all the vessels thereof: and it shall be holy.
10 And thou shalt anoint the altar of the burnt offering, and all his vessels, and sanctify the altar: and it shall be an altar † most holy
11 And thou shalt anoint the laver and his foot, and sanctify it.
12 And thou shalt bring Aaron and his sons unto the door of the tabernacle of the congregation, and wash them with water.
13 And thou shalt put upon Aaron the holy garments, and anoint him, and sanctify him; that he may minister unto me in the priest’s office.
14 And thou shalt bring his sons, and clothe them with coats:
15 And thou shalt anoint them, as thou didst anoint their father, that they may minister unto me in the priest’s office: for their anointing shall surely be an everlasting priesthood throughout their generations.
16 Thus did Moses: according to all that the Lord commanded him, so did he.
17 ¶ And it came to pass in the first month in the second year, on the first day of the month, that the * tabernacle was reared up.
18 And Moses reared up the tabernacle, and fastened his sockets, and set up the boards thereof, and put in the bars thereof, and reared up his pillars.
19 And he spread abroad the tent over the tabernacle, and put the covering of the tent above upon it; as the Lord commanded Moses.
20 ¶ And he took and put the testimony into the ark, and set the staves on the ark, and put the mercy seat above upon the ark:
21 And he brought the ark into the tabernacle, and * set up the vail of the covering, and covered the ark of the testimony; as the Lord commanded Moses.
22 ¶ And he put the table in the tent of the congregation, upon the side of the tabernacle northward, without the vail.
23 And he set the bread in order upon it before the Lord; as the Lord had commanded Moses.
24 ¶ And he put the candlestick in the tent of the congregation, over against the table, on the side of the tabernacle southward.
25 And he lighted the lamps before the Lord; as the Lord commanded Moses.
26 ¶ And he put the golden altar in the tent of the congregation before the vail:
27 And he burnt sweet incense thereon; as the Lord commanded Moses.
28 ¶ And he set up the hanging at the door of the tabernacle.
29 And he put the altar of burnt offering by the door of the tabernacle of the tent of the congregation, and offered upon it the burnt offering and the meat offering; as the *Lord commanded Moses.
30 ¶ And he set the laver between the tent of the congregation and the altar, and put water there, to wash withal.
31 And Moses and Aaron and his sons washed their hands and their feet thereat:
32 When they went into the tent of the congregation, and when they came near unto the altar, they washed; as the Lord commanded Moses.
33 And he reared up the court round about the tabernacle and the altar, and set up the hanging of the court gate. So Moses finished the work.
34 ¶ * Then a cloud covered the tent of the congregation, and the glory of the Lord filled the tabernacle.
35 And Moses was not able to enter into the tent of the congregation, because the cloud abode thereon, and the glory of the Lord filled the tabernacle.
36 And when the cloud was taken up from over the tabernacle, the children of Israel † went onward in all their journeys:
37 But if the cloud were not taken up, then they journeyed not till the day that it was taken up.
38 For the cloud of the Lordwas upon the tabernacle by day, and fire was on it by night, in the sight of all the house of Israel, throughout all their journeys.
[* ]Gen. 46. 8. ch. 6. 14.
[† ]Heb. thigh.
[* ]Gen. 46. 27. Deut. 10. 22
[* ]Acts 7. 17.
[† ]Heb. And as they afflicted them, so they multiplied, &c.
[* ]ch. 6. 20 Num. 26. 59.
[* ]Acts 7. 20 Heb. 11. 23.
[∥ ]That is, Drawn out.
[† ]Heb. a man, a prince.
[∥ ]Or, prince.
[* ]ch. 18. 3.
[* ]Gen. 15. 14. & 46. 4.
[† ]Heb. knew.
[* ]Acts 7. 30.
[* ]Josh. 5. 15. Acts 7. 33.
[* ]Matt. 22 32. Acts 7. 32
[∥ ]Or, but by strong hand.
[* ]ch. 11. 2 & 12. 35.
[∥ ]Or, Egypt.
[† ]Heb. shall be and shall be.
[† ]Heb. a man of words.
[† ]Heb. since yesterday, nor since the third day.
[* ]Matt. 10 19. Mark 13. 11. Luke 12. 11.
[∥ ]Or, shouldest.
[* ]ch 7. 1.
[∥ ]Or, knife.
[† ]Heb. made it touch.
[* ]ch. 3. 18.
[† ]Heb. Let the work be heavy upon the men.
[† ]Heb. a matter of a day in his day.
[† ]Heb. to stink.
[† ]Heb. delivering thou hast not delivered.
[† ]Heb. lift up my hand.
[† ]Heb. skortness, or straitness.
[* ]Gen. 46 9. 1 Chr 5. 3.
[* ]1 Chr. 4. 24
[* ]Num. 3 17. 1 Chr. 6. 1.
[* ]Num 26 57. 1 Chr. 6. 2.
[* ]ch. 2 1. Num. 26 59.
[* ]Num. 25. 11.
[† ]Heb. gathering of their waters.
[* ]ch. 17. 5.
[* ]Ps. 78. 44.
[* ]Wisd. 17. 7.
[∥ ]Or, dough.
[* ]Wisd. 17. 7.
[∥ ]Or, Have this honour over me, &c.
[∥ ]Or, against when.
[† ]Heb. to cut off.
[∥ ]Or, Against to morrow.
[∥ ]Or, a mixture of noisome beasts, &c.
[† ]Heb. a redemptior.
[∥ ]Or, by to morrow.
[* ]Wisd. 16. 9.
[∥ ]Or, destroyed
[* ]ch. 3. 18.
[* ]ch. 4. 21.
[* ]Rom. 9. 17.
[† ]Heb. made thee stand.
[† ]Heb. set not his heart unto.
[† ]Heb. voices of God.
[* ]Ps. 24. 1.
[† ]Heb. hidden, or, dark.
[† ]Heb. by the hand of Moses.
[* ]ch. 4. 21.
[* ]Wisd. 16. 9.
[† ]Heb. eye.
[† ]Heb. who and who, &c.
[† ]Heb. hastened to call.
[† ]Heb. fastened.
[† ]Heb. that one may feel darkness.
[* ]Wisd. 18. 1.
[† ]Heb. into our hands.
[* ]ch. 3. 22 & 12. 35.
[* ]Ecclus. 45. 1.
[* ]ch. 12. 29.
[† ]Heb. that is at thy feet.
[† ]Heb. heat of anger.
[∥ ]Or, kid.
[† ]Heb. son of a year.
[† ]Heb. between the two evenings.
[∥ ]Or, princes.
[† ]Heb. for a destruction.
[† ]Heb. soul.
[* ]Lev. 23. 5. Num. 28. 16.
[∥ ]Or, kid.
[* ]Heb. 11. 28.
[* ]Josh. 4 6
[* ]ch. 11. 4
[* ]Wisd. 18. 11.
[† ]Heb. house of the pit.
[∥ ]Or, dough.
[* ]ch. 3. 22 & 11. 2.
[* ]Num. 33. 3.
[† ]Heb. a great mixture.
[* ]Gen. 15. 13. Acts 7. 6. Gal. 3. 17.
[† ]Heb a night of observations.
[* ]Num. 9. 12. John 19. 36.
[† ]Heb. do it.
[* ]ch. 22. 29. & 84. 19. Lev. 27. 26. Num. 3. 13 & 8 16. Luke 2. 23.
[† ]Heb. servants.
[* ]ch. 22. 29. & 34. 19. Ezek. 44. 30.
[† ]Heb. cause to pass over.
[∥ ]Or, kid.
[† ]Heb. to morrow.
[∥ ]Or, by five in a rank.
[* ]Gen. 50. 25. Josh. 24. 32.
[* ]Num. 33. 6.
[* ]Num. 14 14. Deut. 1. 33 Ps 78. 14. 1 Cor. 10 1.
[* ]Neh. 9. 19.
[* ]Num. 33 7.
[* ]Josh. 24 6. 1 Mac. 4. 23
[* ]ch. 6. 9.
[∥ ]Or, for whereas you have seen the Egyptians to day, &c.
[* ]Josh. 4. 23. l’s. 114. 3
[* ]Ps. 78. 13 1 Cor. 10. 1. Heb. 11 29.
[∥ ]Or, and made them to qo heavily.
[† ]Heb. shook off.
[* ]Ps. 106. 11.
[† ]Heb. hand.
[* ]Wisd. 10. 20.
[∥ ]Or, repossess.
[∥ ]Or, mighty ones?
[* ]Deut. 2. 25. Josh. 2. 9.
[* ]Deut. 2. 25. Josh. 2. 9.
[∥ ]That is, Bitterness.
[* ]Ecclus. 38. 5.
[‡ ][1611 omits for them]
[* ]Num. 33. 9.
[† ]Heb. the portion of a day in his day.
[* ]ch. 13. 21.
[* ]Num. 11. 31.
[* ]Num. 11. 7. Ps. 78. 24. Wisd. 16. 20.
[∥ ]Or, What is this? or, It is a portion.
[* ]John 6. 31. 1 Cor. 10. 3.
[† ]Heb. by the poll, or, head.
[† ]Heb. souls.
[* ]2 Cor. 8. 15.
[* ]Josh. 5. 12. Neh. 9. 15.
[* ]Num. 20. 4.
[* ]ch. 7. 20.
[* ]Num. 20 9. Ps. 78. 15 & 105. 41. Wisd. 11. 4. 1 Cor. 10. 4.
[∥ ]That is, Tentation.
[∥ ]That is, Chiding, or, Strife.
[* ]Deut. 25. 17. Wisd. 11. 3.
[* ]Called Jesus, Acts 7. 45.
[* ]Num. 24. 20. 1 Sam. 15. 3.
[∥ ]That is, The Lord my banner.
[∥ ]Or, Because the hand of Amalek is against the throne of the Lord, therefore, &c.
[† ]Heb. the hand upon the throne of the Lord.
[* ]ch. 2. 16.
[* ]ch. 2. 22.
[∥ ]That is, A stranger there.
[∥ ]That is, My God is an help.
[† ]Heb. peace.
[† ]Heb. found them.
[* ]ch. 1. 10, 16, 22. & 5. 7. & 14. 18.
[† ]Heb. a man and his fellow.
[† ]Heb. Fading thou wilt fade.
[* ]Deut. 1. 9.
[* ]Acts 7. 38.
[* ]Deut. 29. 2.
[* ]Deut. 5 2.
[* ]Deut. 10. 14. Ps. 24. 1.
[* ]1 Pet. 2. 9. Rev. 1. 6.
[* ]ch. 24 3, 7. Deut. 5. 27. & 26. 17.
[* ]Heb. 12. 20.
[∥ ]Or, cornet.
[* ]Deut. 4. 11.
[† ]Heb. contest.
[* ]Deut. 5. 6. Ps. 81. 10.
[† ]Heb. servants.
[* ]Lev. 26. 1. Ps. 97. 7.
[* ]Lev. 19. 12. Deut. 5. 11. Matt. 5. 33.
[* ]ch. 23. 12. Ezek. 20. 12. Luke 13. 14.
[* ]Gen. 2. 2.
[* ]Deut. 5. 16. Matt. 15. 4. Eph. 6. 2.
[* ]Matt. 5. 21.
[* ]Rom. 7. 7.
[* ]Heb. 12. 18.
[* ]Deut. 5 27. & 18. 16.
[* ]Deut. 27. 5. Josh. 8. 31.
[† ]Heb. build them with hewing.
[* ]Lev. 25 41. Deut. 15. 12. Jer. 34. 14.
[† ]Heb. with his body.
[† ]Heb. saying shall say.
[† ]Heb. be evil in the eyes of, &c.
[* ]Lev. 24. 17.
[* ]Deut. 19. 3.
[* ]Lev. 20 9. Prov. 20. 20 Matt. 15. 4. Mark 7. 10.
[∥ ]Or, revileth.
[∥ ]Or, his neighbour.
[† ]Heb. his ceasing.
[† ]Heb avenged.
[* ]Lev. 24. 20. Deut. 19. 21. Matt. 5. 38.
[* ]Gen. 9. 5.
[‡ ][1611 omits of silver]
[∥ ]Or, goat.
[* ]2 Sam. 12. 6.
[* ]Gen. 31. 39.
[* ]Deut. 22. 23.
[† ]Heb. weigh.
[* ]Deut. 13 13, 14, 15 1 Mac. 2. 24.
[* ]Lev. 19 33.
[* ]Zech. 7. 10.
[* ]Lev. 25. 37. Deut. 23. 19. Pa. 15. 5.
[* ]Acts 23. 5.
[∥ ]Or, judges.
[† ]Heb. thy fulness.
[† ]Heb. tear.
[* ]ch 13. 2, 12. & 34. 19.
[* ]Lev. 22. 8 Ezek. 44. 31.
[∥ ]Or, receive.
[† ]Heb. answer.
[* ]Deut. 22. 4.
[∥ ]Or, wilt thou cease to help him? or, and wouldest cease to leave thy business for him: thou shalt surely leave it to join with him.
[* ]Deut. 16. 19. Ecclus. 20. 29.
[† ]Heb. the seeing.
[† ]Heb. soul.
[* ]Lev. 25. 3.
[∥ ]Or, olive trees.
[* ]ch. 20. 8. Deut. 5. 13. Luke 13. 14.
[‡ ][1611 names]
[* ]Deut. 16. 16.
[* ]ch. 13. 3. & 34. 18.
[* ]Deut. 16. 16. Ecclus. 35. 4.
[∥ ]Or, feast
[* ]ch. 34. 26
[* ]Deut. 14. 21.
[* ]ch. 33. 2.
[∥ ]Or, I will afflict them that afflict thee.
[* ]ch. 33. 2.
[* ]Josh. 24. 11.
[* ]Deut. 7. 25.
[* ]Deut. 7. 14.
[† ]Heb. neck.
[* ]Josh. 24. 12.
[* ]ch. 34. 15. Deut. 7. 2.
[* ]Deut. 7. 16. Josh. 23. 13. Judg. 2. 3.
[* ]ch. 19. 8. & 24. 3, 7. Deut. 5. 27.
[* ]ver. 3.
[* ]1 Pet. 1. 2. Heb. 9. 20.
[* ]ch. 34. 28. Deut 9 9.
[† ]Heb take for me.
[† ]Or, heave offering.
[* ]ch. 35. 5.
[∥ ]Or, silk.
[* ]ch. 28. 4.
[* ]ch. 28. 15.
[* ]ch. 37. 1.
[∥ ]Or, of the matter of the mercy seat.
[* ]Num. 7. 89.
[* ]ch. 37. 10.
[∥ ]Or, to pour out withal.
[* ]ch. 37. 17.
[∥ ]Or, cause to ascend.
[† ]Heb. the face of it.
[* ]Acts 7. 44. Heb. 8. 5.
[† ]Heb. which thou wast caused to see.
[† ]Heb. the work of a cunning workman, or, embroiderer.
[‡ ][1611 omits curtains]
[∥ ]Or, covering.
[† ]Heb. in the remainder, or, surplusage.
[† ]Heb. hands.
[† ]Heb. twinned.
[* ]ch. 25. 9, 40. Acts 7. 44. Heb. 8. 5.
[† ]Heb. he shewed.
[† ]Heb. fifty by fifty
[† ]Heb to ascend up.
[∥ ]Or, embroidered.
[* ]Wisd. 13. 24.
[† ]Heb. fill in it fillings of stone.
[∥ ]Or, ruby.
[† ]Heb. fillings.
[∥ ]Or, skirts.
[* ]Ecclus. 45. 9.
[† ]Heb. fill their hand.
[† ]Heb. flesh of then nakedness.
[† ]Heb. be.
[* ]Lev 8. 2.
[* ]ch. 30. 25.
[† ]Heb. bind.
[† ]Heb. fill the hand of.
[* ]ch. 28. 41.
[* ]Lev. 1. 4.
[* ]Lev. 3. 3.
[∥ ]It seemeth by anatomy, and the Hebrew doctors, to be the midriff
[∥ ]Or, upon.
[∥ ]Or, shake to and fro.
[‡ ][1611 consecrations]
[† ]Heb. he of his sons.
[* ]Lev. 8. 31. Matt 12. 4.
[* ]Num. 28. 3.
[∥ ]Or, Israel.
[* ]Lev. 26. 12. 2 Cor. 6. 16.
[† ]Heb. the roof and the walls.
[† ]Heb. walls.
[† ]Heb. ribs.
[† ]Heb. incense of spices.
[∥ ]Or, setteth up.
[† ]Heb. causeth to ascend.
[† ]Heb. between the two events.
[* ]Num. 1. 2, 5.
[† ]Heb. them that are to be numbered.
[* ]Lev. 27. 25. Num. 3. 47. Ezek. 45. 12.
[† ]Heb. multiply.
[† ]Heb. diminish.
[* ]ch. 29. 40.
[∥ ]Or, perfumer.
[† ]Heb salted.
[* ]1 Chr. 2. 20.
[† ]Heb. vessels.
[* ]ch. 20. 8. Deut. 5. 12 Ezek. 20. 12.
[† ]Heb. holiness.
[* ]Gen. 1. 31. & 2. 2.
[* ]Deut. 9. 10.
[* ]Acts 7. 40.
[* ]Ps. 106. 19 1 Kings 12. 28.
[* ]1 Cor. 10. 7.
[* ]Deut. 9. 12.
[* ]Deut. 9. 8.
[* ]ch. 33 3. Deut. 9. 13.
[* ]Ps. 106. 23.
[† ]Heb. the face of the Lord.
[* ]Num. 14. 13.
[* ]Gen. 12. 7. & 15 7. & 48. 16.
[* ]ch 31. 18.
[† ]Heb. weakness.
[* ]Deut. 9. 21.
[† ]Heb. those that rose up against them.
[∥ ]Or, And Moses said, Consecrate yourselves to day to the Lord, because, every man hath been against his son, and against his brother, &c.
[† ]Heb. Fill your hands.
[* ]Gen. 12. 7.
[* ]Deut. 7. 22. Josh 24. 11.
[* ]ch. 32. 9. Deut. 9. 13.
[* ]Rom. 9. 16.
[* ]Deut. 10. 1.
[* ]ch. 19. 12.
[* ]ch. 20. 5. Deut. 5. 9. Jer. 32. 18.
[* ]Deut. 5. 2.
[* ]ch. 23. 32 Deut. 7. 2.
[† ]Heb statues.
[* ]ch. 20. 5.
[* ]1 Kings 11. 2
[* ]ch 23. 15.
[* ]ch 13. 4.
[* ]ch. 22. 29 Ezek. 44. 30
[∥ ]Or, kid
[* ]ch. 23. 15.
[* ]ch. 23. 12. Deut 5. 12 Luke 13 14.
[* ]ch. 23. 16.
[† ]Heb revolution of the year.
[* ]ch 23. 14. 17. Deut. 16. 16.
[* ]ch 23. 18.
[‡ ][1611 omits the]
[* ]ch. 23. 19. Deut. 14. 21.
[* ]Deut. 4. 13.
[* ]ch. 24. 18. Deut. 9. 9.
[† ]Heb. words.
[* ]2 Cor. 3. 13.
[* ]ch. 20. 9 Lev 23 3. Deut. 5 12 Luke 13. 14.
[† ]Heb. holiness.
[* ]ch. 25 2
[* ]ch. 26. 31.
[‡ ][1611 omits his boards,]
[* ]ch. 30. 1.
[* ]ch. 27. 1.
[* ]ch. 30. 23.
[‡ ][1611 hands]
[* ]ch. 31. 2.
[* ]ch. 26. 1.
[* ]ch. 26. 10.
[† ]Heb. twinned.
[† ]Heb. two sockets, two sockets under one board.
[* ]ch. 25. 28. & 30. 5.
[† ]Heb. the work of a needleworker, or, embroiderer.
[* ]ch. 25. 10.
[* ]ch. 25. 17.
[∥ ]Or, out of, &c.
[∥ ]Or, out of, &c.
[* ]ch. 25. 29.
[∥ ]Or, to pour out withal.
[* ]ch. 25. 31.
[‡ ][1611 made he after]
[* ]ch. 30. 1.
[* ]ch. 30. 35.
[* ]ch. 27. 1.
[∥ ]Or, brasen glasses.
[† ]Heb. assembling by troops.
[* ]ch. 27. 19.
[† ]Heb. a poll.
[* ]ch. 31. 10. & 35. 19.
[* ]ch. 28. 9.
[* ]ch. 28. 12.
[∥ ]Or, 23.
[* ]ch. 28. 33.
[* ]ch. 28. 42.
[* ]ch. 28. 36.
[† ]Heb. the incense of sweet spices.
[* ]ch. 26. 35.
[† ]Heb the order thereof.
[† ]Heb. holiness of holinesses.
[* ]Num. 7 1.
[* ]ch. 35. 12.
[* ]ch. 30. 9.
[* ]Num. 9 15. 1 Kings & 10.
[† ]Heb. journeyed.
2: Saint Matthew, The Gospel according to S. Matthew (KJV) [1885]
Saint Matthew, The Parallel Bible. The Holy Bible containing the Old and New Testaments translated out of the Original Tongues: being the Authorised Version arranged in parallel columns with the Revised Version (Oxford University Press, 1885). The Gospel according to S. Matthew.
Accessed from oll.libertyfund.org/title/2154 on 2011-05-14
The text is in the public domain.
THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO S. MATTHEW.
THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO S. MATTHEW. (A. V.)
1
1The book of the * generation of Jesus Christ, the son of David, the son of Abraham.
2* Abraham begat Isaac; and * Isaac begat Jacob; and * Jacob begat Judas and his brethren;
3 And * Judas begat Phares and Zara of Thamar; and * Phares begat Esrom; and Esrom begat Aram;
4 And Aram begat Aminadab; and Aminadab begat Naasson; and Naasson begat Salmon;
5 And Salmon begat Booz of Rachab; and Booz begat Obed of Ruth; and Obed begat Jesse;
6 And * Jesse begat David the king; and * David the king begat Solomon of her that had been the wife of Urias;
7 And * Solomon begat Roboam; and Roboam begat Abia; and Abia begat Asa;
8 And Asa begat Josaphat; and Josaphat begat Joram; and Joram begat Ozias;
9 And Ozias begat Joatham; and Joatham begat Achaz; and Achaz begat Ezekias;
10 And * Ezekias begat Manasses; and Manasses begat Amon; and Amon begat Josias;
11 And ∥ Josias begat Jechonias and his brethren, about the time they were carried away to Babylon:
12 And after they were brought to Babylon, * Jechonias begat Salathiel; and Salathiel begat Zorobabel;
13 And Zorobabel begat Abiud; and Abiud begat Eliakim; and Eliakim begat Azor;
14 And Azor begat Sadoc; and Sadoc begat Achim; and Achim begat Eliud;
15 And Eliud begat Eleazar; and Eleazar begat Matthan; and Matthan begat Jacob;
16 And Jacob begat Joseph the husband of Mary, of whom was born Jesus, who is called Christ.
17 So all the generations from Abraham to David are fourteen generations; and from David until the carrying away into Babylon are fourteen generations; and from the carrying away into Babylon unto Christ are fourteen generations.
18 ¶ Now the * birth of Jesus Christ was on this wise: When as his mother Mary was espoused to Joseph, before they came together, she was found with child of the Holy Ghost.
19 Then Joseph her husband, being a just man, and not willing to make her a publick example, was minded to put her away privily.
20 But while he thought on these things, behold, the angel of the Lord appeared unto him in a dream, saying, Joseph, thou son of David, fear not to take unto thee Mary thy wife: for that which is conceived in her is of the Holy Ghost.
21* And she shall bring forth a son, and thou shalt call his name JESUS: for he shall save his people from their sins.
22 Now all this was done, that it might be fulfilled which was spoken of the Lord by the prophet, saying,
23* Behold, a virgin shall be with child, and shall bring forth a son, and ∥ they shall call his name Emmanuel, which being interpreted is, God with us.
24 Then Joseph being raised from sleep did as the angel of the Lord had bidden him, and took unto him his wife:
25 And knew her not till she had brought forth her firstborn son: and he called his name JESUS.
2
1 Now when * Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judæa in the days of Herod the king, behold, there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem,
2 Saying, Where is he that is born King of the Jews? for we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him.
3 When Herod the king had heard these things, he was troubled, and all Jerusalem with him.
4 And when he had gathered all the chief priests and scribes of the people together, he demanded of them where Christ should be born.
5 And they said unto him, In Bethlehem of Judæa: for thus it is written by the prophet,
6* And thou Bethlehem, in the land of Juda, art not the least among the princes of Juda: for out of thee shall come a Governor, that shall ∥ rule my people Israel.
7 Then Herod, when he had privily called the wise men, enquired of them diligently what time the star appeared.
8 And he sent them to Bethlehem, and said, Go and search diligently for the young child; and when ye have found him, bring me word again, that I may come and worship him also.
9 When they had heard the king, they departed; and, lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the young child was.
10 When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy.
11 ¶ And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary his mother, and fell down, and worshipped him: and when they had opened their treasures, they ∥ presented unto him gifts; gold, and frankincense, and myrrh.
12 And being warned of God in a dream that they should not return to Herod, they departed into their own country another way.
13 And when they were departed, behold, the angel of the Lord appeareth to Joseph in a dream, saying, Arise, and take the young child and his mother, and flee into Egypt, and be thou there until I bring thee word: for Herod will seek the young child to destroy him.
14 When he arose, he took the young child and his mother by night, and departed into Egypt:
15 And was there until the death of Herod: that it might be fulfilled which was spoken of the Lord by the prophet, saying, * Out of Egypt have I called my son.
16 ¶ Then Herod, when he saw that he was mocked of the wise men, was exceeding wroth, and sent forth, and slew all the children that were in Bethlehem, and in all the coasts thereof, from two years old and under, according to the time which he had diligently enquired of the wise men.
17 Then was fulfilled that which was spoken by * Jeremy the prophet, saying,
18 In Rama was there a voice heard, lamentation, and weeping, and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not.
19 ¶ But when Herod was dead, behold, an angel of the Lord appeareth in a dream to Joseph in Egypt,
20 Saying, Arise, and take the young child and his mother, and go into the land of Israel: for they are dead which sought the young child’s life.
21 And he arose, and took the young child and his mother, and came into the land of Israel.
22 But when he heard that Archelaus did reign in Judæa in the room of his father Herod, he was afraid to go thither: notwithstanding, being warned of God in a dream, he turned aside into the parts of Galilee:
23 And he came and dwelt in a city called Nazareth: that it might be fulfilled which was spoken by the prophets, He shall be called a Nazarene.
3
1 In those days came * John the Baptist, preaching in the wilderness of Judæa,
2 And saying, Repent ye: for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.
3 For this is he that was spoken of by the prophet Esaias, saying, * The voice of one crying in the wilderness, Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.
4 And the same John had his raiment of camel’s hair, and a leathern girdle about his loins; and his meat was locusts and wild honey.
5 Then went out to him Jerusalem, and all Judæa, and all the region round about Jordan,
6 And were baptized of him in Jordan, confessing their sins.
7 ¶ But when he saw many of the Pharisees and Sadducees come to his baptism, he said unto them, * O generation of vipers, who hath warned you to flee from the wrath to come?
8 Bring forth therefore fruits ∥ meet for repentance:
9 And think not to say within yourselves, * We have Abraham to our father: for I say unto you, that God is able of these stones to raise up children unto Abraham.
10 And now also the ax is laid unto the root of the trees: * therefore every tree which bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire.
11* I indeed baptize you with water unto repentance: but he that cometh after me is mightier than I, whose shoes I am not worthy to bear: he shall baptize you with the Holy Ghost, and with fire:
12 Whose fan is in his hand, and he will throughly purge his floor, and gather his wheat into the garner; but ‡ he will burn up the chaff with unquenchable fire.
13 ¶ * Then cometh Jesus from Galilee to Jordan unto John, to be baptized of him.
14 But John forbad him, saying, I have need to be baptized of thee, and comest thou to me?
15 And Jesus answering said unto him, Suffer it to be so now: for thus it becometh us to fulfil all righteousness. Then he suffered him.
16 And Jesus, when he was baptized, went up straightway out of the water: and, lo, the heavens were opened unto him, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove, and lighting upon him:
17 And lo a voice from heaven, saying, This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.
4
1 Then was * Jesus led up of the spirit into the wilderness to be tempted of the devil.
2 And when he had fasted forty days and forty nights, he was afterward an hungred.
3 And when the tempter came to him, he said, If thou be the Son of God, command that these stones be made bread.
4 But he answered and said, It is written, * Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God.
5 Then the devil taketh him up into the holy city, and setteth him on a pinnacle of the temple,
6 And saith unto him, If thou be the Son of God, cast thyself down: for it is written, * He shall give his angels charge concerning thee: and in their hands they shall bear thee up, lest at any time thou dash thy foot against a stone.
7 Jesus said unto him, It is written again, * Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God.
8 Again, the devil taketh him up into an exceeding high mountain, and sheweth him all the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them;
9 And saith unto him, All these things will I give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me.
10 Then saith Jesus unto him, Get thee hence, Satan: for it is written, * Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and him only shalt thou serve.
11 Then the devil leaveth him, and, behold, angels came and ministered unto him.
12 ¶ * Now when Jesus had heard that John was ∥ cast into prison, he departed into Galilee;
13 And leaving Nazareth, he came and dwelt in Capernaum, which is upon the sea coast, in the borders of Zabulon and Nephthalim:
14 That it might be fulfilled which was spoken by Esaias the prophet, saying,
15* The land of Zabulon, and the land of Nephthalim, by the way of the sea, beyond Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles;
16 The people which sat in darkness saw great light; and to them which sat in the region and shadow of death light is sprung up.
17 ¶ * From that time Jesus began to preach, and to say, Repent: for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.
18 ¶ * And Jesus, walking by the sea of Galilee, saw two brethren, Simon called Peter, and Andrew his brother, casting a net into the sea: for they were fishers.
19 And he saith unto them, Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.
20 And they straightway left their nets, and followed him.
21 And going on from thence, he saw other two brethren, James the son of Zebedee, and John his brother, in a ship with Zebedee their father, mending their nets; and he called them.
22 And they immediately left the ship and their father, and followed him.
23 ¶ And Jesus went about all Galilee, teaching in their synagogues, and preaching the gospel of the kingdom, and healing all manner of sickness and all manner of disease among the people.
24 And his fame went throughout all Syria: and they brought unto him all sick people that were taken with divers diseases and torments, and those which were possessed with devils, and those which were lunatick, and those that had the palsy; and he healed them.
25 And there followed him great multitudes of people from Galilee, and from Decapolis, and from Jerusalem, and from Judæa, and from beyond Jordan.
5
1 And seeing the multitudes, he went up into a mountain: and when he was set, his disciples came unto him:
2 And he opened his mouth, and taught them, saying,
3* Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
4 Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.
5* Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.
6 Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: * for they shall be filled.
7 Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.
8* Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.
9 Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.
10* Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
11 Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of * evil against you † falsely, for my sake.
12 Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.
13 ¶ Ye are the salt of the earth: * but if the salt have lost his savour, wherewith shall it be salted? it is thenceforth good for nothing, but to be cast out, and to be trodden under foot of men.
14 Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on an hill cannot be hid.
15 Neither do men * light a candle, and put it under ∥ a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house.
16 Let your light so shine before men, * that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.
17 ¶ Think not that I am come to destroy the law, or the prophets: I am not come to destroy, but to fulfil.
18 For verily I say unto you, * Till heaven and earth pass, one jot or one tittle shall in no wise pass from the law, till all be fulfilled.
19* Whosoever therefore shall break one of these least commandments, and shall teach men so, he shall be called the least in the kingdom of heaven: but whosoever shall do and teach them, the same shall be called great in the kingdom of heaven.
20 For I say unto you, That except your righteousness shall exceed the righteousness of the scribes and Pharisees, ye shall in no case enter into the kingdom of heaven.
21 ¶ Ye have heard that it was said ∥ by them of old time, * Thou shalt not kill; and whosoever shall kill shall be in danger of the judgment:
22 But I say unto you, That whosoever is angry with his brother without a cause shall be in danger of the judgment: and whosoever shall say to his brother, Raca, shall be in danger of the council: but whosoever shall say, Thou fool, shall be in danger of hell fire.
23 Therefore if thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath ought against thee;
24 Leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift.
25* Agree with thine adversary quickly, whiles thou art in the way with him; lest at any time the adversary deliver thee to the judge, and the judge deliver thee to the officer, and thou be cast into prison.
26 Verily I say unto thee, Thou shalt by no means come out thence, till thou hast paid the uttermost farthing.
27 ¶ Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, * Thou shalt not commit adultery:
28 But I say unto you, That whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.
29* And if thy right eye ∥ offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.
30 And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.
31 It hath been said, * Whosoever shall put away his wife, let him give her a writing of divorcement:
32 But I say unto you, That whosoever shall put away his wife, saving for the cause of fornication, causeth her to commit adultery: and whosoever shall marry her that is divorced committeth adultery.
33 ¶ Again, ye have heard that it hath been said by them of old time, * Thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt perform unto the Lord thine oaths:
34 But I say unto you, Swear not at all; neither by heaven; for it is God’s throne:
35 Nor by the earth; for it is his footstool: neither by Jerusalem; for it is the city of the great King.
36 Neither shalt thou swear by thy head, because thou canst not make one hair white or black.
37* But let your communication be, Yea, yea; Nay, nay: for whatsoever is more than these cometh of evil.
38 ¶ Ye have heard that it hath been said, * An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth:
39 But I say unto you, * That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.
40 And if any man will sue thee at the law, and take away thy coat, let him have thy cloke also.
41 And whosoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go with him twain.
42 Give to him that asketh thee, and * from him that would borrow of thee turn not thou away.
43 ¶ Ye have heard that it hath been said, * Thou shalt love thy neighbour, and hate thine enemy.
44 But I say unto you, * Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and * pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you;
45 That ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.
46* For if ye love them which love you, what reward have ye? do not even the publicans the same?
47 And if ye salute your brethren only, what do ye more than others? do not even the publicans so?
48 Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.
6
1 Take heed that ye do not your alms before men, to be seen of them: otherwise ye have no reward ∥ of your Father which is in heaven.
2 Therefore * when thou doest thine alms, ∥ do not sound a trumpet before thee, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, that they may have glory of men. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward.
3 But when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right ‡ hand doeth:
4 That thine alms may be in secret: and thy Father which seeth in secret himself shall reward thee openly.
5 ¶ And when thou prayest, thou shalt not be as the hypocrites are: for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they may be seen of men. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward.
6 But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly.
7 But when ye pray, use not vain * repetitions, as the heathen do: for they think that they shall be heard for their much speaking.
8 Be not ye therefore like unto them: for your Father knoweth what things ye have need of, before ye ask him.
9 After this manner therefore pray ye: * Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name.
10 Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.
11 Give us this day our daily bread.
12 And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.
13 And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever. Amen.
14* For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you:
15 But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.
16 ¶ Moreover when ye fast, be not, as the hypocrites, of a sad countenance: for they disfigure their faces, that they may appear unto men to fast. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward.
17 But thou, when thou fastest, anoint thine head, and wash thy face;
18 That thou appear not unto men to fast, but unto thy Father which is in secret: and thy Father, which seeth in secret, shall reward thee openly.
19 ¶ Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal:
20* But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal:
21 For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.
22* The light of the body is the eye: if therefore thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light.
23 But if thine eye be evil, thy whole body shall be full of darkness. If therefore the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness!
24 ¶ * No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon.
25 Therefore I say unto you, * Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment?
26 Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?
27 Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature?
28 And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin:
29 And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.
30 Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to day is, and to morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?
31 Therefore take no thought, saying, What shall we eat? or, What shall we drink? or, Wherewithal shall we be clothed?
32 (For after all these things do the Gentiles seek:) for your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things.
33 But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.
34 Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.
7
1 Judge * not, that ye be not judged.
2 For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: * and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.
3* And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?
4 Or how wilt thou say to thy brother, Let me pull out the mote out of thine eye; and, behold, a beam is in thine own eye?
5 Thou hypocrite, first cast out the beam out of thine own eye; and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brother’s eye.
6 ¶ Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you.
7 ¶ * Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you:
8 For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.
9 Or what man is there of you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give him a stone?
10 Or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent?
11 If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask him?
12 Therefore all things * whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them: for this is the law and the prophets.
13 ¶ * Enter ye in at the strait gate: for wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction, and many there be which go in thereat:
14∥ Because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.
15 ¶ Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.
16 Ye shall know them by their fruits. * Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles?
17 Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit.
18 A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit.
19* Every tree that bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire.
20 Wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them.
21 ¶ Not every one that saith unto me, * Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven; but he that doeth the will of my Father which is in heaven.
22 Many will say to me in that day, Lord, Lord, have we not prophesied in thy name? and in thy name have cast out devils? and in thy name done many wonderful works?
23 And then will I profess unto them, * I never knew you: * depart from me, ye that work iniquity.
24 ¶ Therefore * whosoever heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, which built his house upon a rock:
25 And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not: for it was founded upon a rock.
26 And every one that heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them not, shall be likened unto a foolish man, which built his house upon the sand:
27 And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell: and great was the fall of it.
28 And it came to pass, when Jesus had ended these sayings, * the people were astonished at his doctrine:
29 For he taught them as one having authority, and not as the scribes.
8
1 When he was come down from the mountain, great multitudes followed him.
2* And, behold, there came a leper and worshipped him, saying, Lord, if thou wilt, thou canst make me clean.
3 And Jesus put forth his hand, and touched him, saying, I will; be thou clean. And immediately his leprosy was cleansed.
4 And Jesus saith unto him, See thou tell no man; but go thy way, shew thyself to the priest, and offer the gift that * Moses commanded, for a testimony unto them.
5 ¶ * And when Jesus was entered into Capernaum, there came unto him a centurion, beseeching him,
6 And saying, Lord, my servant lieth at home sick of the palsy, grievously tormented.
7 And Jesus saith unto him, I will come and heal him.
8 The centurion answered and said, Lord, I am not worthy that thou shouldest come under my roof: but speak the word only, and my servant shall be healed.
9 For I am a man under authority, having soldiers under me: and I say to this man, Go, and he goeth; and to another, Come, and he cometh; and to my servant, Do this, and he doeth it.
10 When Jesus heard it, he marvelled, and said to them that followed, Verily I say unto you, I have not found so great faith, no, not in Israel.
11 And I say unto you, That many shall come from the east and west, and shall sit down with Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob, in the kingdom of heaven.
12 But the children of the kingdom shall be cast out into outer darkness: there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.
13 And Jesus said unto the centurion, Go thy way; and as thou hast believed, so be it done unto thee. And his servant was healed in the selfsame hour.
14 ¶ * And when Jesus was come into Peter’s house, he saw his wife’s mother laid, and sick of a fever.
15 And he touched her hand, and the fever left her: and she arose, and ministered unto them.
16 ¶ * When the even was come, they brought unto him many that were possessed with devils: and he cast out the spirits with his word, and healed all that were sick:
17 That it might be fulfilled which was spoken by Esaias the prophet, saying, * Himself took our infirmities, and bare our sicknesses.
18 ¶ Now when Jesus saw great multitudes about him, he gave commandment to depart unto the other side.
19* And a certain scribe came, and said unto him, Master, I will follow thee whithersoever thou goest.
20 And Jesus saith unto him, The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head.
21 And another of his disciples said unto him, Lord, suffer me first to go and bury my father.
22 But Jesus said unto him, Follow me; and let the dead bury their dead.
23 ¶ And when he was entered into a ship, his disciples followed him.
24* And, behold, there arose a great tempest in the sea, insomuch that the ship was covered with the waves: but he was asleep.
25 And his disciples came to him, and awoke him, saying, Lord, save us: we perish.
26 And he saith unto them, Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith? Then he arose, and rebuked the winds and the sea; and there was a great calm.
27 But the men marvelled, saying, What manner of man is this, that even the winds and the sea obey him!
28 ¶ * And when he was come to the other side into the country of the Gergesenes, there met him two possessed with devils, coming out of the tombs, exceeding fierce, so that no man might pass by that way.
29 And, behold, they cried out, saying, What have we to do with thee, Jesus, thou Son of God? art thou come hither to torment us before the time?
30 And there was a good way off from them an herd of many swine feeding.
31 So the devils besought him, saying, If thou cast us out, suffer us to go away into the herd of swine.
32 And he said unto them, Go. And when they were come out, they went into the herd of swine: and, behold, the whole herd of swine ran violently down a steep place into the sea, and perished in the waters.
33 And they that kept them fled, and went their ways into the city, and told every thing, and what was befallen to the possessed of the devils.
34 And, behold, the whole city came out to meet Jesus: and when they saw him, they besought him that he would depart out of their coasts.
9
1 And he entered into a ship, and passed over, and came into his own city.
2* And, behold, they brought to him a man sick of the palsy, lying on a bed: and Jesus seeing their faith said unto the sick of the palsy; Son, be of good cheer; thy sins be forgiven thee.
3 And, behold, certain of the scribes said within themselves, This man blasphemeth.
4 And Jesus knowing their thoughts said, Wherefore think ye evil in your hearts?
5 For whether is easier, to say, Thy sins be forgiven thee; or to say, Arise, and walk?
6 But that ye may know that the Son of man hath power on earth to forgive sins, (then saith he to the sick of the palsy,) Arise, take up thy bed, and go unto thine house.
7 And he arose, and departed to his house.
8 But when the multitudes saw it, they marvelled, and glorified God, which had given such power unto men.
9 ¶ * And as Jesus passed forth from thence, he saw a man, named Matthew, sitting at the receipt of custom: and he saith unto him, Follow me. And he arose, and followed him.
10 ¶ And it came to pass, as Jesus sat at meat in the house, behold, many publicans and sinners came and sat down with him and his disciples.
11 And when the Pharisees saw it, they said unto his disciples, Why eateth your Master with publicans and sinners?
12 But when Jesus heard that, he said unto them, They that be whole need not a physician, but they that are sick.
13 But go ye and learn what that meaneth, * I will have mercy, and not sacrifice: for I am not come to call the righteous, * but sinners to repentance.
14 ¶ Then came to him the disciples of John, saying, * Why do we and the Pharisees fast oft, but thy disciples fast not?
15 And Jesus said unto them, Can the children of the bridechamber mourn, as long as the bridegroom is with them? but the days will come, when the bridegroom shall be taken from them, and then shall they fast.
16 No man putteth a piece of ∥ new cloth unto an old garment, for that which is put in to fill it up taketh from the garment, and the rent is made worse.
17 Neither do men put new wine into old bottles: else the bottles break, and the wine runneth out, and the bottles perish: but they put new wine into new bottles, and both are preserved.
18 ¶ * While he spake these things unto them, behold, there came a certain ruler, and worshipped him, saying, My daughter is even now dead: but come and lay thy hand upon her, and she shall live.
19 And Jesus arose, and followed him, and so did his disciples.
20 ¶ And, behold, a woman, which was diseased with an issue of blood twelve years, came behind him, and touched the hem of his garment:
21 For she said within herself, If I may but touch his garment, I shall be whole.
22 But Jesus turned him about, and when he saw her, he said, Daughter, be of good comfort; thy faith hath made thee whole. And the woman was made whole from that hour.
23 And when Jesus came into the ruler’s house, and saw the minstrels and the people making a noise,
24 He said unto them, Give place: for the maid is not dead, but sleepeth. And they laughed him to scorn.
25 But when the people were put forth, he went in, and took her by the hand, and the maid arose.
26 And ∥ the fame hereof went abroad into all that land.
27 ¶ And when Jesus departed thence, two blind men followed him, crying, and saying, Thou son of David, have mercy on us.
28 And when he was come into the house, the blind men came to him: and Jesus saith unto them, Believe ye that I am able to do this? They said unto him, Yea, Lord.
29 Then touched he their eyes, saying, According to your faith be it unto you.
30 And their eyes were opened; and Jesus straitly charged them, saying, See that no man know it.
31 But they, when they were departed, spread abroad his fame in all that country.
32 ¶ * As they went out, behold, they brought to him a dumb man possessed with a devil.
33 And when the devil was cast out, the dumb spake: and the multitudes marvelled, saying, It was never so seen in Israel.
34 But the Pharisees said, * He casteth ‡ out devils through the prince of the devils.
35* And Jesus went about all the cities and villages, teaching in their synagogues, and preaching the gospel of the kingdom, and healing every sickness and every disease among the people.
36 ¶ * But when he saw the multitudes, he was moved with compassion on them, because they ∥ fainted, and were scattered abroad, * as sheep having no shepherd.
37 Then saith he unto his disciples, * The harvest truly is plenteous, but the labourers are few;
38 Pray ye therefore the Lord of the harvest, that he will send forth labourers into his harvest.
10
1 And * when he had called unto him his twelve disciples, he gave them power ∥against unclean spirits, to cast them out, and to heal all manner of sickness and all manner of disease.
2 Now the names of the twelve apostles are these; The first, Simon, who is called Peter, and Andrew his brother; James the son of Zebedee, and John his brother;
3 Philip, and Bartholomew; Thomas, and Matthew the publican; James the son of Alphæus, and Lebbæus, whose surname was Thaddæus;
4 Simon the Canaanite, and Judas Iscariot, who also betrayed him
5 These twelve Jesus sent forth, and commanded them, saying, Go not into the way of the Gentiles, and into any city of the Samaritans enter ye not:
6* But go rather to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.
7 And as ye go, preach, saying, * The kingdom of heaven is at hand.
8 Heal the sick, cleanse the lepers, raise the dead, cast out devils: freely ye have received, freely give.
9*∥ Provide neither gold, nor silver, nor brass in your purses,
10 Nor scrip for your journey, neither two coats, neither shoes, nor yet staves: * for the workman is worthy of his meat.
11* And into whatsoever city or town ye shall enter, enquire who in it is worthy; and there abide till ye go thence.
12 And when ye come into an house, salute it.
13 And if the house be worthy, let your peace come upon it: but if it be not worthy, let your peace return to you.
14* And whosoever shall not receive you, nor hear your words, when ye depart out of that house or city, * shake off the dust of your feet.
15 Verily I say unto you, It shall be more tolerable for the land of Sodom and Gomorrha in the day of judgment, than for that city.
16 ¶ * Behold, I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves: be ye therefore wise as serpents, and ∥ harmless as doves.
17 But beware of men: for they will deliver you up to the councils, and they will scourge you in their synagogues;
18 And ye shall be brought before governors and kings for my sake, for a testimony against them and the Gentiles.
19* But when they deliver you up, take no thought how or what ye shall speak: for it shall be given you in that same hour what ye shall speak.
20 For it is not ye that speak, but the Spirit of your Father which speaketh in you.
21* And the brother shall deliver up the brother to death, and the father the child: and the children shall rise up against their parents, and cause them to be put to death.
22 And ye shall be hated of all men for my name’s sake: * but he that endureth to the end shall be saved.
23 But when they persecute you in this city, flee ye into another: for verily I say unto you, Ye shall not ∥ have gone over the cities of Israel, till the Son of man be come.
24* The disciple is not above his master, nor the servant above his lord.
25 It is enough for the disciple that he be as his master, and the servant as his lord. If they have called the master of the house Beelzebub, how much more shall they call them of his household?
26 Fear them not therefore: * for there is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed; and hid, that shall not be known.
27 What I tell you in darkness, that speak ye in light: and what ye hear in the ear, that preach ye upon the housetops.
28* And fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul: but rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.
29 Are not two sparrows sold for a ∥ farthing? and one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father.
30* But the very hairs of your head are all numbered.
31 Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.
32* Whosoever therefore shall confess me before men, him will I confess also before my Father which is in heaven.
33* But whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I also deny before my Father which is in heaven.
34* Think not that I am come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword
35 For I am come to set a man at variance * against his father, and the daughter against her mother, and the daughter in law against her mother in law.
36 And a man’s foes shall be they of his own household.
37* He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me: and he that loveth son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me.
38* And he that taketh not his cross, and followeth after me, is not worthy of me.
39* He that findeth his life shall lose it: and he that loseth his life for my sake shall find it.
40 ¶ * He that receiveth you receiveth me, and he that receiveth me receiveth him that sent me.
41 He that receiveth a prophet in the name of a prophet shall receive a prophet’s reward; and he that receiveth a righteous man in the name of a righteous man shall receive a righteous man’s reward.
42* And whosoever shall give to drink unto one of these little ones a cup of cold water only in the name of a disciple, verily I say unto you, he shall in no wise lose his reward.
11
1 And it came to pass, when Jesus had made an end of commanding his twelve disciples, he departed thence to teach and to preach in their cities.
2* Now when John had heard in the prison the works of Christ, he sent two of his disciples,
3 And said unto him, Art thou he that should come, or do we look for another?
4 Jesus answered and said unto them, Go and shew John again those things which ye do hear and see:
5* The blind receive their sight, and the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, and the deaf hear, the dead are raised up, and * the poor have the gospel preached to them.
6 And blessed is he, whosoever shall not be offended in me.
7 ¶ And as they departed, Jesus began to say unto the multitudes concerning John, What went ye out into the wilderness to see? A reed shaken with the wind?
8 But what went ye out for to see? A man clothed in soft raiment? behold, they that wear soft clothing are in kings’ houses.
9 But what went ye out for to see? A prophet? yea, I say unto you, and more than a prophet.
10 For this is he, of whom it is written, * Behold, I send my messenger before thy face, which shall prepare thy way before thee.
11 Verily I say unto you, Among them that are born of women there hath not risen a greater than John the Baptist: notwithstanding he that is least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he.
12* And from the days of John the Baptist until now the kingdom of heaven ∥ suffereth violence, and the violent take it by force.
13 For all the prophets and the law prophesied until John.
14 And if ye will receive it, this is * Elias, which was for to come.
15 He that hath ears to hear, let him hear.
16 ¶ * But whereunto shall I liken this generation? It is like unto children sitting in the markets, and calling unto their fellows,
17 And saying, We have piped unto you, and ye have not danced; we have mourned unto you, and ye have not lamented.
18 For John came neither eating nor drinking, and they say, He hath a devil.
19 The Son of man came eating and drinking, and they say, Behold a man gluttonous, and a winebibber, a friend of publicans and sinners. But wisdom is justified of her children.
20 ¶ * Then began he to upbraid the cities wherein most of his mighty works were done, because they repented not:
21 Woe unto thee, Chorazin! woe unto thee, Bethsaida! for if the mighty works, which were done in you, had been done in Tyre and Sidon, they would have repented long ago in sackcloth and ashes.
22 But I say unto you, It shall be more tolerable for Tyre and Sidon at the day of judgment, than for you.
23 And thou, Capernaum, which art exalted unto heaven, shalt be brought down to hell: for if the mighty works, which have been done in thee, had been done in Sodom, it would have remained until this day.
24 But I say unto you, That it shall be more tolerable for the land of Sodom in the day of judgment, than for thee.
25 ¶ * At that time Jesus answered and said, I thank thee, O Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes.
26 Even so, Father: for so it seemed good in thy sight.
27* All things are delivered unto me of my Father: and no man knoweth the Son, but the Father; * neither knoweth any man the Father, save the Son, and he to whomsoever the Son will reveal him.
28 ¶ Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
29 Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: * and ye shall find rest unto your souls.
30* For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.
12
1 At that time * Jesus went on the sabbath day through the corn; and his disciples were an hungred, and began to pluck the ears of corn, and to eat.
2 But when the Pharisees saw it, they said unto him, Behold, thy disciples do that which is not lawful to do upon the sabbath day.
3 But he said unto them, Have ye not read * what David did, when he was an hungred, and they that were with him;
4 How he entered into the house of God, and did eat the shewbread, which was not lawful for him to eat, neither for them which were with him, * but only for the priests?
5 Or have ye not read in the * law, how that on the sabbath days the priests in the temple profane the sabbath, and are blameless?
6 But I say unto you, That in this place is one greater than the temple.
7 But if ye had known what this meaneth, * I will have mercy, and not sacrifice, ye would not have condemned the guiltless.
8 For the Son of man is Lord even of the sabbath day.
9* And when he was departed thence, he went into their synagogue:
10 ¶ And, behold, there was a man which had his hand withered. And they asked him, saying, Is it lawful to heal on the sabbath days? that they might accuse him.
11 And he said unto them, What man shall there be among you, that shall have one sheep, and if it fall into a pit on the sabbath day, will he not lay hold on it, and lift it out?
12 How much then is a man better than a sheep? Wherefore it is lawful to do well on the sabbath days.
13 Then saith he to the man, Stretch forth thine hand. And he stretched it forth; and it was restored whole, like as the other.
14 ¶ Then the Pharisees went out, and ∥ held a council against him, how they might destroy him.
15 But when Jesus knew it, he withdrew himself from thence: and great multitudes followed him, and he healed them all;
16 And charged them that they should not make him known:
17 That it might be fulfilled which was spoken by Esaias the prophet, saying,
18* Behold my servant, whom I have chosen; my beloved, in whom my soul is well pleased: I will put my spirit upon him, and he shall shew judgment to the Gentiles.
19 He shall not strive, nor cry; neither shall any man hear his voice in the streets.
20 A bruised reed shall he not break, and smoking flax shall he not quench, till he send forth judgment unto victory.
21 And in his name shall the Gentiles trust.
22 ¶ * Then was brought unto him one possessed with a devil, blind, and dumb: and he healed him, insomuch that the blind and dumb both spake and saw.
23 And all the people were amazed, and said, ‡ Is not this the son of David?
24* But when the Pharisees heard it, they said, This fellow doth not cast out devils, but by Beelzebub the prince of the devils.
25 And Jesus knew their thoughts, and said unto them, Every kingdom divided against itself is brought to desolation; and every city or house divided against itself shall not stand:
26 And if Satan cast out Satan, he is divided against himself; how shall then his kingdom stand?
27 And if I by Beelzebub cast out devils, by whom do your children cast them out? therefore they shall be your judges.
28 But if I cast out devils by the Spirit of God, then the kingdom of God is come unto you.
29 Or else how can one enter into a strong man’s house, and spoil his goods, except he first bind the strong man? and then he will spoil his house.
30 He that is not with me is against me; and he that gathereth not with me scattereth abroad.
31 ¶ Wherefore I say unto you, * All manner of sin and blasphemy shall be forgiven unto men: but the blasphemy against the Holy Ghost shall not be forgiven unto men.
32 And whosoever speaketh a word against the Son of man, it shall be forgiven him: but whosoever speaketh against the Holy Ghost, it shall not be forgiven him, neither in this world, neither in the world to come.
33 Either make the tree good, and his fruit good; or else make the tree corrupt, and his fruit corrupt: for the tree is known by his fruit.
34 O generation of vipers, how can ye, being evil, speak good things? * for out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh.
35 A good man out of the good treasure of the heart bringeth forth good things: and an evil man out of the evil treasure bringeth forth evil things.
36 But I say unto you, That every idle word that men shall speak, they shall give account thereof in the day of judgment.
37 For by thy words thou shalt be justified, and by thy words thou shalt be condemned.
38 ¶ * Then certain of the scribes and of the Pharisees answered, saying, Master, we would see a sign from thee.
39 But he answered and said unto them, An evil and adulterous generation seeketh after a sign; and there shall no sign be given to it, but the sign of the prophet Jonas:
40* For as Jonas was three days and three nights in the whale’s belly; so shall the Son of man be three days and three nights in the heart of the earth.
41 The men of Nineveh shall rise in judgment with this generation, and shall condemn it: * because they repented at the preaching of Jonas; and, behold, a greater than Jonas is here.
42* The queen of the south shall rise up in the judgment with this generation, and shall condemn it: for she came from the uttermost parts of the earth to hear the wisdom of Solomon; and, behold, a greater than Solomon is here.
43* When the unclean spirit is gone out of a man, he walketh through dry places, seeking rest, and findeth none.
44 Then he saith, I will return into my house from whence I came out; and when he is come, he findeth it empty, swept, and garnished.
45 Then goeth he, and taketh with himself seven other spirits more wicked than himself, and they enter in and dwell there: * and the last state of that man is worse than the first. Even so shall it be also unto this wicked generation.
46 ¶ While he yet talked to the people, * behold, his mother and his brethren stood without, desiring to speak with him.
47 Then one said unto him, Behold, thy mother and thy brethren stand without, desiring to speak with thee.
48 But he answered and said unto him that told him, Who is my mother? and who are my brethren?
49 And he stretched forth his hand toward his disciples, and said, Behold my mother and my brethren!
50 For whosoever shall do the will of my Father which is in heaven, the same is my brother, and sister, and mother.
13
1 The same day went Jesus out of the house, * and sat by the sea side.
2 And great multitudes were gathered together unto him, so that he went into a ship, and sat; and the whole multitude stood on the shore.
3 And he spake many things unto them in parables, saying, * Behold, a sower went forth to sow;
4 And when he sowed, some seeds fell by the way side, and the fowls came and devoured them up:
5 Some fell upon stony places, where they had not much earth: and forthwith they sprung up, because they had no deepness of earth:
6 And when the sun was up, they were scorched; and because they ‡ had no root, they withered away.
7 And some fell among thorns; and the thorns sprung up, and choked them:
8 But other fell into good ground, and brought forth fruit, some an hundredfold, some sixtyfold, some thirtyfold.
9 Who hath ears to hear, let him hear.
10 And the disciples came, and said unto him, Why speakest thou unto them in parables?
11 He answered and said unto them, Because it is given unto you to know the mysteries of the kingdom of heaven, but to them it is not given.
12* For whosoever hath, to him shall be given, and he shall have more abundance: but whosoever hath not, from him shall be taken away even that he hath.
13 Therefore speak I to them in parables: because they seeing see not; and hearing they hear not, neither do they understand.
14 And in them is fulfilled the prophecy of Esaias, which saith, * By hearing ye shall hear, and shall not understand; and seeing ye shall see, and shall not perceive:
15 For this people’s heart is waxed gross, and their ears are dull of hearing, and their eyes they have closed; lest at any time they should see with their eyes, and hear with their ears, and should understand with their heart, and should be converted, and I should heal them.
16 But blessed are your eyes, for they see: and your ears, for they hear.
17 For verily I say unto you, * That many prophets and righteous men have desired to see those things which ye see, and have not seen them; and to hear those things which ye hear, and have not heard them.
18 ¶ Hear ye therefore the parable of the sower.
19 When any one heareth the word of the kingdom, and understandeth it not, then cometh the wicked one, and catcheth away that which was sown in his heart. This is he which received seed by the way side.
20 But he that received the seed into stony places, the same is he that heareth the word, and anon with joy receiveth it;
21 Yet hath he not root in himself, but dureth for a while: for when tribulation or persecution ariseth because of the word, by and by he is offended.
22 He also that received seed among the thorns is he that heareth the word; and the care of this world, and the deceitfulness of riches, choke the word, and he becometh unfruitful.
23 But he that received seed into the good ground is he that heareth the word, and understandeth it; which also beareth fruit, and bringeth forth, some an hundredfold, some sixty, some thirty.
24 ¶ Another parable put he forth unto them saying, The kingdom of heaven is likened unto a man which sowed good seed in his field:
25 But while men slept, his enemy came and sowed tares among the wheat, and went his way.
26 But when the blade was sprung up, and brought forth fruit, then appeared the tares also.
27 So the servants of the householder came and said unto him, Sir, didst not thou sow good seed in thy field? from whence then hath it tares?
28 He said unto them, An enemy hath done this. The servants said unto him, Wilt thou then that we go and gather them up?
29 But he said, Nay; lest while ye gather up the tares, ye root up also the wheat with them.
30 Let both grow together until the harvest: and in the time of harvest I will say to the reapers, Gather ye together first the tares, and bind them in bundles to burn them: but gather the wheat into my barn.
31 ¶ Another parable put he forth unto them, saying, * The kingdom of heaven is like to a grain of mustard seed, which a man took, and sowed in his field:
32 Which indeed is the least of all seeds: but when it is grown, it is the greatest among herbs, and becometh a tree, so that the birds of the air come and lodge in the branches thereof.
33 ¶ * Another parable spake he unto them; The kingdom of heaven is like unto leaven, which a woman took, and hid in three † measures of meal, till the whole was leavened.
34* All these things spake Jesus unto the multitude in parables; and without a parable spake he not unto them:
35 That it might be fulfilled which was spoken by the prophet, saying, * I will open my mouth in parables; I will utter things which have been kept secret from the foundation of the world.
36 Then Jesus sent the multitude away, and went into the house: and his disciples came unto him, saying, Declare unto us the parable of the tares of the field.
37 He answered and said unto them, He that soweth the good seed is the Son of man;
38 The field is the world; the good seed are the children of the kingdom; but the tares are the children of the wicked one;
39 The enemy that sowed them is the devil; * the harvest is the end of the world; and the reapers are the angels.
40 As therefore the tares are gathered and burned in the fire; so shall it be in the end of this world.
41 The Son of man shall send forth his angels, and they shall gather out of his kingdom all ∥ things that offend, and them which do iniquity;
42 And shall cast them into a furnace of fire: there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth.
43* Then shall the righteous shine forth as the sun in the kingdom of their Father. Who hath ears to hear, let him hear.
44 ¶ Again, the kingdom of heaven is like unto treasure hid in a field; the which when a man hath found, he hideth, and for joy thereof goeth and selleth all that he hath, and buyeth that field.
45 ¶ Again, the kingdom of heaven is like unto a merchant man, seeking goodly pearls:
46 Who, when he had found one pearl of great price, ‡ went and sold all that he had, and bought it.
47 ¶ Again, the kingdom of heaven is like unto a net, that was cast into the sea, and gathered of every kind:
48 Which, when it was full, they drew to shore, and sat down, and gathered the good into vessels, but cast the bad away.
49 So shall it be at the end of the world: the angels shall come forth, and sever the wicked from among the just,
50 And shall cast them into the furnace of fire: there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth.
51 Jesus saith unto them, Have ye understood all these things? They say unto him, Yea, Lord.
52 Then said he unto them, Therefore every scribe which is instructed unto the kingdom of heaven is like unto a man that is an householder, which bringeth forth out of his treasure things new and old.
53 ¶ And it came to pass, that when Jesus had finished these parables, he departed thence.
54* And when he was come into his own country, he taught them in their synagogue, insomuch that they were astonished, and said, Whence hath this man this wisdom, and these mighty works?
55* Is not this the carpenter’s son? is not his mother called Mary? and his brethren, James, and Joses, and Simon, and Judas?
56 And his sisters, are they not all with us? Whence then hath this man all these things?
57 And they were offended in him. But Jesus said unto them, * A prophet is not without honour, save in his own country, and in his own house.
58 And he did not many mighty works there because of their unbelief.
14
1 At that time * Herod the tetrarch heard of the fame of Jesus,
2 And said unto his servants, This is John the Baptist; he is risen from the dead; and therefore mighty works ∥ do shew forth themselves in him.
3 ¶ * For Herod had laid hold on John, and bound him, and put him in prison for Herodias’ sake, his brother Philip’s wife.
4 For John said unto him, * It is not lawful for thee to have her.
5 And when he would have put him to death, he feared the multitude, * because they counted him as a prophet.
6 But when Herod’s birthday was kept, the daughter of Herodias danced before them, and pleased Herod.
7 Whereupon he promised with an oath to give her whatsoever she would ask.
8 And she, being before instructed of her mother, said, Give me here John Baptist’s head in a charger.
9 And the king was sorry: nevertheless for the oath’s sake, and them which sat with him at meat, he commanded it to be given her.
10 And he sent, and beheaded John in the prison.
11 And his head was brought in a charger, and given to the damsel: and she brought it to her mother.
12 And his disciples came, and took up the body, and buried it, and went and told Jesus.
13 ¶ * When Jesus heard of it, he departed thence by ship into a desert place apart: and when the people had heard thereof, they followed him on foot out of the cities.
14 And Jesus went forth, and saw a great multitude, and was moved with compassion toward them, and he healed their sick.
15 ¶ * And when it was evening, his disciples came to him, saying, This is a desert place, and the time is now past; send the multitude away, that they may go into the villages, and buy themselves victuals.
16 But Jesus said unto them, They need not depart; give ye them to eat.
17 And they say unto him, We have here but five loaves, and two fishes.
18 He said, Bring them hither to me.
19 And he commanded the multitude to sit down on the grass, and took the five loaves, and the two fishes, and looking up to heaven, he blessed, and brake, and gave the loaves to his disciples, and the disciples to the multitude.
20 And they did all eat, and were filled: and they took up of the fragments that remained twelve baskets full.
21 And they that had eaten were about five thousand men, beside women and children.
22 ¶ And straightway Jesus constrained his disciples to get into a ship, and to go before him unto the other side, while he sent the multitudes away.
23* And when he had sent the multitudes away, he went up into a mountain apart to pray: * and when the evening was come, he was there alone.
24 But the ship was now in the midst of the sea, tossed with waves: for the wind was contrary.
25 And in the fourth watch of the night Jesus went unto them, walking on the sea.
26 And when the disciples saw him walking on the sea, they were troubled, saying, It is a spirit; and they cried out for fear.
27 But straightway Jesus spake unto them, saying, Be of good cheer; it is I; be not afraid.
28 And Peter answered him and said, Lord, if it be thou, bid me come unto thee on the water.
29 And he said, Come. And when Peter was come down out of the ship, he walked on the water, to go to Jesus.
30 But when he saw the wind ∥ boisterous, he was afraid; and beginning to sink, he cried, saying, Lord, save me.
31 And immediately Jesus stretched forth his hand, and caught him, and said unto him, O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt?
32 And when they were come into the ship, the wind ceased.
33 Then they that were in the ship came and worshipped him, saying, Of a truth thou art the Son of God.
34 ¶ * And when they were gone over, they came into the land of Gennesaret.
35 And when the men of that place had knowledge of him, they sent out into all that country round about, and brought unto him all that were diseased;
36 And besought him that they might only touch the hem of his garment: and as many as touched were made perfectly whole.
15
1 Then * came to Jesus scribes and Pharisees, which were of Jerusalem, saying,
2 Why do thy disciples transgress the tradition of the elders? for they wash not their hands when they eat bread.
3 But he answered and said unto them, Why do ye also transgress the commandment of God by your tradition?
4 For God commanded, saying, * Honour thy father and mother: and, * He that curseth father or mother, let him die the death.
5 But ye say, Whosoever shall say to his father or his mother, *It is a gift, by whatsoever thou mightest be profited by me;
6 And honour not his father or his mother, he shall be free. Thus have ye made the commandment of God of none effect by your tradition.
7Ye hypocrites, well did Esaias prophesy of you, saying,
8* This people draweth nigh unto me with their mouth, and honoureth me with their lips; but their heart is far from me.
9 But in vain they do worship me, teaching for doctrines the commandments of men.
10 ¶ * And he called the multitude, and said unto them, Hear, and understand:
11 Not that which goeth into the mouth defileth a man; but that which cometh out of the mouth, this defileth a man.
12 Then came his disciples, and said unto him, Knowest thou that the Pharisees were offended, after they heard this saying?
13 But he answered and said, * Every plant, which my heavenly Father hath not planted, shall be rooted up.
14 Let them alone: * they be blind leaders of the blind. And if the blind lead the blind, both shall fall into the ditch.
15* Then answered Peter and said unto him, Declare unto us this parable.
16 And Jesus said, Are ye also yet without understanding?
17 Do not ye yet understand, that whatsoever entereth in at the mouth goeth into the belly, and is cast out into the draught?
18 But those things which proceed out of the mouth come forth from the heart; and they defile the man.
19* For out of the heart proceed evil thoughts, murders, adulteries, fornications, thefts, false witness, blasphemies:
20 These are the things which defile a man: but to eat with unwashen hands defileth not a man.
21 ¶ * Then Jesus went thence, and departed into the coasts of Tyre and Sidon.
22 And, behold, a woman of Canaan came out of the same coasts, and cried unto him, saying, Have mercy on me, O Lord, thou son of David; my daughter is grievously vexed with a devil.
23 But he answered her not a word. And his disciples came and besought him, saying, Send her away; for she crieth after us.
24 But he answered and said, * I am not sent but unto the lost sheep of the house of Israel.
25 Then came she and worshipped him, saying, Lord, help me.
26 But he answered and said, It is not meet to take the children’s bread, and to cast it to dogs.
27 And she said, Truth, Lord: yet the dogs eat of the crumbs which fall from their masters’ table.
28 Then Jesus answered and said unto her, O woman, great is thy faith: be it unto thee even as thou wilt. And her daughter was made whole from that very hour.
29* And Jesus departed from thence, and came nigh unto the sea of Galilee; and went up into a mountain, and sat down there.
30* And great multitudes came unto him, having with them those that were lame, blind, dumb, maimed, and many others, and cast them down at Jesus’ feet; and he healed them:
31 Insomuch that the multitude wondered, when they saw the dumb to speak, the maimed to be whole, the lame to walk, and the blind to see: and they glorified the God of Israel.
32 ¶ * Then Jesus called his disciples unto him, and said, I have compassion on the multitude, because they continue with me now three days, and have nothing to eat: and I will not send them away fasting, lest they faint in the way.
33 And his disciples say unto him, Whence should we have so much bread in the wilderness, as to fill so great a multitude?
34 And Jesus saith unto them, How many loaves have ye? And they said, Seven, and a few little fishes.
35 And he commanded the multitude to sit down on the ground.
36 And he took the seven loaves and the fishes, and gave thanks, and brake them, and gave to his disciples, and the disciples to the multitude.
37 And they did all eat, and were filled: and they took up of the broken meat that was left seven baskets full.
38 And they that did eat were four thousand men, beside women and children.
39 And he sent away the multitude, and took ship, and came into the coasts of Magdala.
16
1 The * Pharisees also with the Sadducees came, and tempting desired him that he would shew them a sign from heaven.
2 He answered and said unto them, When it is evening, ye say, It will be fair weather: for the sky is red.
3 And in the morning, It will be foul weather to day: for the sky is red and lowring. O ye hypocrites, ye can discern the face of the sky; but can ye not discern the signs of the times?
4 A wicked and adulterous generation seeketh after a sign; and there shall no sign be given unto it, but the sign of the prophet Jonas. And he left them, and departed.
5 And when his disciples were come to the other side, they had forgotten to take bread.
6 ¶ Then Jesus said unto them, Take heed and beware of the leaven of the Pharisees and of the Sadducees.
7 And they reasoned among themselves, saying, It is because we have taken no bread.
8Which when Jesus perceived, he said unto them, O ye of little faith, why reason ye among yourselves, because ye have brought no bread?
9* Do ye not yet understand, neither remember the five loaves of the five thousand, and how many baskets ye took up?
10* Neither the seven loaves of the four thousand, and how many baskets ye took up?
11 How is it that ye do not understand that I spake it not to you concerning bread, that ye should beware of the leaven of the Pharisees and of the Sadducees?
12 Then understood they how that he bade them not beware of the leaven of bread, but of the doctrine of the Pharisees and of the Sadducees.
13 ¶ When Jesus came into the coasts of Cæsarea Philippi, he asked his disciples, saying, * Whom do men say that I the Son of man am?
14 And they said, Some say that thou art John the Baptist: some, Elias; and others, Jeremias, or one of the prophets.
15 He saith unto them, But whom say ye that I am?
16 And Simon Peter answered and said, * Thou ‡ art the Christ, the Son of the living God.
17 And Jesus answered and said unto him, Blessed art thou, Simon Bar-jona: for flesh and blood hath not revealed it unto thee, but my Father which is in heaven.
18 And I say also unto thee, That * thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.
19* And I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven: ‡ and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.
20 Then charged he his disciples that they should tell no man that he was Jesus the Christ.
21 ¶ From that time forth began Jesus to shew unto his disciples, how that he must go unto Jerusalem, and suffer many things of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and be raised again the third day.
22 Then Peter took him, and began to rebuke him, saying, Be it far from thee, Lord: this shall not be unto thee.
23 But he turned, and said unto Peter, Get thee behind me, Satan: thou art an offence unto me: for thou savourest not the things that be of God, but those that be of men.
24 ¶ * Then said Jesus unto his disciples, If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me.
25 For whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it.
26 For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?
27 For the Son of man shall come in the glory of his Father with his angels; * and then he shall reward every man according to his works.
28 Verily I say unto you, * There be some standing here, which shall not taste of death, till they see the Son of man coming in his kingdom.
17
1 And * after six days Jesus taketh Peter, James, and John his brother, and bringeth them up into an high mountain apart,
2 And was transfigured before them: and his face did shine as the sun, and his raiment was white as the light.
3 And, behold, there appeared unto them Moses and Elias talking with him.
4 Then answered Peter, and said unto Jesus, Lord, it is good for us to be here: if thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles; one for thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias.
5* While he yet spake, behold, a bright cloud overshadowed them: and behold a voice out of the cloud, which said, This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased; hear ye him.
6 And when the disciples heard it, they fell on their face, and were sore afraid.
7 And Jesus came and touched them, and said, Arise, and be not afraid.
8 And when they had lifted up their eyes, they saw no man, save Jesus only.
9 And as they came down from the mountain, Jesus charged them, saying, Tell the vision to no man, until the Son of man be risen again from the dead.
10 And his disciples asked him, saying, * Why then say the scribes that Elias must first come?
11 And Jesus answered and said unto them, Elias truly shall first come, and restore all things.
12 But I say unto you, That Elias is come already, and they knew him not, but have done unto him whatsoever they listed. Likewise shall also the Son of man suffer of them.
13 Then the disciples understood that he spake unto them of John the Baptist.
14 ¶ * And when they were come to the multitude, there came to him a certain man, kneeling down to him, and saying,
15 Lord, have mercy on my son: for he is lunatick, and sore vexed: for ofttimes he falleth into the fire, and oft into the water.
16 And I brought him to thy disciples, and they could not cure him.
17 Then Jesus answered and said, O faithless and perverse generation, how long shall I be with you? how long shall I suffer you? bring him hither to me.
18 And Jesus rebuked the devil; and he departed out of him: and the child was cured from that very hour.
19 Then came the disciples to Jesus apart, and said, Why could not we cast him out?
20 And Jesus said unto them, Because of your unbelief: for verily I say unto you, * If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, Remove hence to yonder place; and it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible unto you.
21 Howbeit this kind goeth not out but by prayer and fasting.
22 ¶ * And while they abode in Galilee, Jesus said unto them, The Son of man shall be betrayed into the hands of men:
23 And they shall kill him, and the third day he shall be raised again. And they were exceeding sorry.
24 ¶ And when they were come to Capernaum, they that received ∥ tribute money came to Peter, and said, Doth not your master pay tribute?
25 He saith, Yes. And when he was come into the house, Jesus prevented him, saying, What thinkest thou, Simon? of whom do the kings of the earth take custom or tribute? of their own children, or of strangers?
26 Peter saith unto him, Of strangers. Jesus saith unto him, Then are the children free.
27 Notwithstanding, lest we should offend them, go thou to the sea, and cast an hook, and take up the fish that first cometh up; and when thou hast opened his mouth, thou shalt find ∥ a piece of money: that take, and give unto them for me and thee.
18
1 At * the same time came the disciples unto Jesus, saying, Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?
2 And Jesus called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst of them,
3 And said, Verily I say unto you, * Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.
4 Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, the same is greatest in the kingdom of heaven.
5 And whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me.
6* But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.
7 ¶ Woe unto the world because of offences! for it must needs be that offences come; but woe to that man by whom the offence cometh!
8* Wherefore if thy hand or thy foot offend thee, cut them off, and cast them from thee: it is better for thee to enter into life halt or maimed, rather than having two hands or two feet to be cast into everlasting fire.
9 And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee: it is better for thee to enter into life with one eye, rather than having two eyes to be cast into hell fire.
10 Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones; for I say unto you, That in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father which is in heaven.
11* For the Son of man is come to save that which was lost.
12* How think ye? if a man have an hundred sheep, and one of them be gone astray, doth he not leave the ninety and nine, and goeth into the mountains, and seeketh that which is gone astray?
13 And if so be that he find it, verily I say unto you, he rejoiceth more of that sheep, than of the ninety and nine which went not astray.
14 Even so it is not the will of your Father which is in heaven, that one of these little ones should perish.
15 ¶ Moreover * if thy brother shall trespass against thee, go and tell him his fault between thee and him alone: if he shall hear thee, thou hast gained thy brother.
16 But if he will not hear thee, then take with thee one or two more, that in * the mouth of two or three witnesses every word may be established.
17 And if he shall neglect to hear them, tell it unto the church: but if he neglect to hear the church, let him be unto thee as an * heathen man and a publican.
18 Verily I say unto you, * Whatsoever ye shall bind on earth shall be bound in heaven: and whatsoever ye shall loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.
19 Again I say unto you, That if two of you shall agree on earth as touching any thing that they shall ask, it shall be done for them of my Father which is in heaven.
20 For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.
21 ¶ Then came Peter to him, and said, Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? * till seven times?
22 Jesus saith unto him, I say not unto thee, Until seven times: but, Until seventy times seven.
23 ¶ Therefore is the kingdom of heaven likened unto a certain king, which would take account of his servants
24 And when he had begun to reckon, one was brought unto him, which owed him ten thousand ∥ talents.
25 But forasmuch as he had not to pay, his lord commanded him to be sold, and his wife, and children, and all that he had, and payment to be made.
26 The servant therefore fell down, and ∥ worshipped him, saying, Lord, have patience with me, and I will pay thee all.
27 Then the lord of that servant was moved with compassion, and loosed him, and forgave him the debt.
28 But the same servant went out, and found one of his fellowservants, which owed him an hundred ∥ pence: and he laid hands on him, and took him by the throat, saying, Pay me that thou owest.
29 And his fellowservant fell down at his feet, and besought him, saying, Have patience with me, and I will pay thee all.
30 And he would not: but went and cast him into prison, till he should pay the debt.
31 So when his fellowservants saw what was done, they were very sorry, and came and told unto their lord all that was done.
32 Then his lord, after that he had called him, said unto him, O thou wicked servant, I forgave thee all that debt, because thou desiredst me:
33 Shouldest not thou also have had compassion on thy fellowservant, even as I had pity on thee?
34 And his lord was wroth, and delivered him to the tormentors, till he should pay all that was due unto him.
35 So likewise shall my heavenly Father do also unto you, if ye from your hearts forgive not every one his brother their trespasses.
19
1 And it came to pass, *that when Jesus had finished these sayings, he departed from Galilee, and came into the coasts of Judæa beyond Jordan;
2 And great multitudes followed him; and he healed them there.
3 ¶ The Pharisees also came unto him, tempting him, and saying unto him, Is it lawful for a man to put away his wife for every cause?
4 And he answered and said unto them, Have ye not read, * that he which made them at the beginning made them male and female,
5 And said, * For this cause shall a man leave father and mother, and shall cleave to his wife: and * they twain shall be one flesh?
6 Wherefore they are no more twain, but one flesh. What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.
7 They say unto him, * Why did Moses then command to give a writing of divorcement, and to put her away?
8 He saith unto them, Moses because of the hardness of your hearts suffered you to put away your wives: but from the beginning it was not so.
9* And I say unto you, Whosoever shall put away his wife, except it be for fornication, and shall marry another, committeth adultery: and whoso marrieth her which is put away doth commit adultery.
10 ¶ His disciples say unto him, If the case of the man be so with his wife, it is not good to marry.
11 But he said unto them, All men cannot receive this saying, save they to whom it is given.
12 For there are some eunuchs, which were so born from their mother’s womb: and there are some eunuchs, which were made eunuchs of men: and there be eunuchs, which have made themselves eunuchs for the kingdom of heaven’s sake. He that is able to receive it, let him receive it.
13 ¶ * Then were there brought unto him little children, that he should put his hands on them, and pray: and the disciples rebuked them.
14 But Jesus said, Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.
15 And he laid his hands on them, and departed thence.
16 ¶ * And, behold, one came and said unto him, Good Master, what good thing shall I do, that I may have eternal life?
17 And he said unto him, Why callest thou me good? there is none good but one, that is, God: but if thou wilt enter into life, keep the commandments.
18 He saith unto him, Which? Jesus said, * Thou shalt do no murder, Thou shalt not commit adultery, Thou shalt not steal, Thou shalt not bear false witness,
19 Honour thy father and thy mother: and, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.
20 The young man saith unto him, All these things have I kept from my youth up: what lack I yet?
21 Jesus said unto him, If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come and follow me.
22 But when the young man heard that saying, he went away sorrowful: for he had great possessions.
23 ¶ Then said Jesus unto his disciples, Verily I say unto you, That a rich man shall hardly enter into the kingdom of heaven.
24 And again I say unto you, It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.
25 When his disciples heard it, they were exceedingly amazed, saying, Who then can be saved?
26 But Jesus beheld them, and said unto them, With men this is impossible; but with God all things are possible.
27 ¶ * Then answered Peter and said unto him, Behold, we have forsaken all, and followed thee; what shall we have therefore?
28 And Jesus said unto them, Verily I say unto you, That ye which have followed me, in the regeneration when the Son of man shall sit in the throne of his glory, * ye also shall sit upon twelve thrones, judging the twelve tribes of Israel.
29 And every one that hath forsaken houses, or brethren, or sisters, or father, or mother, or wife, or children, or lands, for my name’s sake, shall receive an hundredfold, and shall inherit everlasting life.
30* But many that are first shall be last; and the last shall be first.
20
1 For the kingdom of heaven is like unto a man that is an householder, which went out early in the morning to hire labourers into his vineyard.
2 And when he had agreed with the labourers for a ∥ penny a day, he sent them into his vineyard.
3 And he went out about the third hour, and saw others standing idle in the marketplace,
4 And said unto them; Go ye also into the vineyard, and whatsoever is right I will give you. And they went their way.
5 Again he went out about the sixth and ninth hour, and did likewise.
6 And about the eleventh hour he went out, and found others standing idle, and saith unto them, Why stand ye here all the day idle?
7 They say unto him, Because no man hath hired us. He saith unto them, Go ye also into the vineyard; and whatsoever is right, that shall ye receive.
8 So when even was come, the lord of the vineyard saith unto his steward, Call the labourers, and give them their hire, beginning from the last unto the first.
9 And when they came that were hired about the eleventh hour, they received every man a penny.
10 But when the first came, they supposed that they should have received more; and they likewise received every man a penny.
11 And when they had received it, they murmured against the goodman of the house,
12 Saying, These last ∥ have wrought but one hour, and thou hast made them equal unto us, which have borne the burden and heat of the day.
13 But he answered one of them, and said, Friend, I do thee no wrong: didst not thou agree with me for a penny?
14 Take that thine is, and go thy way: I will give unto this last, even as unto thee.
15 Is it not lawful for me to do what I will with mine own? Is thine eye evil, because I am good?
16* So the last shall be first, and the first last: for many be called, but few chosen.
17 ¶ * And Jesus going up to Jerusalem took the twelve disciples apart in the way, and said unto them,
18 Behold, we go up to Jerusalem; and the Son of man shall be betrayed unto the chief priests and unto the scribes, and they shall condemn him to death,
19* And shall deliver him to the Gentiles to mock, and to scourge, and to crucify him: and the third day he shall rise again.
20 ¶ * Then came to him the mother of Zebedee’s children with her sons, worshipping him, and desiring a certain thing of him.
21 And he said unto her, What wilt thou? She saith unto him, Grant that these my two sons may sit, the one on thy right hand, and the other on the left, in thy kingdom.
22 But Jesus answered and said, Ye know not what ye ask. Are ye able to drink of the cup that I shall drink of, and to be baptized with the baptism that I am baptized with? They say unto him, We are able.
23 And he saith unto them, Ye shall drink indeed of my cup, and be baptized with the baptism that I am baptized with: but to sit on my right hand, and on my left, is not mine to give, but it shall be given to them for whom it is prepared of my Father.
24 And when the ten heard it, they were moved with indignation against the two brethren.
25 But Jesus called them unto him, and said, * Ye know that the princes of the Gentiles exercise dominion over them, and they that are great exercise authority upon them.
26 But it shall not be so among you: but whosoever will be great among you, let him be your minister;
27 And whosoever will be chief among you, let him be your servant:
28 Even as the * Son of man came not to be ministered unto, but to minister, and to give his life a ransom for many.
29* And as they departed from Jericho, a great multitude followed him.
30 ¶ And, behold, two blind men sitting by the way side, when they heard that Jesus passed by, cried out, saying, Have mercy on us, O Lord, thou son of David.
31 And the multitude rebuked them, because they should hold their peace: but they cried the more, saying, Have mercy on us, O Lord, thou son of David.
32 And Jesus stood still, and called them, and said, What will ye that I shall do unto you?
33 They say unto him, Lord, that our eyes may be opened.
34 So Jesus had compassion on them, and touched their eyes: and immediately their eyes received sight, and they followed him.
21
1 And * when they drew nigh unto Jerusalem, and were come to Bethphage, unto the mount of Olives, then sent Jesus two disciples,
2 Saying unto them, Go into the village over against you, and straightway ye shall find an ass tied, and a colt with her: loose them, and bring them unto me.
3 And if any man say ought unto you, ye shall say, The Lord hath need of them; and straightway he will send them.
4 All this was done, that it might be fulfilled which was spoken by the prophet, saying,
5* Tell ye the daughter of Sion, Behold, thy King cometh unto thee, meek, and sitting upon an ass, and a colt the foal of an ass.
6* And the disciples went, and did as Jesus commanded them,
7 And brought the ass, and the colt, and put on them their clothes, and they set him thereon.
8 And a very great multitude spread their garments in the way; others cut down branches from the trees, and strawed them in the way.
9 And the multitudes that went before, and that followed, cried, saying, Hosanna to the son of David: Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord; Hosanna in the highest.
10* And when he was come into Jerusalem, all the city was moved, saying, Who is this?
11 And the multitude said, This is Jesus the prophet of Nazareth of Galilee.
12 ¶ And Jesus went into the temple of God, and cast out all them that sold and bought in the temple, and overthrew the tables of the moneychangers, and the seats of them that sold doves,
13 And said unto them, It is written, * My house shall be called the house of prayer; * but ye have made it a den of thieves.
14 And the blind and the lame came to him in the temple; and he healed them.
15 And when the chief priests and scribes saw the wonderful things that he did, and the children crying in the temple, and saying, Hosanna to the son of David; they were sore displeased,
16 And said unto him, Hearest thou what these say? And Jesus saith unto them, Yea; have ye never read, * Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings thou hast perfected praise?
17 ¶ And he left them, and went out of the city into Bethany; and he lodged there.
18 Now in the morning as he returned into the city, he hungered.
19* And when he saw a fig tree in the way, he came to it, and found nothing thereon, but leaves only, and said unto it, Let no fruit grow on thee henceforward for ever. And presently the fig tree withered away.
20 And when the disciples saw it, they marvelled, saying, How soon is the fig tree withered away!
21 Jesus answered and said unto them, Verily I say unto you, If ye have faith, and doubt not, ye shall not only do this which is done to the fig tree, but also if ye shall say unto this mountain, Be thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea; it shall be done.
22 And all things, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive.
23 ¶ * And when he was come into the temple, the chief priests and the elders of the people came unto him as he was teaching, and said, By what authority doest thou these things? and who gave thee this authority?
24 And Jesus answered and said unto them, I also will ask you one thing, which if ye tell me, I in like wise will tell you by what authority I do these things.
25 The baptism of John, whence was it? from heaven, or of men? And they reasoned with themselves, saying, If we shall say, From heaven; he will say unto us, Why did ye not then believe him?
26 But if we shall say, Of men; we fear the people; * for all hold John as a prophet.
27 And they answered Jesus, and said, We cannot tell. And he said unto them, Neither tell I you by what authority I do these things.
28 ¶ But what think ye? A certain man had two sons; and he came to the first, and said, Son, go work to day in my vineyard.
29 He answered and said, I will not: but afterward he repented, and went.
30 And he came to the second, and said likewise. And he answered and said, I go, sir: and went not.
31 Whether of them twain did the will of his father? They say unto him, The first. Jesus saith unto them, Verily I say unto you, That the publicans and the harlots go into the kingdom of God before you.
32 For * John came unto you in the way of righteousness, and ye believed him not: but the publicans and the harlots believed him: and ye, when ye had seen it, repented not afterward, that ye might believe him.
33 ¶ Hear another parable: There was a certain householder, * which planted a vineyard, and hedged it round about, and digged a winepress in it, and built a tower, and let it out to husbandmen, and went into a far country:
34 And when the time of the fruit drew near, he sent his servants to the husbandmen, that they might receive the fruits of it.
35 And the husbandmen took his servants, and beat one, and killed another, and stoned another.
36 Again, he sent other servants more than the first: and they did unto them likewise.
37 But last of all he sent unto them his son, saying, They will reverence my son.
38 But when the husbandmen saw the son, they said among themselves, This is the heir; * come, let us kill him, and let us seize on his inheritance.
39 And they caught him, and cast him out of the vineyard, and slew him.
40 When the lord therefore of the vineyard cometh, what will he do unto those husbandmen?
41 They say unto him, He will miserably destroy those wicked men, and will let out his vineyard unto other husbandmen, which shall render him the fruits in their seasons.
42 Jesus saith unto them, * Did ye never read in the scriptures, The stone which the builders rejected, the same is become the head of the corner: this is the Lord’s doing, and it is marvellous in our eyes?
43 Therefore say I unto you, The kingdom of God shall be taken from you, and given to a nation bringing forth the fruits thereof.
44 And * whosoever shall fall on this stone shall be broken: but on whomsoever it shall fall, it will grind him to powder.
45 And when the chief priests and Pharisees had heard his parables, they perceived that he spake of them.
46 But when they sought to lay hands on him, they feared the multitude, because they took him for a prophet.
22
1 And Jesus answered * and spake unto them again by parables, and said,
2 The kingdom of heaven is like unto a certain king, which made a marriage for his son,
3 And sent forth his servants to call them that were bidden to the wedding: and they would not come.
4 Again, he sent forth other servants, saying, Tell them which are bidden, Behold, I have prepared my dinner: my oxen and my fatlings are killed, and all things are ready: come unto the marriage.
5 But they made light of it, and went their ways, one to his farm, another to his merchandise:
6 And the remnant took his servants, and entreated them spitefully, and slew them.
7 But when the king heard thereof, he was wroth: and he sent forth his armies, and destroyed those murderers, and burned up their city.
8 Then saith he to his servants, The wedding is ready, but they which were bidden were not worthy.
9 Go ye therefore into the highways, and as many as ye shall find, bid to the marriage.
10 So those servants went out into the highways, and gathered together all as many as they found, both bad and good: and the wedding was furnished with guests.
11 ¶ And when the king came in to see the guests, he saw there a man which had not on a wedding garment:
12 And he saith unto him, Friend, how camest thou in hither not having a wedding garment? And he was speechless.
13 Then said the king to the servants, Bind him hand and foot, and take him away, and cast him into outer darkness; there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.
14* For many are called, but few are chosen.
15 ¶ * Then went the Pharisees, and took counsel how they might entangle him in his talk.
16 And they sent out unto him their disciples with the Herodians, saying, Master, we know that thou art true, and teachest the way of God in truth, neither carest thou for any man: for thou regardest not the person of men.
17 Tell us therefore, What thinkest thou? Is it lawful to give tribute unto Cæsar, or not?
18 But Jesus perceived their wickedness, and said, Why tempt ye me, ye hypocrites?
19 Shew me the tribute money. And they brought unto him a ∥ penny.
20 And he saith unto them, Whose is this image and ∥ superscription?
21 They say unto him, Cæsar’s. Then saith he unto them, * Render therefore unto Cæsar the things which are Cæsar’s; and unto God the things that are God’s.
22 When they had heard these words, they marvelled, and left him, and went their way.
23 ¶ * The same day came to him the Sadducees, * which say that there is no resurrection, and asked him,
24 Saying, Master, * Moses said, If a man die, having no children, his brother shall marry his wife, and raise up seed unto his brother.
25 Now there were with us seven brethren: and the first, when he had married a wife, deceased, and, having no issue, left his wife unto his brother:
26 Likewise the second also, and the third, unto the seventh.
27 And last of all the woman died also.
28 Therefore in the resurrection whose wife shall she be of the seven? for they all had her.
29 Jesus answered and said unto them, Ye do err, not knowing the scriptures, nor the power of God.
30 For in the resurrection they neither marry, nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels of God in heaven.
31 But as touching the resurrection of the dead, have ye not read that which was spoken unto you by God, saying,
32* I am the God of Abraham, and the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob? God is not the God of the dead, but of the living.
33 And when the multitude heard this, they were astonished at his doctrine.
34 ¶ * But when the Pharisees had heard that he had put the Sadducees to silence, they were gathered together.
35 Then one of them, which was a lawyer, asked him a question, tempting him, and saying,
36 Master, which is the great commandment in the law?
37 Jesus said unto him, * Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind.
38 This is the first and great commandment.
39 And the second is like unto it, * Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.
40 On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.
41 ¶ * While the Pharisees were gathered together, Jesus asked them,
42 Saying, What think ye of Christ? whose son is he? They say unto him, The son of David.
43 He saith unto them, How then doth David in spirit call him Lord, saying,
44* The Lord said unto my Lord, Sit thou on my right hand, till I make thine enemies thy footstool?
45 If David then call him Lord, how is he his son?
46 And no man was able to answer him a word, neither durst any man from that day forth ask him any more questions.
23
1 Then spake Jesus to the multitude, and to his disciples,
2 Saying, The scribes and the Pharisees sit in Moses’ seat:
3 All therefore whatsoever they bid you observe, that observe and do; but do not ye after their works: for they say, and do not.
4* For they bind heavy burdens and grievous to be borne, and lay them on men’s shoulders; but they themselves will not move them with one of their fingers.
5 But all their works they do for to be seen of men: * they make broad their phylacteries, and enlarge the borders of their garments,
6* And love the uppermost rooms at feasts, and the chief seats in the synagogues,
7 And greetings in the markets, and to be called of men, Rabbi, Rabbi.
8* But be not ye called Rabbi: for one is your Master, even Christ; and all ye are brethren.
9 And call no man your father upon the earth: * for one is your Father, which is in heaven.
10 Neither be ye called masters: for one is your Master, even Christ.
11 But he that is greatest among you shall be your servant.
12* And whosoever shall exalt himself shall be abased; and he that shall humble himself shall be exalted.
13 ¶ But * woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye shut up the kingdom of heaven against men: for ye neither go in yourselves, neither suffer ye them that are entering to go in.
14 Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! * for ye devour widows’ houses, and for a pretence make long prayer: therefore ye shall receive the greater damnation.
15 Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye compass sea and land to make one proselyte, and when he is made, ye make him twofold more the child of hell than yourselves.
16 Woe unto you, ye blind guides, which say, Whosoever shall swear by the temple, it is nothing; but whosoever shall swear by the gold of the temple, he is a debtor!
17Ye fools and blind: for whether is greater, the gold, or the temple that sanctifieth the gold?
18 And, Whosoever shall swear by the altar, it is nothing; but whosoever sweareth by the gift that is upon it, he is ∥ guilty.
19Ye fools and blind: for whether is greater, the gift, or the altar that sanctifieth the gift?
20 Whoso therefore shall swear by the altar, sweareth by it, and by all things thereon.
21 And whoso shall swear by the temple, sweareth by it, and by him that dwelleth therein.
22 And he that shall swear by heaven, sweareth by the throne of God, and by him that sitteth thereon.
23 Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! * for ye pay tithe of mint and anise and cummin, and have omitted the weightier matters of the law, judgment, mercy, and faith: these ought ye to have done, and not to leave the other undone.
24Ye blind guides, which strain at a gnat, and swallow a camel.
25 Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! * for ye make clean the outside of the cup and of the platter, but within they are full of extortion and excess.
26Thou blind Pharisee, cleanse first that which is within the cup and platter, that the outside of them may be clean also.
27 Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye are like unto whited sepulchres, which indeed appear beautiful outward, but are within full of dead men’s bones, and of all uncleanness.
28 Even so ye also outwardly appear righteous unto men, but within ye are full of hypocrisy and iniquity.
29 Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! because ye build the tombs of the prophets, and garnish the sepulchres of the righteous,
30 And say, If we had been in the days of our fathers, we would not have been partakers with them in the blood of the prophets.
31 Wherefore ye be witnesses unto yourselves, that ye are the children of them which killed the prophets.
32 Fill ye up then the measure of your fathers.
33Ye serpents, ye generation of vipers, how can ye escape the damnation of hell?
34 ¶ Wherefore, behold, I send unto you prophets, and wise men, and scribes: and some of them ye shall kill and crucify; and some of them shall ye scourge in your synagogues, and persecute them from city to city:
35 That upon you may come all the righteous blood shed upon the earth, * from the blood of righteous Abel unto the blood of Zacharias son of Barachias, whom ye slew between the temple and the altar.
36 Verily I say unto you, All these things shall come upon this generation.
37* O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that killest the prophets, * and stonest them which are sent unto thee, how often would * I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not!
38 Behold, your house is left unto you desolate.
39 For I say unto you, Ye shall not see me henceforth, till ye shall say, Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord.
24
1 And * Jesus went out, and departed from the temple: and his disciples came to him for to shew him the buildings of the temple.
2 And Jesus said unto them, See ye not all these things? verily I say unto you, * There shall not be left here one stone upon another, that shall not be thrown down.
3 ¶ And as he sat upon the mount of Olives, the disciples came unto him privately, saying, Tell us, when shall these things be? and what shall be the sign of thy coming, and of the end of the world?
4 And Jesus answered and said unto them, Take heed that no man deceive you
5 For many shall come in my name, saying, I am Christ; and shall deceive many.
6 And ye shall hear of wars and rumours of wars: see that ye be not troubled: for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet.
7 For nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom: and there shall be famines, and pestilences, and earthquakes, in divers places.
8 All these are the beginning of sorrows.
9* Then shall they deliver you up to be afflicted, and shall kill you: and ye shall be hated of all nations for my name’s sake.
10 And then shall many be offended, and shall betray one another, and shall hate one another.
11 And many false prophets shall rise, and shall deceive many.
12 And because iniquity shall abound, the love of many shall wax cold
13 But he that shall endure unto the end, the same shall be saved.
14 And this gospel of the kingdom shall be preached in all the world for a witness unto all nations; and then shall the end come.
15* When ye therefore shall see the abomination of desolation, spoken of by * Daniel the prophet, stand in the holy place, (whoso readeth, let him understand:)
16 Then let them which be in Judæa flee into the mountains:
17 Let him which is on the housetop not come down to take any thing out of his house:
18 Neither let him which is in the field return back to take his clothes.
19 And woe unto them that are with child, and to them that give suck in those days!
20 But pray ye that your flight be not in the winter, neither on the sabbath day:
21 For then shall be great tribulation, such as was not since the beginning of the world to this time, no, nor ever shall be.
22 And except those days should be shortened, there should no flesh be saved: but for the elect’s sake those days shall be shortened.
23* Then if any man shall say unto you, Lo, here is Christ, or there; believe it not.
24 For there shall arise false Christs, and false prophets, and shall shew great signs and wonders; insomuch that, if it were possible, they shall deceive the very elect.
25 Behold, I have told you before.
26 Wherefore if they shall say unto you, Behold, he is in the desert; go not forth: behold, he is in the secret chambers; believe it not.
27 For as the lightning cometh out of the east, and shineth even unto the west; so shall also the coming of the Son of man be.
28* For wheresoever the carcase is, there will the eagles be gathered together.
29 ¶ Immediately after the tribulation of those days * shall the sun be darkened, and the moon shall not give her light, and the stars shall fall from heaven, and the powers of the heavens shall be shaken:
30 And then shall appear the sign of the Son of man in heaven: and then shall all the tribes of the earth mourn, * and they shall see the Son of man coming in the clouds of heaven with power and great glory.
31* And he shall send his angels ∥ with a great sound of a trumpet, and they shall gather together his elect from the four winds, from one end of heaven to the other.
32 Now learn a parable of the fig tree; When his branch is yet tender, and putteth forth leaves, ye know that summer is nigh:
33 So likewise ye, when ye shall see all these things, know that it is near, even at the doors.
34 Verily I say unto you, This generation shall not pass, till all these things be fulfilled.
35* Heaven and earth shall pass away, but my words shall not pass away.
36 ¶ But of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels of heaven, but my Father only.
37 But as the days of Noe were, so shall also the coming of the Son of man be.
38* For as in the days that were before the flood they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, until the day that Noe entered into the ark,
39 And knew not until the flood came, and took them all away; so shall also the coming of the Son of man be.
40* Then shall two be in the field; the one shall be taken, and the other left.
41 Two women shall be grinding at the mill; the one shall be taken, and the other left.
42 ¶ * Watch therefore: for ye know not what hour your Lord doth come.
43* But know this, that if the goodman of the house had known in what watch the thief would come, he would have watched, and would not have suffered his house to be broken up.
44 Therefore be ye also ready: for in such an hour as ye think not the Son of man cometh.
45* Who then is a faithful and wise servant, whom his lord hath made ruler over his household, to give them meat in due season?
46 Blessed is that servant, whom his lord when he cometh shall find so doing.
47 Verily I say unto you, That he shall make him ruler over all his goods.
48 But and if that evil servant shall say in his heart, My lord delayeth his coming;
49 And shall begin to smite his fellowservants, and to eat and drink with the drunken;
50 The lord of that servant shall come in a day when he looketh not for him, and in an hour that he is not aware of,
51 And shall ∥ cut him asunder, and appoint him his portion with the hypocrites: there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.
25
1 Then shall the kingdom of heaven be likened unto ten virgins, which took their lamps, and went forth to meet the bridegroom.
2 And five of them were wise, and five were foolish.
3 They that were foolish took their lamps, and took no oil with them:
4 But the wise took oil in their vessels with their lamps.
5 While the bridegroom tarried, they all slumbered and slept.
6 And at midnight there was a cry made, Behold, the bridegroom cometh; go ye out to meet him.
7 Then all those virgins arose, and trimmed their lamps.
8 And the foolish said unto the wise, Give us of your oil; for our lamps are ∥ gone out.
9 But the wise answered, saying, Not so; lest there be not enough for us and you: but go ye rather to them that sell, and buy for yourselves.
10 And while they went to buy, the bridegroom came; and they that were ready went in with him to the marriage: and the door was shut.
11 Afterward came also the other virgins, saying, Lord, Lord, open to us.
12 But he answered and said, Verily I say unto you, I know you not.
13* Watch therefore, for ye know neither the day nor the hour wherein the Son of man cometh.
14 ¶ * For the kingdom of heaven is as a man travelling into a far country, who called his own servants, and delivered unto them his goods.
15 And unto one he gave five ∥ talents, to another two, and to another one; to every man according to his several ability; and straightway took his journey.
16 Then he that had received the five talents went and traded with the same, and made them other five talents.
17 And likewise he that had received two, he also gained other two.
18 But he that had received one went and digged in the earth, and hid his lord’s money.
19 After a long time the lord of those servants cometh, and reckoneth with them.
20 And so he that had received five talents came and brought other five talents, saying, Lord, thou deliveredst unto me five talents: behold, I have gained beside them five talents more.
21 His lord said unto him, Well done, thou good and faithful servant: thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy lord.
22 He also that had received two talents came and said, Lord, thou deliveredst unto me two talents: behold, I have gained two other talents beside them.
23 His lord said unto him, Well done, good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy lord.
24 Then he which had received the one talent came and said, Lord, I knew thee that thou art an hard man, reaping where thou hast not sown, and gathering where thou hast not strawed:
25 And I was afraid, and went and hid thy talent in the earth: lo, there thou hast that is thine.
26 His lord answered and said unto him, Thou wicked and slothful servant, thou knewest that I reap where I sowed not, and gather where I have not strawed:
27 Thou oughtest therefore to have put my money to the exchangers, and then at my coming I should have received mine own with usury.
28 Take therefore the talent from him, and give it unto him which hath ten talents.
29* For unto every one that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance: but from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath.
30 And cast ye the unprofitable servant into outer darkness: there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.
31 ¶ When the Son of man shall come in his glory, and all the holy angels with him, then shall he sit upon the throne of his glory:
32 And before him shall be gathered all nations: and he shall separate them one from another, as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats:
33 And he shall set the sheep on his right hand, but the goats on the left.
34 Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world:
35* For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in:
36 Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me.
37 Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink?
38 When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee?
39 Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?
40 And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.
41 Then shall he say also unto them on the left hand, * Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels:
42 For I was an hungred, and ye gave me no meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink:
43 I was a stranger, and ye took me not in: naked, and ye clothed me not: sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not.
44 Then shall they also answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not minister unto thee?
45 Then shall he answer them, saying, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me.
46 And * these shall go away into everlasting punishment: but the righteous into life eternal.
26
1 And it came to pass, when Jesus had finished all these sayings, he said unto his disciples,
2* Ye know that after two days is the feast of the passover, and the Son of man is betrayed to be crucified.
3* Then assembled together the chief priests, and the scribes, and the elders of the people, unto the palace of the high priest, who was called Caiaphas,
4 And consulted that they might take Jesus by subtilty, and kill him.
5 But they said, Not on the feast day, lest there be an uproar among the people.
6 ¶ * Now when Jesus was in Bethany, in the house of Simon the leper,
7 There came unto him a woman having an alabaster box of very precious ointment, and poured it on his head, as he sat at meat.
8 But when his disciples saw it, they had indignation, saying, To what purpose is this waste?
9 For this ointment might have been sold for much, and given to the poor.
10 When Jesus understood it, he said unto them, Why trouble ye the woman? for she hath wrought a good work upon me.
11* For ye have the poor always with you; but me ye have not always.
12 For in that she hath poured this ointment on my body, she did it for my burial.
13 Verily I say unto you, Wheresoever this gospel shall be preached in the whole world, there shall also this, that this woman hath done, be told for a memorial of her.
14 ¶ * Then one of the twelve, called Judas Iscariot, went unto the chief priests,
15 And said unto them, What will ye give me, and I will deliver him unto you? And they covenanted with him for thirty pieces of silver.
16 And from that time he sought opportunity to betray him.
17 ¶ * Now the first day of the feast of unleavened bread the disciples came to Jesus, saying unto him, Where wilt thou that we prepare for thee to eat the passover?
18 And he said, Go into the city to such a man, and say unto him, The Master saith, My time is at hand; I will keep the passover at thy house with my disciples.
19 And the disciples did as Jesus had appointed them; and they made ready the passover.
20* Now when the even was come, he sat down with the twelve.
21 And as they did eat, he said, Verily I say unto you, that one of you shall betray me.
22 And they were exceeding sorrowful, and began every one of them to say unto him, Lord, is it I?
23 And he answered and said, * He that dippeth his hand with me in the dish, the same shall betray me.
24 The Son of man goeth as it is written of him: but woe unto that man by whom the Son of man is betrayed! it had been good for that man if he had not been born.
25 Then Judas, which betrayed him, answered and said, Master, is it I? He said unto him, Thou hast said.
26 ¶ And as they were eating, * Jesus took bread, and ∥ blessed it, and brake it, and gave it to the disciples, and said, Take, eat; this is my body.
27 And he took the cup, and gave thanks, and gave it to them, saying, Drink ye all of it;
28 For this is my blood of the new testament, which is shed for many for the remission of sins.
29 But I say unto you, I will not drink henceforth of this fruit of the vine, until that day when I drink it new with you in my Father’s kingdom.
30 And when they had sung an ∥ hymn, they went out into the mount of Olives.
31 Then saith Jesus unto them, * All ye shall be offended because of me this night: for it is written, * I will smite the shepherd, and the sheep of the flock shall be scattered abroad.
32 But after I am risen again, * I will go before you into Galilee.
33 Peter answered and said unto him, Though all men shall be offended because of thee, yet will I never be offended.
34 Jesus said unto him, * Verily I say unto thee, That this night, before the cock crow, thou shalt deny me thrice.
35 Peter said unto him, Though I should die with thee, yet will I not deny thee. Likewise also said all the disciples.
36 ¶ * Then cometh Jesus with them unto a place called Gethsemane, and saith unto the disciples, Sit ye here, while I go and pray yonder.
37 And he took with him Peter and the two sons of Zebedee, and began to be sorrowful and very heavy.
38 Then saith he unto them, My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death: tarry ye here, and watch with me.
39 And he went a little farther, and fell on his face, and prayed, saying, O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt.
40 And he cometh unto the disciples, and findeth them asleep, and saith unto Peter, What, could ye not watch with me one hour?
41 Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation: the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.
42 He went away again the second time, and prayed, saying, O my Father, if this cup may not pass away from me, except I drink it, thy will be done.
43 And he came and found them asleep again: for their eyes were heavy.
44 And he left them, and went away again, and prayed the third time, saying the same words.
45 Then cometh he to his disciples, and saith unto them, Sleep on now, and take your rest: behold, the hour is at hand, and the Son of man is betrayed into the hands of sinners.
46 Rise, let us be going: behold, he is at hand that doth betray me.
47 ¶ And * while he yet spake, lo, Judas, one of the twelve, came, and with him a great multitude with swords and staves, from the chief priests and elders of the people.
48 Now he that betrayed him gave them a sign, saying, Whomsoever I shall kiss, that same is he: hold him fast.
49 And forthwith he came to Jesus, and said, Hail, master; and kissed him.
50 And Jesus said unto him, Friend, wherefore art thou come? Then came they, and laid hands on Jesus, and took him.
51 And, behold, one of them which were with Jesus stretched out his hand, and drew his sword, and struck a servant of the high priest’s, and smote off his ear.
52 Then said Jesus unto him, Put up again thy sword into his place: * for all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.
53 Thinkest thou that I cannot now pray to my Father, and he shall presently give me more than twelve legions of angels?
54 But how then shall the scriptures be fulfilled, * that thus it must be?
55 In that same hour said Jesus to the multitudes. Are ye come out as against a thief with swords and staves for to take me? I sat daily with you teaching in the temple, and ye laid no hold on me.
56 But all this was done, that the * scriptures of the prophets might be fulfilled. Then all the disciples forsook him, and fled.
57 ¶ * And they that had laid hold on Jesus led him away to Caiaphas the high priest, where the scribes and the elders were assembled.
58 But Peter followed him afar off unto the high priest’s palace, and went in, and sat with the servants, to see the end.
59 Now the chief priests, and elders, and all the council, sought false witness against Jesus, to put him to death;
60 But found none: yea, though many false witnesses came, yet found they none. At the last came two false witnesses,
61 And said, This fellow said, * I am able to destroy the temple of God, and to build it in three days.
62 And the high priest arose, and said unto him, Answerest thou nothing? what is it which these witness against thee?
63 But Jesus held his peace. And the high priest answered and said unto him, I adjure thee by the living God, that thou tell us whether thou be the Christ, the Son of God.
64 Jesus saith unto him, Thou hast said: nevertheless I say unto you, * Hereafter shall ye see the Son of man sitting on the right hand of power, and coming in the clouds of heaven.
65 Then the high priest rent his clothes, saying, He hath spoken blasphemy; what further need have we of witnesses? behold, now ye have heard his blasphemy.
66 What think ye? They answered and said, He is guilty of death.
67* Then did they spit in his face, and buffeted him; and others smote him with ∥ the palms of their hands,
68 Saying, Prophesy unto us, thou Christ, Who is he that smote thee?
69 ¶ * Now Peter sat without in the palace: and a damsel came unto him, saying, Thou also wast with Jesus of Galilee.
70 But he denied before them all, saying, I know not what thou sayest.
71 And when he was gone out into the porch, another maid saw him, and said unto them that were there, This fellow was also with Jesus of Nazareth.
72 And again he denied with an oath, I do not know the man.
73 And after a while came unto him they that stood by, and said to Peter, Surely thou also art one of them; for thy speech bewrayeth thee.
74 Then began he to curse and to swear, saying, I know not the man. And immediately the cock crew.
75 And Peter remembered the ‡ word of Jesus, which said unto him, Before the cock crow, thou shalt deny me thrice. And he went out, and wept bitterly.
27
1 When the morning was come, * all the chief priests and elders of the people took counsel against Jesus to put him to death:
2 And when they had bound him, they led him away, and delivered him to Pontius Pilate the governor.
3 ¶ Then Judas, which had betrayed him, when he saw that he was condemned, repented himself, and brought again the thirty pieces of silver to the chief priests and elders,
4 Saying, I have sinned in that I have betrayed the innocent blood. And they said, What is that to us? see thou to that.
5 And he cast down the pieces of silver in the temple, * and departed, and went and hanged himself.
6 And the chief priests took the silver pieces, and said, It is not lawful for to put them into the treasury, because it is the price of blood.
7 And they took counsel, and bought with them the potter’s field, to bury strangers in.
8 Wherefore that field was called, * The field of blood, unto this day.
9 Then was fulfilled that which was spoken by Jeremy the prophet, saying, * And they took the thirty pieces of silver, the price of him that was valued, ∥ whom they of the children of Israel did value;
10 And gave them for the potter’s field, as the Lord appointed me.
11 And Jesus stood before the governor: and the governor asked him, saying, Art thou the King of the Jews? And Jesus said unto him, Thou sayest.
12 And when he was accused of the chief priests and elders, he answered nothing.
13 Then ‡ said Pilate unto him, Hearest thou not how many things they witness against thee?
14 And he answered him to never a word; insomuch that the governor marvelled greatly.
15* Now at that feast the governor was wont to release unto the people a prisoner, whom they would.
16 And they had then a notable prisoner, called Barabbas.
17 Therefore when they were gathered together, Pilate said unto them, Whom will ye that I release unto you? Barabbas, or Jesus which is called Christ?
18 For he knew that for envy they had delivered him.
19 ¶ When he was set down on the judgment seat, his wife sent unto him, saying, Have thou nothing to do with that just man: for I have suffered many things this day in a dream because of him.
20* But the chief priests and elders persuaded the multitude that they should ask Barabbas, and destroy Jesus.
21 The governor answered and said unto them, Whether of the twain will ye that I release unto you? They said, Barabbas.
22 Pilate ‡ saith unto them, What shall I do then with Jesus which is called Christ? They all ‡ say unto him, Let him be crucified.
23 And the governor said, Why, what evil hath he done? But they cried out the more, saying, Let him be crucified.
24 ¶ When Pilate saw that he could prevail nothing, but that rather a tumult was made, he took water, and washed his hands before the multitude, saying, I am innocent of the blood of this just person: see ye to it.
25 Then answered all the people, and said, His blood be on us, and on our children.
26 ¶ Then released he Barabbas unto them: and when he had scourged Jesus, he delivered him to be crucified.
27* Then the soldiers of the governor took Jesus into the ∥ common hall, and gathered unto him the whole band of soldiers.
28 And they stripped him, and put on him a scarlet robe.
29 ¶ And when they had platted a crown of thorns, they put it upon his head, and a reed in his right hand: and they bowed the knee before him, and mocked him, saying, Hail, King of the Jews!
30 And they spit upon him, and took the reed, and smote him on the head.
31 And after that they had mocked him, they took the robe off from him, and put his own raiment on him, and led him away to crucify him.
32* And as they came out, they found a man of Cyrene, Simon by name: him they compelled to bear his cross.
33* And when they were come unto a place called Golgotha, that is to say, a place of a skull,
34 ¶ They gave him vinegar to drink mingled with gall: and when he had tasted thereof, he would not drink.
35 And they crucified him, and parted his garments, casting lots: that it might be fulfilled which was spoken by the prophet, * They parted my garments among them, and upon my vesture did they cast lots.
36 And sitting down they watched him there;
37 And set up over his head his accusation written, THIS IS JESUS THE KING OF THE JEWS.
38 Then were there two thieves crucified with him, one on the right hand, and another on the left.
39 ¶ And they that passed by reviled him, wagging their heads,
40 And saying, Thou that destroyest the temple, and buildest it in three days, save thyself. If thou be the Son of God, come down from the cross.
41 Likewise also the chief priests mocking him, with the scribes and elders, said,
42 He saved others; himself he cannot save. If he be the King of Israel, let him now come down from the cross, and we will believe him.
43* He trusted in God; let him deliver him now, if he will have him: for he said, I am the Son of God.
44 The thieves also, which were crucified with him, cast the same in his teeth.
45 Now from the sixth hour there was darkness over all the land unto the ninth hour.
46 And about the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying, Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? that is to say, * My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?
47 Some of them that stood there, when they heard that, said, This man calleth for Elias.
48 And straightway one of them ran, and took a spunge, * and filled it with vinegar, and put it on a reed, and gave him to drink.
49 The rest said, Let be, let us see whether Elias will come to save him.
50 ¶ Jesus, when he had cried again with a loud voice, yielded up the ghost.
51 And, behold, the veil of the temple was rent in twain from the top to the bottom; and the earth did quake, and the rocks rent;
52 And the graves were opened; and many bodies ‡ of the saints which slept arose,
53 And came out of the graves after his resurrection, and went into the holy city, and appeared unto many.
54 Now when the centurion, and they that were with him, watching Jesus, saw the earthquake, and those things that were done, they feared greatly, saying, Truly this was the Son of God.
55 And many women were there beholding afar off, which followed Jesus from Galilee, ministering unto him:
56 Among which was Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James and Joses, and the mother of Zebedee’s children.
57* When the even was come, there came a rich man of Arimathæa, named Joseph, who also himself was Jesus’ disciple:
58 He went to Pilate, and begged the body of Jesus. Then Pilate commanded the body to be delivered.
59 And when Joseph had taken the body, he wrapped it in a clean linen cloth,
60 And laid it in his own new tomb, which he had hewn out in the rock: and he rolled a great stone to the door of the sepulchre, and departed.
61 And there was Mary Magdalene, and the other Mary, sitting over against the sepulchre.
62 ¶ Now the next day, that followed the day of the preparation, the chief priests and Pharisees came together unto Pilate,
63 Saying, Sir, we remember that that deceiver said, while he was yet alive, After three days I will rise again.
64 Command therefore that the sepulchre be made sure until the third day, lest his disciples come by night, and steal him away, and say unto the people, He is risen from the dead: so the last error shall be worse than the first.
65 Pilate said unto them, Ye have a watch: go your way, make it as sure as ye can.
66 So they went, and made the sepulchre sure, sealing the stone, and setting a watch.
28
1 In the * end of the sabbath, as it began to dawn toward the first day of the week, came Mary Magdalene and the other Mary to see the sepulchre.
2 And, behold, there ∥ was a great earthquake: for the angel of the Lord descended from heaven, and came and rolled back the stone from the door, and sat upon it.
3 His countenance was like lightning, and his raiment white as snow:
4 And for fear of him the keepers did shake, and became as dead men.
5 And the angel answered and said unto the women, Fear not ye: for I know that ye seek Jesus, which was crucified.
6 He is not here: for he is risen, as he said. Come, see the place where the Lord lay.
7 And go quickly, and tell his disciples that he is risen from the dead; and, behold, he goeth before you into Galilee; there shall ye see him: lo, I have told you.
8 And they departed quickly from the sepulchre with fear and great joy; and did run to bring his disciples word.
9 ¶ And as they went to tell his disciples, behold, Jesus met them, saying, All hail. And they came and held him by the feet, and worshipped him.
10 Then said Jesus unto them, Be not afraid: go tell my brethren that they go into Galilee, and there shall they see me.
11 ¶ Now when they were going, behold, some of the watch came into the city, and shewed unto the chief priests all the things that were done.
12 And when they were assembled with the elders, and had taken counsel, they gave large money unto the soldiers,
13 Saying, Say ye, His disciples came by night, and stole him away while we slept.
14 And if this come to the governor’s ears, we will persuade him, and secure you.
15 So they took the money, and did as they were taught: and this saying is commonly reported among the Jews until this day.
16 ¶ Then the eleven disciples went away into Galilee, into a mountain where Jesus had appointed them.
17 And when they saw him, they worshipped him: but some doubted.
18 And Jesus came and spake unto them, saying, All power is given unto me in heaven and in earth.
19 ¶ * Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost:
20 Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and, lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world. Amen.
[* ] Luke 3. 23.
[* ] Gen. 21 3.
[* ] Gen. 25. 26.
[* ] Gen. 29. 35.
[* ] Gen. 38. 27.
[* ] Ruth 4. 18. 1 Chr. 2 5.
[* ] 1 Sam. 16. 1 & 17 12.
[* ] 2 Sam. 12. 24.
[* ] 1 Chr. 3. 10.
[* ] 2 Kin. 20 21. 1 Chr. 3. 13.
[∥ ] Some read, Josias begat Jakim, and Jakim begat Jechonias.
[* ] 1 Chr. 3. 16, 17.
[* ] Luke 1. 27.
[* ] Luke 1. 31.
[* ] Is. 7. 14.
[∥ ] Or, his name shall be called.
[* ] Luke 2. 6.
[* ] Mic. 5. 2. John 7. 42.
[∥ ] Or, feed.
[∥ ] Or, offered.
[* ] Hos. 11. 1.
[* ] Jer. 31. 15.
[* ] Mark 1. 4. Luke 3. 2.
[* ] Is 40. 3. Mark 1. 3.
[* ] ch. 12. 34.
[∥ ] Or, answerable to amendment of life.
[* ] John 8. 39.
[* ] ch. 7. 19.
[* ] Mark 1. 8. Luke 3. 16. John 1. 26.
[‡ ] [1611 omits he]
[* ] Mark 1. 9. Luke 3. 21.
[* ] Mark 1. 12. Luke 4. 1.
[* ] Deut. 8 3.
[* ] Ps. 91. 11.
[* ] Deut. 6. 16.
[* ] Deut. 6. 13. & 10. 20.
[* ] Mark 1. 14. Luke 4. 14 John 4. 43.
[∥ ] Or, delivered up.
[* ] Is. 9. 1.
[* ] Mark 1. 14.
[* ] Mark 1. 16.
[* ] Luke 6. 20.
[* ] Ps. 37. 11.
[* ] Is. 65. 13.
[* ] Ps. 24. 4.
[* ] 1 Pet. 3. 14.
[* ] 1 Pet. 4. 14.
[† ] Gr. lying.
[* ] Mark 9. 50. Luke 14. 34.
[* ] Mark 4. 21. Luke 8. 16. & 11. 33.
[∥ ] The word in the original signlfieth a measure containing about a pint less than a peck.
[* ] 1 Pet. 2. 12.
[* ] Luke 16. 17.
[* ] James 2. 10.
[∥ ] Or, to them.
[* ] Ex. 20. 13. Deut. 5. 17.
[* ] Luke 12. 58.
[* ] Ex. 20. 14.
[* ] ch. 18. 8. Mark 9. 47.
[∥ ] Or, do cause thee to offend.
[* ] Deut. 24 1. Luke 16. 18 1 Cor. 7. 10.
[* ] Ex. 20. 7. Lev. 19. 12. Deut. 5. 11.
[* ] James 5 12.
[* ] Ex. 21. 24. Lev. 24. 20. Deut. 19. 21.
[* ] Luke 6. 29. Rom. 12. 17. 1 Cor. 6. 7.
[* ] Deut. 15. 8.
[* ] Lev. 19. 18
[* ] Luke 6. 27.
[* ] Luke 23. 34. Acts 7. 60.
[* ] Luke 6. 32.
[∥ ] Or, with.
[* ] Rom. 12. 8.
[∥ ] Or, cause not a trumpet to be sounded.
[‡ ] [1611 omits hand]
[* ] Ecolus. 7. 14.
[* ] Luke 11. 2.
[* ] Mark 11. 25.
[* ] Luke 12. 33. 1 Tim. 6. 19.
[* ] Luke 11. 34.
[* ] Luke 16. 13.
[* ] Ps. 55. 22. Luke 12. 22. 1 Pet. 5. 7.
[* ] Luke 6. 37. Rom. 2. 1.
[* ] Mark 4. 24. Luke 6. 38.
[* ] Luke 6. 41.
[* ] ch. 21. 22. Mark 11. 24. Luke 11. 9. John 16. 24. James 1. 5, 6.
[* ] Luke 6. 31.
[* ] Luke 13. 24.
[∥ ] Or, How.
[* ] Luke 6. 43.
[* ] ch. 3 10.
[* ] Rom. 2. 13. James 1. 22.
[* ] Luke 13. 27.
[* ] Ps. 6. 8.
[* ] Luke 6. 47.
[* ] Mark 1 22. Luke 4. 32.
[* ] Mark 1. 40. Luke 5. 12.
[* ] Lev 14. 4
[* ] Luke 7. 1.
[* ] Mark 1 29. Luke 4. 38.
[* ] Mark 1 32. Luke 4. 40.
[* ] Is. 53. 4. 1 Pet 2 24.
[* ] Luke 9. 57.
[* ] Mark 4. 37. Luke 8. 23
[* ] Mark 5. 1. Luke 8. 26.
[* ] Mark 2. 8. Luke 5. 18.
[* ] Mark 2. 14 Luke 5. 27.
[* ] Hos. 6. 6 ch. 12. 7.
[* ] 1 Tim. 1. 15.
[* ] Mark 2. 18. Luke 5. 33.
[∥ ] Or, raw, or, unwrought cloth.
[* ] Mark 5. 22. Luke 8. 41.
[∥ ] Or, this fame.
[* ] Luke 11. 14.
[* ] ch. 12. 24. Mark 3. 22. Luke 11. 15.
[‡ ] [1611 out the devils]
[* ] Mark 6 6. Luke 13. 22.
[* ] Mark 6. 34.
[∥ ] Or, were tired and lay down.
[* ] Num. 27. 17.
[* ] Luke 10. 2.
[* ] Mark 3. 14. Luke 9. 1.
[∥ ] Or, over.
[* ] Acts 13. 46.
[* ] Luke 10 9.
[* ] Mark 6. 8. Luke 9. 3. & 22. 35.
[∥ ] Or, Get.
[* ] Luke 10. 7. 1 Tim. 5. 18
[* ] Luke 10. 8.
[* ] Mark 6. 11.
[* ] Acts 13. 51.
[* ] Luke 10. 3.
[∥ ] Or, simple.
[* ] Mark 13. 11. Luke 12. 11.
[* ] Luke 21. 16.
[* ] Mark 13. 13.
[∥ ] Or, end, or, finish.
[* ] Luke 6 40. John 13. 16.
[* ] Mark 4 22. Luke 8. 17. & 12. 2.
[* ] Luke 12. 4.
[∥ ]It is in value half-penny farthing in the original, as being the tenth part of the Roman penny.
[* ] 2 Sam. 14. 11. Acts 27. 34.
[* ] Luke 12. 8.
[* ] Mark 8. 38. Luke 9. 26. 2 Tim. 2. 12.
[* ] Luke 12. 51.
[* ] Mic 7. 6.
[* ] Luke 14. 26.
[* ] ch. 16. 24. Mark 8. 34. Luke 9. 23.
[* ] John 12. 25.
[* ] Luke 10. 16. John 13. 20.
[* ] Mark 9. 41.
[* ] Luke 7. 18.
[* ] Is. 35. 6.
[* ] Is. 61. 1.
[* ] Mal. 3. 1.
[* ] Luke 16. 16.
[∥ ] Or, is gotten by force, and they that thrust men.
[* ] Mal. 4. 5
[* ] Luke 7. 31.
[* ] Luke 10. 13.
[* ] Luke 10. 21.
[* ] John 3. 35
[* ] John 6. 46.
[* ] Jer. 6. 16.
[* ] 1 John 5. 3.
[* ] Deut. 23. 25. Mark 2. 23. Luke 6. 1.
[* ] 1 Sam. 21. 6.
[* ] Ex. 29. 32, 33. Lev. 8. 31. & 24. 9.
[* ] Num. 23. 9.
[* ] Hos. 6. 6. ch. 9. 13.
[* ] Mark 3. 1. Luke 6. 6.
[∥ ] Or, took counsel.
[* ] Is. 42. 1.
[* ] Luke 11. 14.
[‡ ] [1611 Is this]
[* ] ch. 9. 34.
[* ] Mark 3. 28. Luke 12. 10. 1 John 5. 16.
[* ] Luke 6. 45.
[* ] ch. 16. 1. Luke 11. 29. 1 Cor. 1. 22.
[* ] Jonah 1. 17.
[* ] Jonah 3. 5.
[* ] 1 Kin. 10. 1.
[* ] Luke 11. 24.
[* ] Heb. 6. 4 & 10. 26. 2 Pet. 2. 20
[* ] Mark 3. 31. Luke 8. 20.
[* ] Mark 4. 1.
[* ] Luke 8. 5.
[‡ ] [1611 had not root]
[* ] ch. 25. 29.
[* ] Is. 6. 9. Mark 4. 12. Luke 8. 10. John 12. 40. Acts 28. 26. Rom. 11. 8.
[* ] Luke 10. 24.
[* ] Mark 4. 30. Luke 13. 19.
[* ] Luke 13. 20.
[† ] The word in the Greek is a measure containing about a peck and a half, wanting a little more than a pint.
[* ] Mark 4. 33.
[* ] Ps. 78. 2.
[* ] Joel 3. 13 Rev. 14. 15.
[∥ ] Or, scandals.
[* ] Dan. 12 3.
[‡ ] [1611 he went]
[* ] Mark 6 1 Luke 4. 16.
[* ] John 6. 42.
[* ] Mark 6. 4. Luke 4. 24. John 4. 44
[* ] Mark 6. 14. Luke 9. 7.
[∥ ] Or, are wrought by him.
[* ] Luke 3. 19.
[* ] Lev. 18. 16. & 20. 21.
[* ] ch. 21. 26.
[* ] Mark 6 32 Luke 9. 10.
[* ] Mark 6 35. John 6. 5.
[* ] Mark 6. 46.
[* ] John 6 16.
[∥ ] Or, strong.
[* ] Mark 6. 53.
[* ] Mark 7. 1.
[* ] Ex. 20. 12. Deut. 5. 16.
[* ] Ex. 21. 17. Lev. 20. 9 Prov 20. 20.
[* ] Mark 7 11, 12.
[* ] Is. 29. 13
[* ] Mark 7. 14.
[* ] John 15. 2.
[* ] Luke 6. 39.
[* ] Mark 7 17.
[* ] Gen 6. 5. & 8 21.
[* ] Mark 7. 24.
[* ] ch. 10. 6.
[* ] Mark 7. 81.
[* ] Is. 25. 5
[* ] Mark 8. 1.
[* ] Mark 8. 11. Luke 12. 54.
[* ] ch. 14. 17.
[* ] ch. 15. 84.
[* ] Mark 8. 27. Luke 9. 18.
[* ] John 6. 69,
[‡ ] [1611 art Christ]
[* ] John 1. 42.
[* ] John 20. 23.
[‡ ] [1611 omits and]
[* ] ch. 10. 38. Mark 8. 34.
[* ] Ps. 62. 12. Rom. 2. 6.
[* ] Mark 9 1. Luke 9. 27
[* ] Mark 9 2. Luke 9. 28.
[* ] 2 Pet. 1. 17.
[* ] ch. 11. 14 Mark 9. 11.
[* ] Mark 9. 17. Luke 9. 38.
[* ] Luke 17. 6.
[* ] ch. 20. 17. Mark 9. 31. Luke 9. 44.
[∥ ] Called in the original didrachma, being in value fifteen pence.
[∥ ] Or, a stater. It is half an ounce of silver, in value two shillings and sixpence, after five shillings the ounce.
[* ] Mark 9 33. Luke 9. 46.
[* ] ch. 19. 14 1 Cor. 14. 20.
[* ] Mark 9. 42. Luke 17. 1, 2.
[* ] ch. 5. 30. Mark 9. 45.
[* ] Luke 19. 10.
[* ] Luke 15. 4.
[* ] Lev. 19 17 Luke 17 3.
[* ] Deut. 19 15. John 8 17 2 Cor. 13. 1 Heb. 10 28
[* ] 1 Cor. 5 9. 2 Thess. 3. 14
[* ] John 20 23 1 Cor. 5. 4.
[* ] Luke 17. 4.
[∥ ]A talent is 750 ounces of silver, which after live shillings the ounce is 187l. 10s.
[∥ ] Or, besought him.
[∥ ]The Roman penny is the eighth part of an ounce, which after five shillings the ounce is seven pence half-penny.
[* ] Mark 10. 1.
[* ] Gen. 1. 27.
[* ] Gen. 2. 24 Eph. 5. 31.
[* ] 1 Cor. 6. 16.
[* ] Deut. 24 1.
[* ] ch. 5. 32 Mark 10 11. Luke 16. 18. 1 Cor. 7. 11.
[* ] Mark 10. 13. Luke 18. 15.
[* ] Mark 10. 17. Luke 18. 18.
[* ] Ex. 20. 13.
[* ] Mark 10. 28. Luke 18 28.
[* ] Luke 22. 80.
[* ] ch. 20. 16 Mark 10. 31. Luke 13. 30.
[∥ ]The Roman penny is the eighth part of an ounce, which after five shillings the ounce is seven pence half-penny.
[∥ ] Or, have continued one hour only.
[* ] ch. 19. 30.
[* ] Mark 10 32. Luke 18. 31.
[* ] John 18. 32.
[* ] Mark 10 35.
[* ] Luke 22. 25.
[* ] Phil. 2. 7.
[* ] Mark 10 46. Luke 18. 35.
[* ] Mark 11 1. Luke 19. 29.
[* ] Is. 62. 11. Zech. 9. 9. John 12. 15.
[* ] Mark 11 4.
[* ] Mark 11. 15. Luke 19. 45. John 2. 13.
[* ] Is. 56. 7.
[* ] Jer. 7. 11. Mark 11. 17. Luke 19. 46.
[* ] Ps. 8. 2.
[* ] Mark 11. 13.
[* ] Mark 11 27. Luke 20. 1.
[* ] ch. 14. 5.
[* ] ch. 3. 1.
[* ] Is. 5. 1. Jer 2. 21. Mark 12. 1. Luke 20. 9.
[* ] ch. 26 4. John 11. 53.
[* ] Ps. 118. 22 Acts 4. 11.
[* ] Is. 8. 14. Rom. 9. 33. 1 Pet. 2. 7.
[* ] Luke 14. 16. Rev. 19. 9.
[* ] ch. 20. 16.
[* ] Mark 12. 13. Luke 20. 20.
[∥ ]In value seven pence half-penny: ch. 20. 2.
[∥ ] Or, inscription.
[* ] Rom. 13. 7.
[* ] Mark 12. 18. Luke 20. 27.
[* ] Acts 23. 8.
[* ] Deut. 25. 5.
[* ] Ex. 8. 6.
[* ] Mark 12. 28.
[* ] Deut. 6 5. Luke 10. 27.
[* ] Lev. 19. 18.
[* ] Mark 12. 35. Luke 20. 41.
[* ] Ps. 110. 1.
[* ] Luke 11. 46.
[* ] Num. 15. 38. Deut. 22. 12.
[* ] Mark 12. 38. Luke 11. 43.
[* ] James 3. 1.
[* ] Mal. 1. 6.
[* ] Luke 14. 11 & 18. 14.
[* ] Luke 11. 52.
[* ] Mark 12. 40. Luke 20. 47.
[∥ ] Or, a debtor, or, bound.
[* ] Luke 11. 42.
[* ] Luke 11. 39.
[* ] Gen. 4. 8.
[* ] Luke 13. 34.
[* ] 2 Chr. 24. 21.
[* ] 2 Esd. 1. 30.
[* ] Mark 13. 1. Luke 21.6.
[* ] Luke 19. 44.
[* ] ch. 10. 17. Luke 21. 12 John 16. 2
[* ] Mark 13. 14.
[* ] Dan. 9. 27.
[* ] Mark 13 21. Luke 17. 23
[* ] Luke 17. 37.
[* ] Is. 13. 10 Ezek. 32. 7. Joel 2. 31 Mark 13. 24 Luke 21. 25.
[* ] Rev. 1. 7.
[* ] 1 Cor. 15. 52 1 Thess. 4. 16.
[∥ ] Or, with a trumpet, and a great voice.
[* ] Mark 13. 31.
[* ] Gen. 7. 5. Luke 17. 26.
[* ] Luke 17. 36.
[* ] Mark 13. 35.
[* ] Luke 12. 39. 1 Thess. 5. 2. Rev. 16. 15.
[* ] Luke 12. 42.
[∥ ] Or, cut him off.
[∥ ] Or, going out.
[* ] ch. 24. 42. Mark 13. 33.
[* ] Luke 19. 12.
[∥ ] A talent is 187l. 10s. ch. 18. 24.
[* ] ch. 13. 12. Mark 4. 25 Luke 8. 18.
[* ] Is. 58. 7. Ezek. 18. 7.
[* ] Ps. 6. 8. ch. 7. 23.
[* ] Dan. 12. 2. John 5. 29.
[* ] Mark 14. 1. Luke 22. 1. John 13. 1.
[* ] John 11. 47.
[* ] Mark 14. 3. John 11. 1.
[* ] Deut. 15. 11.
[* ] Mark 14. 10. Luke 22. 3.
[* ] Mark 14. 12. Luke 22. 7.
[* ] Mark 14. 17. Luke 22. 14. John 13. 21.
[* ] Ps. 41. 9.
[* ] 1 Cor. 11. 23.
[∥ ] Many Greek copies have, gave thanks.
[∥ ] Or, psalm.
[* ] Mark 14. 27. John 16. 32.
[* ] Zech. 13. 7.
[* ] Mark 14. 28 & 16. 7.
[* ] John 13 38
[* ] Mark 14. 32. Luke 22. 89.
[* ] Mark 14. 43 Luke 22. 47. John 18. 3.
[* ] Gen. 9. 6. Rev. 13. 10.
[* ] Is. 53. 10.
[* ] Lam. 4 20
[* ] Mark 14. 53. Luke 22 54. John 18. 13.
[* ] John 2 19.
[* ] ch 16. 27. Rom. 14 10. 1 Thess. 4. 16.
[* ] Is. 50. 6.
[∥ ] Or, rods.
[* ] Mark 14 66 Luke 22. 55. John 18. 25.
[‡ ] [1611 words]
[* ] Mark 15. 1. Luke 22. 66. John 18. 28.
[* ] Acts 1. 18.
[* ] Acts 1 19.
[* ] Zech. 11. 12.
[∥ ] Or, whom they bought of the children of Israel.
[‡ ] [1611 saith]
[* ] Luke 23. 17.
[* ] John 18. 40. Acts 3. 14.
[‡ ] [1611 said]
[‡ ] [1611 said]
[* ] John 19. 2.
[∥ ] Or, governor’s house.
[* ] Mark 15 21. Luke 23. 26.
[* ] John 19. 17.
[* ] Ps. 22. 18.
[* ] Ps. 22. 8. Wisd. 2. 15, 16.
[* ] Ps. 22. 1.
[* ] Ps. 69. 21.
[‡ ] [1611 of Saints]
[* ] Mark 15 42. Luke 23. 50. John 19. 38.
[* ] Mark 16. 1. John 20 1
[∥ ] Or, had been
[* ] Mark 16. 15.
3: Micah, Micah (KJV) [1885]
Micah, The Parallel Bible. The Holy Bible containing the Old and New Testaments translated out of the Original Tongues: being the Authorised Version arranged in parallel columns with the Revised Version (Oxford University Press, 1885). Micah.
Accessed from oll.libertyfund.org/title/1005 on 2011-05-14
The text is in the public domain.
MICAH. (A. V.)
1
1The word of the Lord that came to Micah the Morasthite in the days of Jotham, Ahaz, and Hezekiah, kings of Judah, which he saw concerning Samaria and Jerusalem.
2† Hear, all ye people; * hearken, O earth, and † all that therein is: and let the Lord God be witness against you, the Lord from his holy temple.
3 For, behold, * the Lord cometh forth out of his * place, and will come down, and tread upon the * high places of the earth.
4 And * the mountains shall be molten under him, and the valleys shall be cleft, as wax before the fire, and as the waters that are poured down † a steep place.
5 For the transgression of Jacob is all this, and for the sins of the house of Israel. What is the transgression of Jacob? is it not Samaria? and what are the high places of Judah? are they not Jerusalem?
6 Therefore I will make Samaria as an heap of the field, and as plantings of a vineyard: and I will pour down the stones thereof into the valley, and I will discover the foundations thereof.
7 And all the graven images thereof shall be beaten to pieces, and all the hires thereof shall be burned with the fire, and all the idols thereof will I lay desolate: for she gathered it of the hire of an harlot, and they shall return to the hire of an harlot.
8 Therefore I will wail and howl, I will go stripped and naked: I will make a wailing like the dragons, and mourning as the † owls.
9 For ∥ her wound is incurable; for it is come unto Judah; he is come unto the gate of my people, even to Jerusalem.
10 ¶ * Declare ye it not at Gath, weep ye not at all: in the house of ∥ Aphrah * roll thyself in the dust.
11 Pass ye away, ∥ thou † inhabitant of Saphir, having thy * shame naked: the inhabitant of ∥ Zaanan came not forth in the mourning of ∥ Beth-ezel; he shall receive of you his standing.
12 For the inhabitant of Maroth ∥ waited carefully for good: but evil came down from the Lord unto the gate of Jerusalem.
13 O thou inhabitant of Lachish, bind the chariot to the swift beast: she is the beginning of the sin to the daughter of Zion: for the transgressions of Israel were found in thee.
14 Therefore shalt thou give presents ∥ to Moresheth-gath the houses of ∥ Achzib shall be a he to the kings of Israel.
15 Yet will I bring an heir unto thee, O inhabitant of Mareshah: ∥ he shall come unto Adullam the glory of Israel.
16 Make thee * bald, and poll thee for thy delicate children; enlarge thy baldness as the eagle; for they are gone into captivity from thee.
2
1 Woe to them that devise iniquity, and work evil upon their beds! when the morning is light, they practise it, because it is in the power of their hand.
2 And they covet * fields, and take them by violence; and houses, and take them away: so they ∥ oppress a man and his house, even a man and his heritage.
3 Therefore thus saith the Lord; Behold, against this family do I devise an evil, from which ye shall not remove your necks; neither shall ye go haughtily: for this time is evil.
4 ¶ In that day shall one take up a parable against you, and lament † with a doleful lamentation, and say, We be utterly spoiled: he hath changed the portion of my people: how hath he removed it from me! ∥ turning away he hath divided our fields.
5 Therefore thou shalt have none that shall * cast a cord by lot in the congregation of the Lord.
6∥†* Prophesy ye not, say they to them that prophesy: they shall not prophesy to them, that they shall not take shame.
7 ¶ O thou that art named the house of Jacob, is the spirit of the Lord∥ straitened? are these his doings? do not my words do good to him that walketh † uprightly?
8 Even † of late my people is risen up as an enemy: ye pull off the robe † with the garment from them that pass by securely as men averse from war.
9 The ∥ women of my people have ye cast out from their pleasant houses; from their children have ye taken away my glory for ever.
10 Arise ye, and depart; for this is not your rest: because it is polluted, it shall destroy you, even with a sore destruction.
11 If a man ∥ walking in the spirit and falsehood do lie, saying, I will prophesy unto thee of wine and of strong drink; he shall even be the prophet of this people.
12 ¶ I will surely assemble, O Jacob, all of thee; I will surely gather the remnant of Israel; I will put them together as the sheep of Bozrah, as the flock in the midst of their fold: they shall make great noise by reason of the multitude of men.
13 The breaker is come up before them: they have broken up, and have passed through the gate, and are gone out by it: and their king shall pass before them, and the Lord on the head of them.
3
1 And I said, Hear, I pray you, O heads of Jacob, and ye princes of the house of Israel; Is it not for you to know judgment?
2 Who hate the good, and love the evil; who pluck off their skin from off them, and their flesh from off their bones;
3 Who also eat the flesh of my people, and flay their skin from off them; and they break their bones, and chop them in pieces, as for the pot, and as flesh within the caldron.
4 Then shall they cry unto the Lord, but he will not hear them: he will even hide his face from them at that time, as they have behaved themselves ill in their doings.
5 ¶ Thus saith the Lord concerning the prophets that make my people err, that * bite with their teeth, and cry, Peace; and he that putteth not into their mouths, they even prepare war against him.
6 Therefore night shall be unto you, † that ye shall not have a vision; and it shall be dark unto you, † that ye shall not divine; and the sun shall go down over the prophets, and the day shall be dark over them.
7 Then shall the seers be ashamed, and the diviners confounded: yea, they shall all cover their † lips; for there is no answer of God.
8 ¶ But truly I am full of power by the spirit of the Lord, and of judgment, and of might, to declare unto Jacob his transgression, and to Israel his sin.
9 Hear this, I pray you, ye heads of the house of Jacob, and princes of the house of Israel, that abhor judgment, and pervert all equity.
10 They build up Zion with *† blood, and Jerusalem with iniquity.
11 The heads thereof judge for reward, and the priests thereof teach for hire, and the prophets thereof divine for money: yet will they lean upon the Lord,† and say, Is not the Lord among us? none evil can come upon us.
12 Therefore shall Zion for your sake be * plowed as a field, and Jerusalem shall become heaps, and the mountain of the house as the high places of the forest.
4
1 But * in the last days it shall come to pass, that the mountain of the house of the Lord shall be established in the top of the mountains, and it shall be exalted above the hills; and people shall flow unto it.
2 And many nations shall come, and say, Come, and let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, and to the house of the God of Jacob; and he will teach us of his ways, and we will walk in his paths: for the law shall go forth of Zion, and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem.
3 ¶ And he shall judge among many people, and rebuke strong nations afar off; and they shall beat their swords into * plowshares, and their spears into ∥ pruninghooks: nation shall not lift up a sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.
4 But they shall sit every man under his vine and under his fig tree; and none shall make them afraid: for the mouth of the Lord of hosts hath spoken it.
5 For all people will walk every one in the name of his god, and we will walk in the name of the Lord our God for ever and ever.
6 In that day, saith the Lord, will I assemble her that halteth, and I will gather her that is driven out, and her that I have afflicted;
7 And I will make her that * halted a remnant, and her that was cast far off a strong nation: and the Lord* shall reign over them in mount Zion from henceforth, even for ever.
8 ¶ And thou, O tower of the flock, the strong hold of the daughter of Zion, unto thee shall it come, even the first dominion; the kingdom shall come to the daughter of Jerusalem.
9 Now why dost thou cry out aloud? is there no king in thee? is thy counseller perished? for pangs have taken thee as a woman in travail.
10 Be in pain, and labour to bring forth, O daughter of Zion, like a woman in travail: for now shalt thou go forth out of the city, and thou shalt dwell in the field, and thou shalt go even to Babylon; there shalt thou be delivered; there the Lord shall redeem thee from the hand of thine enemies.
11 ¶ Now also many nations are gathered against thee, that say, Let her be defiled, and let our eye look upon Zion.
12 But they know not the thoughts of the Lord, neither understand they his counsel: for he shall gather them as the sheaves into the floor.
13 Arise and threah, O daughter of Zion: for I will make thine horn iron, and I will make thy hoofs brass: and thou shalt beat in pieces many people: and I will consecrate their gain unto the Lord, and their substance unto the Lord of the whole earth.
5
1 Now gather thyself in troops, O daughter of troops: he hath laid siege against us: they shall smite the judge of Israel with a rod upon the cheek.
2 But thou, * Beth-lehem Ephratah, though thou be little among the thousands of Judah, yet out of thee shall he come forth unto me thatis to be ruler in Israel; whose goings forth have been from of old, from † everlasting.
3 Therefore will he give them up, until the time that she which travaileth hath brought forth: then the remnant of his brethren shall return unto the children of Israel.
4 ¶ And he shall stand and ∥ feed in the strength of the Lord, in the majesty of the name of the Lord his God; and they shall abide: for now shall he be great unto the ends of the earth.
5 And this man shall be the peace, when the Assyrian shall come into our land: and when he shall tread in our palaces, then shall we raise against him seven shepherds, and eight † principal men.
6 And they shall † waste the land of Assyria with the sword, and the land of Nimrod ∥ in the entrances thereof: thus shall he deliver us from the Assyrian, when he cometh into our land, and when he treadeth within our borders.
7 And the remnant of Jacob shall be in the midst of many people as a dew from the Lord, as the showers upon the grass, that tarrieth not for man, nor waiteth for the sons of men.
8 ¶ And the remnant of Jacob shall be among the Gentiles in the midst of many people as a lion among the beasts of the forest, as a young lion among the flocks of ∥ sheep: who, if he go through, both treadeth down, and teareth in pieces, and none can deliver.
9 Thine hand shall be lifted up upon thine adversaries, and all thine enemies shall be cut off.
10 And it shall come to pass in that day, saith the Lord, that I will cut off thy horses out of the midst of thee, and I will destroy thy chariots:
11 And I will cut off the cities of thy land, and throw down all thy strong holds:
12 And I will cut off witchcrafts out of thine hand; and thou shalt have no more soothsayers:
13 Thy graven images also will I cut off, and thy ∥ standing images out of the midst of thee; and thou shalt no more worship the work of thine hands.
14 And I will pluck up thy groves out of the midst of thee: so will I destroy thy ∥ cities.
15 And I will execute vengeance in anger and fury upon the heathen, such as they have not heard.
6
1 Hear ye now what the Lord saith; Arise, contend thou ∥ before the * mountains, and let the hills hear thy voice.
2 Hear ye, O mountains, the Lord’s controversy, and ye strong foundations of the earth: for the Lord hath a controversy with his people, and he will plead with Israel.
3 O my people, what have I done unto thee? and wherein have I wearied thee? testify against me.
4 For I brought thee up out of the land of * Egypt, and redeemed thee out of the house of servants; and I sent before thee Moses, Aaron, and Miriam.
5 O my people, remember now what * Balak king of Moab consulted, and what Balaam the son of Beor answered him from * Shittim unto Gilgal; that ye may know the righteousness of the Lord.
6 ¶ Wherewith shall I come before the Lord,and bow myself before the high God? shall I come before him with burnt offerings, with calves † of a year old?
7 Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams, or with ten thousands of rivers of oil? shall I give my firstborn for my transgression, the fruit of my † body for the sin of my soul?
8 He hath * shewed thee, O man, what is good; and what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to † walk humbly with thy God?
9 The Lord’s voice crieth unto the city, and ∥the man of wisdom shall see thy name: hear ye the rod, and who hath appointed it.
10 ¶ ∥ Are there yet the treasures of wickedness in the house of the wicked, and the † scant measure that is abominable?
11∥ Shall I count them pure with the wicked balances, and with the bag of deceitful weights?
12 For the rich men thereof are full of violence, and the inhabitants thereof have spoken lies, and their tongue is deceitful in their mouth.
13 Therefore also will I make thee sick in smiting thee, in making thee desolate because of thy sins.
14 Thou shalt eat, but not be satisfied; and thy casting down shall be in the midst of thee; and thou shalt take hold, but shalt not deliver; and that which thou deliverest will I give up to the sword.
15 Thou shalt * sow, but thou shalt not reap; thou shalt tread the olives, but thou shalt not anoint thee with oil; and sweet wine, but shalt not drink wine.
16 ¶ For ∥ the statutes of * Omri are kept, and all the works of the house of * Ahab, and ye walk in their counsels; that I should make thee a ∥ desolation, and the inhabitants thereof an hissing: therefore ye shall bear the reproach of my people.
7
1 Woe is me! for I am as † when they have gathered the summer fruits, as the grapegleanings of the vintage: there is no cluster to eat: my soul desired the firstripe fruit.
2 The *∥ good man is perished out of the earth: and there is none upright among men: they all lie in wait for blood; they hunt every man his brother with a net.
3 ¶ That they may do evil with both hands earnestly, the prince asketh, and the judge asketh for a reward; and the great man, he uttereth † his mischievous desire: so they wrap it up.
4 The best of them is as a brier: the most upright is sharper than a thorn hedge: the day of thy watchmen and thy visitation cometh; now shall be their perplexity.
5 ¶ Trust ye not in a friend, put ye not confidence in a guide: keep the doors of thy mouth from her that lieth in thy bosom.
6 For * the son dishonoureth the father, the daughter riseth up against her mother, the daughter in law against her mother in law; a man’s enemies are the men of his own house.
7 Therefore I will look unto the Lord; I will wait for the God of my salvation: my God will hear me.
8 ¶ Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy: when I fall, I shall arise; when I sit in darkness, the Lordshall be a light unto me.
9 I will bear the indignation of the Lord, because I have sinned against him, until he plead my cause, and execute judgment for me: he will bring me forth to the light, and I shall behold his righteousness.
10∥ Then she that is mine enemy shall see it, and shame shall cover her which said unto me, * Where is the Lord thy God? mine eyes shall behold her: now † shall she be trodden down as the mire of the streets.
11In the day that thy * walls are to be built, in that day shall the decree be far removed.
12In that day also he shall come even to thee from Assyria, ∥ and from the fortified cities, and from the fortress even to the river, and from sea to sea, and from mountain to mountain.
13∥ Notwithstanding the land shall be desolate because of them that dwell therein, for the fruit of their doings.
14 ¶ ∥ Feed thy people with thy rod, the flock of thine heritage, which dwell solitarily in the wood, in the midst of Carmel: let them feed in Bashan and Gilead, as in the days of old.
15 According to the days of thy coming out of the land of Egypt will I shew unto him marvellous things.
16 ¶ The nations shall see and be confounded at all their might: they shall lay their hand upon their mouth, their ears shall be deaf.
17 They shall lick the * dust like a serpent, they shall move out of their holes like ∥ worms of the earth: they shall be afraid of the Lord our God, and shall fear because of thee.
18 Who is a God like unto thee, that * pardoneth iniquity, and passeth by the transgression of the remnant of his heritage? he retaineth not his anger for ever, because he delighteth in mercy.
19 He will turn again, he will have compassion upon us; he will subdue our iniquities; and thou wilt cast all their sins into the depths of the sea.
20 Thou wilt perform the truth to Jacob, and the mercy to Abraham, which thou hast sworn unto our fathers from the days of old.
[† ] Heb. Hear, ye people, all of them.
[* ] Deut. 32. 1. Is 1. 2.
[† ] Heb. the fulness thereof.
[* ] Is 26 21.
[* ] Ps. 115. 3.
[* ] Deut. 32 13. & 33. 29
[* ] Ps. 97. 5
[† ] Heb. a descent.
[† ] Heb. daughters of the owl.
[∥ ] Or, she is grievously sick of her wounds.
[* ] 2 Sam. 1. 20.
[∥ ] That is, Dust.
[* ] Jer 6. 26
[∥ ] Or, thou that dwellest fairly.
[† ] Heb. inhabitress.
[* ] Is. 47. 2, 3.
[∥ ] Or, the country of flocks.
[∥ ] Or, a place near.
[∥ ] Or, was grieved.
[∥ ] Or, for.
[∥ ] That is, A lie.
[∥ ] Or, the glory of Israel shall come, &c.
[* ] Is. 22. 12.
[* ] Is. 5. 8.
[∥ ] Or, defraud.
[† ] Heb. with a lamentation of lamentations.
[∥ ] Or, instead of restoring.
[* ] Deut. 32 8, 9.
[∥ ] Or, Prophesy not as they prophesy.
[† ] Heb. Drop, &c.
[* ] Is 30. 10.
[∥ ] Or, shortened?
[† ] Heb. upright?
[† ] Heb. yesterday.
[† ] Heb. over against a garment.
[∥ ] Or, wives.
[∥ ] Or, walk with the wind, and lie falsely.
[* ] ch. 2. 11.
[† ] Heb. from a vision.
[† ] Heb. from divining.
[† ] Heb upper lip.
[* ] Ezek. 22 27. Zeph. 3. 3.
[† ] Heb. bloods.
[† ] Heb. saying.
[* ] Jer. 26. 18.
[* ] Is. 2. 2, &c.
[* ] Is. 2 4 Joel 3 10
[∥ ] Or, scythes.
[* ] Zeph. 3 19.
[* ] Dan. 7. 14 Luke 1. 33.
[* ] Matt. 2. 6. John 7. 42.
[† ] Heb the days of eternity.
[∥ ] Or, rule.
[† ] Heb. princes of men.
[† ] Heb. eat up.
[∥ ] Or, with her own naked swords.
[∥ ] Or, goats.
[∥ ] Or, statues.
[∥ ] Or, enemies.
[∥ ] Or, with
[* ] Is 1. 2.
[* ] Ex. 12 51 & 14 30.
[* ] Num. 22 5. & 23 7.
[* ] Num. 25 1 Josh 5. 10
[† ] Heb. sons of a year?
[† ] Heb. belly.
[* ] Deut 10 12.
[† ] Heb. humble thyself to walk.
[∥ ] Or, thy name shall see that which is
[∥ ] Or, Is there yet unto every man an house of the wicked, &c.
[† ] Heb. measure of leanness.
[∥ ] Or, Shall I be pure with, &c.
[* ] Deut. 28. 38. Hag. 1. 6.
[∥ ] Or, he doth much keep the &c.
[* ] 1 Kin. 16. 25, 26.
[* ] 1 Kin. 16 30, &c.
[∥ ] Or, astonishment.
[† ] Heb. the gatherings of summer.
[* ] Ps. 12. 1. Is. 57. 1.
[∥ ] Or, godly. or, merciful.
[† ] Heb. the mischief of his soul.
[* ] Matt. 10 21, 35, 36. Luke 21. 16.
[∥ ] Or, And thou wilt see her that is mine enemy, and cover her with shame.
[* ] Ps. 79. 10. & 115. 2. Joel 2. 17.
[† ] Heb. she shall be for a treading down.
[* ] Amos 9. 11, &c.
[∥ ] Or, even to.
[∥ ] Or, After that it hath been.
[∥ ] Or, Rule.
[* ] Ps. 72. 9.
[∥ ] Or, creeping things.
[* ] Ex. 34. 6, 7.
4: Buddha, The Gospel of Buddha [1894]
Buddha, The Gospel of Buddha. Compiled from Ancient Records by Paul Carus. Illustrated by O. Kopetzky (Chicago and London: The Open Court Publishing Company, 1915).
Accessed from oll.libertyfund.org/title/2268 on 2011-05-14
The text is in the public domain.
PREFACE.
THIS booklet needs no preface for those who are familiar with the sacred books of Buddhism, which have been made accessible to the Western world by the indefatigable zeal and industry of scholars like Beal, Bigandet, Bühler, Burnouf, Childers, Alexander Csoma, Rhys Davids, Dutoit, Eitel, Fausböll, Foucaux, Francke, Edmund Hardy, Spence Hardy, Hodgson, Charles R. Lanman, F. Max Müller, Karl Eugen Neumann, Oldenberg, Pischel, Schiefner, Senart, Seidenstücker, Bhikkhu Nyānatiloka, D. M. Strong, Henry Clarke Warren, Wassiljew, Weber, Windisch, Winternitz &c. To those not familiar with the subject it may be stated that the bulk of its contents is derived from the old Buddhist canon. Many passages, and indeed the most important ones, are literally copied in translations from the original texts. Some are rendered rather freely in order to make them intelligible to the present generation; others have been rearranged; and still others are abbreviated. Besides the three introductory and the three concluding chapters there are only a few purely original additions, which, however, are neither mere literary embellishments nor deviations from Buddhist doctrines. Wherever the compiler has admitted modernization he has done so with due consideration and always in the spirit of a legitimate development. Additions and modifications contain nothing but ideas for which prototypes can be found somewhere among the traditions of Buddhism, and have been introduced as elucidations of its main principles.
The best evidence that this book characterizes the spirit of Buddhism correctly can be found in the welcome it has received throughout the entire Buddhist world. It has even been officially introduced in Buddhist schools and temples of Japan and Ceylon. Soon after the appearance of the first edition of 1894 the Right Rev. Shaku Soyen, a prominent Buddhist abbot of Kamakura, Japan, had a Japanese translation made by Teitaro Suzuki, and soon afterwards a Chinese version was made by Mr. Ohara of Otzu, the talented editor of a Buddhist periodical, who in the meantime has unfortunately met with a premature death. In 1895 the Open Court Publishing Company brought out a German edition by E. F. L. Gauss, and Dr. L. de Milloué, the curator of the Musée Guimet, of Paris, followed with a French translation. Dr. Federigo Rodriguez has translated the book into Spanish and Felix Orth into Dutch. The privilege of translating the book into Russian, Czechic, Italian, also into Siamese and other Oriental tongues has been granted, but of these latter the publishers have received only a version in the Urdu language, a dialect of eastern India.
Inasmuch as twelve editions of the Gospel of Buddha have been exhausted and the plates are worn out, the publishers have decided to bring out an édition de luxe and have engaged Miss Olga Kopetzky, of Munich, to supply illustrations. The artist has undertaken the task methodically and with great zeal. She has studied in the Ajanta caves the Buddhist paintings and sculptures and other monuments of Gandhāra. Thus the drawings faithfully reflect the spirit of the classical period of Buddhist art.
For those who want to trace the Buddhism of this book to its fountainhead, a table of reference has been added, which indicates as briefly as possible the main sources of the various chapters and points out the parallelisms with Western thought, especially in the Christian Gospels.
Buddhism, like Christianity, is split up into innumerable sects, and these sects not infrequently cling to their sectarian tenets as being the main and most indispensable features of their religion. The present book follows none of the sectarian doctrines, but takes an ideal position upon which all true Buddhists may stand as upon common ground. Thus the arrangement into a harmonious and systematic form is the main original feature of this Gospel of Buddha. Considering the bulk of the various details of the Buddhist canon, however, it must be regarded as a mere compilation, and the aim of the compiler has been to treat his material in about the same way as he thinks that the author of the Fourth Gospel of the New Testament utilized the accounts of the life of Jesus of Nazareth. He has ventured to present the data of the Buddha’s life in the light of their religio-philosophical importance; he has cut out most of their apocryphal adornments, especially those in which the Northern traditions abound, yet he did not deem it wise to shrink from preserving the marvellous that appears in the old records, whenever its moral seemed to justify its mention; he only pruned away the exuberance of wonder which delights in relating the most incredible things, apparently put on to impress while in fact they can only tire. Miracles have ceased to be a religious test; yet the belief in the miraculous powers of the Master still bears witness to the holy awe of the first disciples and reflects their religious enthusiasm.
Lest the fundamental idea of the Buddha’s doctrines be misunderstood, the reader is warned to take the term “self” in the sense in which the Buddha uses it. The “self” of man translates the word ātman which can be and has been understood, even in the Buddhist canon, in a sense to which the Buddha would never have made any objection. The Buddha denies the existence of a “self” as it was commonly understood in his time; he does not deny man’s mentality, his spiritual constitution, the importance of his personality, in a word, his soul. But he does deny the mysterious ego-entity, the ātman, in the sense of a kind of soul-monad which by some schools was supposed to reside behind or within man’s bodily and physical activity as a distinct being, a kind of thing-in-itself, and a metaphysical agent assumed to be the soul.
Buddhism is monistic. It claims that man’s soul does not consist of two things, of an ātman (self) and of a manas (mind or thoughts), but that there is one reality, our thoughts, our mind or manas, and this manas constitutes the soul. Man’s thoughts, if anything, are his self, and there is no ātman, no additional and separate “self” besides. Accordingly, the translation of ātman by “soul”, which would imply that the Buddha denied the existence of the soul, is extremely misleading.
Representative Buddhists, of different schools and of various countries, acknowledge the correctness of the view here taken, and we emphasize especially the assent of Southern Buddhists because they have preserved the tradition most faithfully and are very punctilious in the statement of doctrinal points.
“The Buddhist, the Organ of the Southern Church of Buddhism,” writes in a review of The Gospel of Buddha:
“The eminent feature of the work is its grasp of the difficult subject and the clear enunciation of the doctrine of the most puzzling problem of ātman, as taught in Buddhism. So far as we have examined the question of ātman ourselves from the works of the Southern canon, the view taken by Dr. Paul Carus is accurate, and we venture to think that it is not opposed to the doctrine of Northern Buddhism.”
This ātman-superstition, so common not only in India, but all over the world, corresponds to man’s habitual egotism in practical life. Both are illusions growing out of the same root, which is the vanity of worldliness, inducing man to believe that the purpose of his life lies in his self. The Buddha proposes to cut off entirely all thought of self, so that it will no longer bear fruit. Thus Nirvāna is an ideal state, in which man’s soul, after being cleansed from all selfishness, hatred and lust, has become a habitation of the truth, teaching him to distrust the allurements of pleasure and to confine all his energies to attending to the duties of life.
The Buddha’s doctrine is not negativism. An investigation of the nature of man’s soul shows that, while there is no ātman or ego-entity, the very being of man consists in his karma, his deeds, and his karma remains untouched by death and continues to live. Thus, by denying the existence of that which appears to be our soul and for the destruction of which in death we tremble, the Buddha actually opens (as he expresses it himself) the door of immortality to mankind; and here lies the corner-stone of his ethics and also of the comfort as well as the enthusiasm which his religion imparts. Any one who does not see the positive aspect of Buddhism, will be unable to understand how it could exercise such a powerful influence upon millions and millions of people.
The present volume is not designed to contribute to the solution of historical problems. The compiler has studied his subject as well as he could under the circumstances, but he does not intend here to offer a scientific production. Nor is this book an attempt at popularizing the Buddhist religious writings, nor at presenting them in a poetic shape. If this Gospel of Buddha helps people to comprehend Buddhism better, and if in its simple style it impresses the reader with the poetic grandeur of the Buddha’s personality, these effects must be counted as incidental; its main purpose lies deeper still. The present book has been written to set the reader thinking on the religious problems of to-day. It sketches the picture of a religious leader of the remote past with the view of making it bear upon the living present and become a factor in the formation of the future.
It is a remarkable fact that the two greatest religions of the world, Christianity and Buddhism, present so many striking coincidences in the philosophical basis as well as in the ethical applications of their faith, while their modes of systematizing them in dogmas are radically different; and it is difficult to understand why these agreements should have caused animosity, instead of creating sentiments of friendship and good-will. Why should not Christians say with Prof. F. Max Müller: “If I do find in certain Buddhist works doctrines identically the same as in Christianity, so far from being frightened, I feel delighted, for surely truth is not the less true because it is believed by the majority of the human race.”
The main trouble arises from a wrong conception of Christianity. There are many Christians who assume that Christianity alone is in the possession of truth and that man could not, in the natural way of his moral evolution, have obtained that nobler conception of life which enjoins the practice of a universal good-will towards both friends and enemies. This narrow view of Christianity is refuted by the mere existence of Buddhism.
Must we add that the lamentable exclusiveness that prevails in many Christian churches, is not based upon Scriptural teachings, but upon a wrong metaphysics?
All the essential moral truths of Christianity, especially the principle of a universal love, of the eradication of hatred, are in our opinion deeply rooted in the nature of things, and do not, as is often assumed, stand in contradiction to the cosmic order of the world. Further, some doctrines of the constitution of existence have been formulated by the church in certain symbols, and since these symbols contain contradictions and come in conflict with science, the educated classes are estranged from religion. Now, Buddhism is a religion which knows of no supernatural revelation, and proclaims doctrines that require no other argument than the “come and see.” The Buddha bases his religion solely upon man’s knowledge of the nature of things, upon provable truth. Thus, we trust that a comparison of Christianity with Buddhism will be a great help to distinguish in both religions the essential from the accidental, the eternal from the transient, the truth from the allegory in which it has found its symbolic expression. We are anxious to press the necessity of discriminating between the symbol and its meaning, between dogma and religion, between metaphysical theories and statements of fact, between man-made formulas and eternal truth. And this is the spirit in which we offer this book to the public, cherishing the hope that it will help to develop in Christianity not less than in Buddhism the cosmic religion of truth.
The strength as well as the weakness of original Buddhism lies in its philosophical character, which enabled a thinker, but not the masses, to understand the dispensation of the moral law that pervades the world. As such, the original Buddhism has been called by Buddhists the little vessel of salvation, or Hīnayāna; for it is comparable to a small boat on which a man may cross the stream of worldliness, so as to reach the shore of Nirvāna. Following the spirit of a missionary propaganda, so natural to religious men who are earnest in their convictions, later Buddhists popularized the Buddha’s doctrines and made them accessible to the multitudes. It is true that they admitted many mythical and even fantastic notions, but they succeeded nevertheless in bringing its moral truths home to the people who could but incompletely grasp the philosophical meaning of the Buddha’s religion. They constructed, as they called it, a large vessel of salvation, the Mahāyāna, in which the multitudes would find room and could be safely carried over. Although the Mahāyāna unquestionably has its shortcomings, it must not be condemned offhand, for it serves its purpose. Without regarding it as the final stage of the religious development of the nations among which it prevails, we must concede that it resulted from an adaptation to their condition and has accomplished much to educate them. The Mahāyāna is a step forward in so far as it changes a philosophy into a religion, and attempts to preach doctrines that were negatively expressed, in positive propositions.
Far from rejecting the religious zeal which gave rise to the Mahāyāna in Buddhism, we can still less join those who denounce Christianity on account of its dogmatology and mythological ingredients. Christianity has certainly had and still has a great mission in the evolution of mankind. It has succeeded in imbuing with the religion of charity and mercy the most powerful nations of the world, to whose spiritual needs it is especially adapted. It extends the blessings of universal good-will with the least possible amount of antagonism to the natural selfishness that is so strongly developed in the Western races. Christianity is the religion of love made easy. This is its advantage, which, however, is not without its drawbacks. Christianity teaches charity without dispelling the ego-illusion; and in this sense it surpasses even the Mahāyāna: it is still more adapted to the needs of multitudes than a large vessel fitted to carry over those who embark on it: it is comparable to a grand bridge, a Mahāsetu, on which a child who has no comprehension as yet of the nature of self can cross the stream of self-hood and worldly vanity.
A comparison of the many striking agreements between Christianity and Buddhism may prove fatal to sectarian conceptions of either religion, but will in the end help to mature our insight into the true significance of both. It will bring out a nobler faith which aspires to be the cosmic religion of universal truth.
Let us hope that this Gospel of Buddha will serve both Buddhists and Christians as a help to penetrate further into the spirit of their faith, so as to see its full height, length and breadth.
Above any Hīnayāna, Mahāyāna, and Mahāsetu is the Religion of Truth.
Paul Carus.
PRONUNCIATION.
Pronounce:
a as the Italian and German short a. ū as u in rumor. ai as in eye. ā as a in father. au as ow in how. e as e in eight. ñ as ny. i as i in hit. jñ as dny. ī as i in machine. ññ as n-ny. o as o in home. ch as ch in church. u as oo in good. cch as ch-ch in rich chance. Note that o and e are always long.
s, j, y, and other letters, as usual in English words.
Double consonants are pronounced as two distinct sounds, e. g., ka′mma, not kǎ′ma.
The h after p, b, k, g, t, d is audible as in duh him, beg her, brick house, ant hill. Pronounce Tat-hāgata, not Ta-thāgata.
To the average European it is difficult to catch, let alone to imitate, the difference of sound between dotted and non-dotted letters. All those who are desirous for information on this point must consult Sanskrit and Pāli grammars.
Lest the reader be unnecessarily bewildered with foreign-looking dots and signs, which after all are no help to him, all dotted ṭ, ḍ, ṃ, ṇ, and italicized t, d, m, n have been replaced in the text of the book by t, d, m, n, ñ, ññ, dotted ṛ and italicized s have been transcribed by ny, nny, ri, and sh, while the Glossary preserves the more exact transcription.
We did not follow the spelling of the Sacred Books of the East, where it must be misleading to the uninitiated, especially when they write italicized K to denote spelling of the English sound ch, and italicized g to denote j. Thus we write “rājā,” not “rāgā,” and “Chunda,” not “Kunda.”
“The Gospel of Buddha” illustrated by O. Kopetzky.
INTRODUCTION.
I.
REJOICE!
REJOICE at the glad tidings! The Buddha, our Lord, has found the root of all evil; he has shown us the way of salvation. 1
The Buddha dispels the illusions of our mind and redeems us from the terror of death. 2
The Buddha, our Lord, brings comfort to the weary and sorrow-laden; he restores peace to those who are broken down under the burden of life. He gives courage to the weak when they would fain give up self-reliance and hope. 3
Ye that suffer from the tribulations of life, ye that have to struggle and endure, ye that yearn for a life of truth, rejoice at the glad tidings! 4
There is balm for the wounded, and there is bread for the hungry. There is water for the thirsty, and there is hope for the despairing. There is light for those in darkness, and there is inexhaustible blessing for the upright. 5
Heal your wounds, ye wounded, and eat your fill, ye hungry. Rest, ye weary, and ye who are thirsty quench your thirst. Look up to the light, ye that sit in darkness; be full of good cheer, ye that are forlorn. 6
Trust in truth, ye that love the truth, for the kingdom of righteousness is founded upon earth. The darkness of error is dispelled by the light of truth. We can see our way and take firm and certain steps. 7
The Buddha, our Lord, has revealed the truth. 8
The truth cures our diseases and redeems us from perdition; the truth strengthens us in life and in death; the truth alone can conquer the evils of error. 9
Rejoice at the glad tidings! 10
II.
SAMSĀRA AND NIRVĀNA.
Look about and contemplate life! 1
Everything is transient and nothing endures. There is birth and death, growth and decay; there is combination and separation. 2
The glory of the world is like a flower: it stands in full bloom in the morning and fades in the heat of the day. 3
Wherever you look, there is a rushing and a struggling, and an eager pursuit of pleasure. There is a panic flight from pain and death, and hot are the flames of burning desires. The world is vanity fair, full of changes and transformations. All is Samsāra. 4
Is there nothing permanent in the world? Is there in the universal turmoil no resting-place where our troubled heart can find peace? Is there nothing everlasting? 5
Oh, that we could have cessation of anxiety, that our burning desires would be extinguished! When shall the mind become tranquil and composed? 6
The Buddha, our Lord, was grieved at the ills of life. He saw the vanity of worldly happiness and sought salvation in the one thing that will not fade or perish, but will abide for ever and ever. 7
Ye who long for life, know that immortality is hidden in transiency. Ye who wish for happiness without the sting of regret, lead a life of righteousness. Ye who yearn for riches, receive treasures that are eternal. Truth is wealth, and a life of truth is happiness. 8
All compounds will be dissolved again, but the verities which determine all combinations and separations as laws of nature endure for ever and aye. Bodies fall to dust, but the truths of the mind will not be destroyed. 9
Truth knows neither birth nor death; it has no beginning and no end. Welcome the truth. The truth is the immortal part of mind. 10
Establish the truth in your mind, for the truth is the image of the eternal; it portrays the immutable; it reveals the everlasting; the truth gives unto mortals the boon of immortality. 11
The Buddha has proclaimed the truth; let the truth of the Buddha dwell in your hearts. Extinguish in yourselves every desire that antagonizes the Buddha, and in the perfection of your spiritual growth you will become like unto him. 12
That of your heart which cannot or will not develop into Buddha must perish, for it is mere illusion and unreal; it is the source of your error; it is the cause of your misery. 13
You attain to immortality by filling your minds with truth. Therefore, become like unto vessels fit to receive the Master’s words. Cleanse yourselves of evil and sanctify your lives. There is no other way of reaching truth. 14
Learn to distinguish between Self and Truth. Self is the cause of selfishness and the source of evil; truth cleaves to no self; it is universal and leads to justice and righteousness. 15
Self, that which seems to those who love their self as their being, is not the eternal, the everlasting, the imperishable. Seek not self, but seek the truth. 16
If we liberate our souls from our petty selves, wish no ill to others, and become clear as a crystal diamond reflecting the light of truth, what a radiant picture will appear in us mirroring things as they are, without the admixture of burning desires, without the distortion of erroneous illusion, without the agitation of clinging and unrest. 17
Yet ye love self and will not abandon self-love. So be it, but then, verily, ye should learn to distinguish between the false self and the true self. The ego with all its egotism is the false self. It is an unreal illusion and a perishable combination. He only who identifies his self with the truth will attain Nirvāna; and he who has entered Nirvāna has attained Buddhahood; he has acquired the highest good; he has become eternal and immortal. 18
All compound things shall be dissolved again, worlds will break to pieces and our individualities will be scattered; but the words of the Buddha will remain for ever. 19
The extinction of self is salvation; the annihilation of self is the condition of enlightenment; the blotting out of self is Nirvāna. Happy is he who has ceased to live for pleasure and rests in the truth. Verily his composure and tranquillity of mind are the highest bliss. 20
Let us take our refuge in the Buddha, for he has found the everlasting in the transient. Let us take our refuge in that which is the immutable in the changes of existence. Let us take our refuge in the truth that is established through the enlightenment of the Buddha. Let us take our refuge in the community of those who seek the truth and endeavor to live in the truth. 21
III.
TRUTH THE SAVIOUR.
The things of the world and its inhabitants are subject to change. They are combinations of elements that existed before, and all living creatures are what their past actions made them; for the law of cause and effects is uniform and without exception. 1
But in the changing things there is a constancy of law, and when the law is seen there is truth. The truth lies hidden in Samsāra as the permanent in its changes. 2
Truth desires to appear; truth longs to become conscious; truth strives to know itself. 3
There is truth in the stone, for the stone is here; and no power in the world, no god, no man, no demon, can destroy its existence. But the stone has no consciousness. 4
There is truth in the plant and its life can expand; the plant grows and blossoms and bears fruit. Its beauty is marvellous, but it has no consciousness. 5
There is truth in the animal; it moves about and perceives its surroundings; it distinguishes and learns to choose. There is consciousness, but it is not yet the consciousness of Truth. It is a consciousness of self only. 6
The consciousness of self dims the eyes of the mind and hides the truth. It is the origin of error, it is the source of illusion, it is the germ of evil. 7
Self begets selfishness. There is no evil but what flows from self. There is no wrong but what is done by the assertion of self. 8
Self is the beginning of all hatred, of iniquity and slander, of impudence and indecency, of theft and robbery, of oppression and bloodshed. Self is Māra, the tempter, the evildoer, the creator of mischief. 9
Self entices with pleasures. Self promises a fairy’s paradise. Self is the veil of Māyā, the enchanter. But the pleasures of self are unreal, its paradisian labyrinth is the road to misery, and its fading beauty kindles the flames of desires that never can be satisfied. 10
Who shall deliver us from the power of self? Who shall save us from misery? Who shall restore us to a life of blessedness? 11
There is misery in the world of Samsāra; there is much misery and pain. But greater than all the misery is the bliss of truth. Truth gives peace to the yearning mind; it conquers error; it quenches the flames of desires; it leads to Nirvāna. 12
Blessed is he who has found the peace of Nirvāna. He is at rest in the struggles and tribulations of life; he is above all changes; he is above birth and death; he remains unaffected by the evils of life. 13
Blessed is he who has found enlightenment. He conquers, although he may be wounded; he is glorious and happy, although he may suffer; he is strong, although he may break down under the burden of his work; he is immortal, although he may die. The essence of his being is purity and goodness. 14
Blessed is he who has attained the sacred state of Buddhahood, for he is fit to work out the salvation of his fellow-beings. The truth has taken its abode in him. Perfect wisdom illumines his understanding, and righteousness ensouls the purpose of all his actions. 15
The truth is a living power for good, indestructible and invincible! Work the truth out in your mind, and spread it among mankind, for truth alone is the saviour from evil and misery. The Buddha has found the truth and the truth has been proclaimed by the Buddha! Blessed be the Buddha! 16
PRINCE SIDDHATTHA BECOMES BUDDHA.
IV.
THE BODHISATTA’S BIRTH.
THERE was in Kapilavatthu a Sakya king, strong of purpose and reverenced by all men, a descendant of the Okkākas, who call themselves Gotama, and his name was Suddhodana or Pure-Rice. 1
His wife Māyā-devī was beautiful as the water-lily and pure in mind as the lotus. As the Queen of Heaven, she lived on earth, untainted by desire, and immaculate. 2
The king, her husband, honored her in her holiness, and the spirit of truth, glorious and strong in his wisdom like unto a white elephant, descended upon her. 3
When she knew that the hour of motherhood was near, she asked the king to send her home to her parents; and Suddhodana, anxious about his wife and the child she would bear him, willingly granted her request. 4
At Lumbinī there is a beautiful grove, and when Māyādevī passed through it the trees were one mass of fragrant flowers and many birds were warbling in their branches. The Queen, wishing to stroll through the shady walks, left her golden palanquin, and, when she reached the giant Sāla tree in the midst of the grove, felt that her hour had come. She took hold of a branch. Her attendants hung a curtain about her and retired. When the pain of travail came upon her, four pure-minded angels of the great Brahmā held out a golden net to receive the babe, who came forth from her right side like the rising sun bright and perfect. 5
The Brahma-angels took the child and placing him before the mother said: “Rejoice, O queen, a mighty son has been born unto thee.” 6
At her couch stood an aged woman imploring the heavens to bless the child. 7
All the worlds were flooded with light. The blind received their sight by longing to see the coming glory of the Lord; the deaf and dumb spoke with one another of the good omens indicating the birth of the Buddha to be. The crooked became straight; the lame walked. All prisoners were freed from their chains and the fires of all the hells were extinguished. 8
No clouds gathered in the skies and the polluted streams became clear, whilst celestial music rang through the air and the angels rejoiced with gladness. With no selfish or partial joy but for the sake of the law they rejoiced, for creation engulfed in the ocean of pain was now to obtain release. 9
The cries of beasts were hushed; all malevolent beings received a loving heart, and peace reigned on earth. Māra, the evil one, alone was grieved and rejoiced not. 10
The Nāga kings, earnestly desiring to show their reverence for the most excellent law, as they had paid honor to former Buddhas, now went to greet the Bodhisatta. They scattered before him mandāra flowers, rejoicing with heartfelt joy to pay their religious homage. 11
The royal father, pondering the meaning of these signs, was now full of joy and now sore distressed. 12
The queen mother, beholding her child and the commotion which his birth created, felt in her timorous heart the pangs of doubt. 13
Now the rewas at that time in a grove near Lumbinī Asita, a rishi, leading the life of a hermit. He was a Brahman of dignified mien, famed not only for wisdom and scholarship, but also for his skill in the interpretation of signs. And the king invited him to see the royal babe. 14
The seer, beholding the prince, wept and sighed deeply. And when the king saw the tears of Asita he became alarmed and asked: “Why has the sight of my son caused thee grief and pain?” 15
But Asita’s heart rejoiced, and, knowing the king’s mind to be perplexed, he addressed him, saying: 16
“The king, like the moon when full, should feel great joy, for he has begotten a wondrously noble son. 17
“I do not worship Brahmā, but I worship this child; and the gods in the temples will descend from their places of honor to adore him. 18
“Banish all anxiety and doubt. The spiritual omens manifested indicate that the child now born will bring deliverance to the whole world. 19
“Recollecting that I myself am old, on that account I could not hold my tears; for now my end is coming on and I shall not see the glory of this babe. For this son of thine will rule the world. 20
“The wheel of empire will come to him. He will either be a king of kings to govern all the lands of the earth, or verily will become a Buddha. He is born for the sake of everything that lives. 21
“His pure teaching will be like the shore that receives the shipwrecked. His power of meditation will be like a cool lake; and all creatures parched with the drought of lust may freely drink thereof. 22
“On the fire of covetousness he will cause the cloud of his mercy to rise, so that the rain of the law may extinguish it. The heavy gates of despondency will he open, and give deliverance to all creatures ensnared in the self-entwined meshes of folly and ignorance. 23
“The king of the law has come forth to rescue from bondage all the poor, the miserable, the helpless.” 24
When the royal parents heard Asita’s words they rejoiced in their hearts and named their new-born infant Siddhattha, that is, “he who has accomplished his purpose.” 25
And the queen said to her sister, Pajāpatī: “A mother who has borne a future Buddha will never give birth to another child. I shall soon leave this world, my husband, the king, and Siddhattha, my child. When I am gone, be thou a mother to him.” 26
And Pajāpatī wept and promised. 27
When the queen had departed from the living, Pajāpatī took the boy Siddhattha and reared him. And as the light of the moon increases little by little, so the royal child grew from day to day in mind and in body; and truthfulness and love resided in his heart. 28
When a year had passed Suddhodana the king made Pajāpatī his queen and there was never a better stepmother than she. 29
V.
THE TIES OF LIFE.
When Siddhattha had grown to youth, his father desired to see him married, and he sent to all his kinsfolk, commanding them to bring their princesses that the prince might select one of them as his wife. 1
But the kinsfolk replied and said: “The prince is young and delicate; nor has he learned any of the sciences. He would not be able to maintain our daughter, and should there be war he would be unable to cope with the enemy.” 2
The prince was not boisterous, but pensive in his nature. He loved to stay under the great jambu-tree in the garden of his father, and, observing the ways of the world, gave himself up to meditation. 3
And the prince said to his father: “Invite our kinsfolk that they may see me and put my strength to the test.” And his father did as his son bade him. 4
When the kinsfolk came, and the people of the city Kapilavatthu had assembled to test the prowess and scholarship of the prince, he proved himself manly in all the exercises both of the body and of the mind, and there was no rival among the youths and men of India who could surpass him in any test, bodily or mental. 5
He replied to all the questions of the sages; but when he questioned them, even the wisest among them were silenced. 6
Then Siddhattha chose himself a wife. He selected Yasodharā, his cousin, the gentle daughter of the king of Koli. And Yasodharā was betrothed to the prince. 7
In their wedlock was born a son whom they named Rāhula which means “fetter” or “tie”, and King Suddhodana, glad that an heir was born to his son, said: 8
“The prince having begotten a son, will love him as I love the prince. This will be a strong tie to bind Siddhattha’s heart to the interests of the world, and the kingdom of the Sakyas will remain under the sceptre of my descendants.” 9
With no selfish aim, but regarding his child and the people at large, Siddhattha, the prince, attended to his religious duties, bathing his body in the holy Ganges and cleansing his heart in the waters of the law. Even as men desire to give happiness to their children, so did he long to give peace to the world. 10
VI.
THE THREE WOES.
The palace which the king had given to the prince was resplendent with all the luxuries of India; for the king was anxious to see his son happy. 1
All sorrowful sights, all misery, and all knowledge of misery were kept away from Siddhattha, for the king desired that no troubles should come nigh him; he should not know that there was evil in the world. 2
But as the chained elephant longs for the wilds of the jungles, so the prince was eager to see the world, and he asked his father, the king, for permission to do so. 3
And Suddhodana ordered a jewel-fronted chariot with four stately horses to be held ready, and commanded the roads to be adorned where his son would pass. 4
The houses of the city were decorated with curtains and banners, and spectators arranged themselves on either side, eagerly gazing at the heir to the throne. Thus Siddhattha rode with Channa, his charioteer, through the streets of the city, and into a country watered by rivulets and covered with pleasant trees. 5
There by the wayside they met an old man with bent frame, wrinkled face and sorrowful brow, and the prince asked the charioteer: “Who is this? His head is white, his eyes are bleared, and his body is withered. He can barely support himself on his staff.” 6
The charioteer, much embarrassed, hardly dared speak the truth. He said: “These are the symptoms of old age. This same man was once a suckling child, and as a youth full of sportive life; but now, as years have passed away, his beauty is gone and the strength of his life is wasted.” 7
Siddhattha was greatly affected by the words of the charioteer, and he sighed because of the pain of old age. “What joy or pleasure can men take,” he thought to himself, “when they know they must soon wither and pine away!” 8
And lo! while they were passing on, a sick man appeared on the way-side, gasping for breath, his body disfigured, convulsed and groaning with pain. 9
The prince asked his charioteer: “What kind of man is this?” And the charioteer replied and said: “This man is sick. The four elements of his body are confused and out of order. We are all subject to such conditions: the poor and the rich, the ignorant and the wise, all creatures that have bodies, are liable to the same calamity.” 10
And Siddhattha was still more moved. All pleasures appeared stale to him, and he loathed the joys of life. 11
The charioteer sped the horses on to escape the dreary sight, when suddenly they were stopped in their fiery course. 12
Four persons passed by, carrying a corpse; and the prince, shuddering at the sight of a lifeless body, asked the charioteer: “What is this they carry? There are streamers and flower garlands; but the men that follow are overwhelmed with grief!” 13
The charioteer replied: “This is a dead man: his body is stark; his life is gone; his thoughts are still; his family and the friends who loved him now carry the corpse to the grave.” 14
And the prince was full of awe and terror: “Is this the only dead man,” he asked, “or does the world contain other instances?” 15
With a heavy heart the charioteer replied: “All over the world it is the same. He who begins life must end it. There is no escape from death.” 16
With bated breath and stammering accents the prince exclaimed: “O worldly men! How fatal is your delusion! Inevitably your body will crumble to dust, yet carelessly, unheedingly, ye live on.” 17
The charioteer observing the deep impression these sad sights had made on the prince, turned his horses and drove back to the city. 18
When they passed by the palaces of the nobility, Kisā Gotamī, a young princess and niece of the king, saw Siddhattha in his manliness and beauty, and, observing the thoughtfulness of his countenance, said: “Happy the father that begot thee, happy the mother that nursed thee, happy the wife that calls husband this lord so glorious.” 19
The prince hearing this greeting, said: “Happy are they that have found deliverance. Longing for peace of mind, I shall seek the bliss of Nirvāna.” 20
Then asked Kisā Gotamī: “How is Nirvāna attained?” The prince paused, and to him whose mind was estranged from wrong the answer came: “When the fire of lust is gone out, then Nirvāna is gained; when the fires of hatred and delusion are gone out, then Nirvāna is gained; when the troubles of mind, arising from blind credulity, and all other evils have ceased, then Nirvāna is gained!” Siddhattha handed her his precious pearl necklace as a reward for the instruction she had given him, and having returned home looked with disdain upon the treasures of his palace. 21
His wife welcomed him and entreated him to tell her the cause of his grief. He said: “I see everywhere the impression of change; therefore, my heart is heavy. Men grow old, sicken, and die. That is enough to take away the zest of life.” 22
The king, his father, hearing that the prince had become estranged from pleasure, was greatly overcome with sorrow and like a sword it pierced his heart. 23
VII.
THE BODHISATTA’S RENUNCIATION.
It was night. The prince found no rest on his soft pillow; he arose and went out into the garden. “Alas!” he cried, “all the world is full of darkness and ignorance; there is no one who knows how to cure the ills of existence.” And he groaned with pain. 1
Siddhattha sat down beneath the great jambu-tree and gave himself to thought, pondering on life and death and the evils of decay. Concentrating his mind he became free from confusion. All low desires vanished from his heart and perfect tranquillity came over him. 2
In this state of ecstasy he saw with his mental eye all the misery and sorrow of the world; he saw the pains of pleasure and the inevitable certainty of death that hovers over every being; yet men are not awakened to the truth. And a deep compassion seized his heart. 3
While the prince was pondering on the problem of evil, he beheld with his mind’s eye under the jambu-tree a lofty figure endowed with majesty, calm and dignified. “Whence comest thou, and who mayst thou be?” asked the prince. 4
In reply the vision said: “I am a samana. Troubled at the thought of old age, disease, and death I have left my home to seek the path of salvation. All things hasten to decay; only the truth abideth forever. Everything changes, and there is no permanency; yet the words of the Buddhas are immutable. I long for the happiness that does not decay; the treasure that will never perish; the life that knows of no beginning and no end. Therefore, I have destroyed all worldly thought. I have retired into an unfrequented dell to live in solitude; and, begging for food, I devote myself to the one thing needful.” 5
Siddhattha asked: “Can peace be gained in this world of unrest? I am struck with the emptiness of pleasure and have become disgusted with lust. All oppresses me, and existence itself seems intolerable.” 6
The samana replied: “Where heat is, there is also a possibility of cold; creatures subject to pain possess the faculty of pleasure; the origin of evil indicates that good can be developed. For these things are correlatives. Thus where there is much suffering, there will be much bliss, if thou but open thine eyes to behold it. Just as a man who has fallen into a heap of filth ought to seek the great pond of water covered with lotuses, which is near by: even so seek thou for the great deathless lake of Nirvāna to wash off the defilement of wrong. If the lake is not sought, it is not the fault of the lake. Even so when there is a blessed road leading the man held fast by wrong to the salvation of Nirvāna, if the road is not walked upon, it is not the fault of the road, but of the person. And when a man who is oppressed with sickness, there being a physician who can heal him, does not avail himself of the physician’s help, that is not the fault of the physician. Even so when a man oppressed by the malady of wrong-doing does not seek the spiritual guide of enlightenment, that is no fault of the evil-destroying guide.” 7
The prince listened to the noble words of his visitor and said: “Thou bringest good tidings, for now I know that my purpose will be accomplished. My father advises me to enjoy life and to undertake worldly duties, such as will bring honor to me and to our house. He tells me that I am too young still, that my pulse beats too full to lead a religious life.” 8
The venerable figure shook his head and replied: “Thou shouldst know that for seeking a religious life no time can be inopportune.” 9
A thrill of joy passed through Siddhattha’s heart. “Now is the time to seek religion,” he said; “now is the time to sever all ties that would prevent me from attaining perfect enlightenment; now is the time to wander into homelessness and, leading a mendicant’s life, to find the path of deliverance.” 10
The celestial messenger heard the resolution of Siddhattha with approval. 11
“Now, indeed,” he added, “is the time to seek religion. Go, Siddhattha, and accomplish thy purpose. For thou art Bodhisatta, the Buddha-elect; thou art destined to enlighten the world. 12
“Thou art the Tathāgata, the great master, for thou wilt fulfil all righteousness and be Dharmarāja, the king of truth. Thou art Bhagavat, the Blessed One, for thou art called upon to become the saviour and redeemer of the world. 13
“Fulfil thou the perfection of truth. Though the thunderbolt descend upon thy head, yield thou never to the allurements that beguile men from the path of truth. As the sun at all seasons pursues his own course, nor ever goes on another, even so if thou forsake not the straight path of righteousness, thou shalt become a Buddha. 14
“Persevere in thy quest and thou shalt find what thou seekest. Pursue thy aim unswervingly and thou shalt gain the prize. Struggle earnestly and thou shalt conquer. The benediction of all deities, of all saints, of all that seek light is upon thee, and heavenly wisdom guides thy steps. Thou shalt be the Buddha, our Master, and our Lord; thou shalt enlighten the world and save mankind from perdition.” 15
Having thus spoken, the vision vanished, and Siddhattha’s heart was filled with peace. He said to himself: 16
“I have awakened to the truth and I am resolved to accomplish my purpose. I will sever all the ties that bind me to the world, and I will go out from my home to seek the way of salvation. 17
“The Buddhas are beings whose words cannot fail: there is no departure from truth in their speech. 18
“For as the fall of a stone thrown into the air, as the death of a mortal, as the sunrise at dawn, as the lion’s roar when he leaves his lair, as the delivery of a woman with child, as all these things are sure and certain—even so the word of the Buddhas is sure and cannot fail. 19
“Verily I shall become a Buddha.” 20
The prince returned to the bedroom of his wife to take a last farewell glance at those whom he dearly loved above all the treasures of the earth. He longed to take the infant once more into his arms and kiss him with a parting kiss. But the child lay in the arms of his mother, and the prince could not lift him without awakening both. 21
There Siddhattha stood gazing at his beautiful wife and his beloved son, and his heart grieved. The pain of parting overcame him powerfully. Although his mind was determined, so that nothing, be it good or evil, could shake his resolution, the tears flowed freely from his eyes, and it was beyond his power to check their stream. But the prince tore himself away with a manly heart, suppressing his feelings but not extinguishing his memory. 22
The Bodhisatta mounted his noble steed Kanthaka, and when he left the palace, Māra stood in the gate and stopped him: “Depart not, O my Lord,” exclaimed Māra. “In seven days from now the wheel of empire will appear, and will make thee sovereign over the four continents and the two thousand adjacent islands. Therefore, stay, my Lord.” 23
The Bodhisatta replied: “Well do I know that the wheel of empire will appear to me; but it is not sovereignty that I desire. I will become a Buddha and make all the world shout for joy.” 24
Thus Siddhattha, the prince, renounced power and worldly pleasures, gave up his kingdom, severed all ties, and went into homelessness. He rode out into the silent night, accompanied only by his faithful charioteer Channa. 25
Darkness lay upon the earth, but the stars shone brightly in the heavens. 26
VIII.
KING BIMBISĀRA.
Siddhattha had cut his waving hair and had exchanged his royal robe for a mean dress of the color of the ground. Having sent home Channa, the charioteer, together with the noble steed Kanthaka, to king Suddhodana to bear him the message that the prince had left the world, the Bodhisatta walked along on the highroad with a beggar’s bowl in his hand. 1
Yet the majesty of his mind was ill-concealed under the poverty of his appearance. His erect gait betrayed his royal birth and his eyes beamed with a fervid zeal for truth. The beauty of his youth was transfigured by holiness and surrounded his head like a halo. 2
All the people who saw this unusual sight gazed at him in wonder. Those who were in haste arrested their steps and looked back; and there was no one who did not pay him homage. 3
Having entered the city of Rājagaha, the prince went from house to house silently waiting till the poeple offered him food. Wherever the Blessed One came, the people gave him what they had; they bowed before him in humility and were filled with gratitude because he condescended to approach their homes. 4
Old and young people were moved and said: “This is a noble muni! His approach is bliss. What a great joy for us!” 5
And king Bimbisāra, noticing the commotion in the city, inquired the cause of it, and when he learned the news sent one of his attendants to observe the stranger. 6
Having heard that the muni must be a Sakya and of noble family, and that he had retired to the bank of a flowing river in the woods to eat the food in his bowl, the king was moved in his heart; he donned his royal robe, placed his golden crown upon his head and went out in the company of aged and wise counselors to meet his mysterious guest. 7
The king found the muni of the Sakya race seated under a tree. Contemplating the composure of his face and the gentleness of his deportment, Bimbisāra greeted him reverently and said: 8
“O samana, thy hands are fit to grasp the reins of an empire and should not hold a beggar’s bowl. I am sorry to see thee wasting thy youth. Believing that thou art of royal descent, I invite thee to join me in the government of my country and share my royal power. Desire for power is becoming to the noble-minded, and wealth should not be despised. To grow rich and lose religion is not true gain. But he who possesses all three, power, wealth, and religion, enjoying them in discretion and with wisdom, him I call a great master.” 9
The great Sakyamuni lifted his eyes and replied: 10
“Thou art known, O king, to be liberal and religious, and thy words are prudent. A kind man who makes good use of wealth is rightly said to possess a great treasure; but the miser who hoards up his riches will have no profit. 11
“Charity is rich in returns; charity is the greatest wealth, for though it scatters, it brings no repentance. 12
“I have severed all ties because I seek deliverance. How is it possible for me to return to the world? He who seeks religious truth, which is the highest treasure of all, must leave behind all that can concern him or draw away his attention, and must be bent upon that one goal alone. He must free his soul from covetousness and lust, and also from the desire for power. 13
“Indulge in lust but a little, and lust like a child will grow. Wield worldly power and you will be burdened with cares. 14
“Better than sovereignty over the earth, better than living in heaven, better than lordship over all the worlds, is the fruit of holiness. 15
“The Bodhisatta has recognized the illusory nature of wealth and will not take poison as food. 16
“Will a fish that has been baited still covet the hook, or an escaped bird love the net? 17
“Would a rabbit rescued from the serpent’s mouth go back to be devoured? Would a man who has burnt his hand with a torch take up the torch after he had dropped it to the earth? Would a blind man who has recovered his sight desire to spoil his eyes again? 18
“The sick man suffering from fever seeks for a cooling medicine. Shall we advise him to drink that which will increase the fever? Shall we quench a fire by heaping fuel upon it? 19
“I pray thee, pity me not. Rather pity those who are burdened with the cares of royalty and the worry of great riches. They enjoy them in fear and trembling, for they are constantly threatened with a loss of those boons on whose possession their hearts are set, and when they die they cannot take along either their gold or the kingly diadem. 20
“My heart hankers after no vulgar profit, so I have put away my royal inheritance and prefer to be free from the burdens of life. 21
“Therefore, try not to entangle me in new relationships and duties, nor hinder me from completing the work I have begun. 22
“I regret to leave thee. But I will go to the sages who can teach me religion and so find the path on which we can escape evil. 23
“May thy country enjoy peace and prosperity, and may wisdom be shed upon thy rule like the brightness of the noon-day sun. May thy royal power be strong and may righteousness be the sceptre in thine hand.” 24
The king, clasping his hands with reverence, bowed down before Sakyamuni and said: “Mayest thou obtain that which thou seekest, and when thou hast obtained it, come back, I pray thee, and receive me as thy disciple.” 25
The Bodhisatta parted from the king in friendship and goodwill, and purposed in his heart to grant his request. 26
IX.
THE BODHISATTA’S SEARCH.
Alāra and Uddaka were renowned as teachers among the Brahmans, and there was no one in those days who surpassed them in learning and philosophical knowledge. 1
The Bodhisatta went to them and sat at their feet. He listened to their doctrines of the ātman or self, which is the ego of the mind and the doer of all doings. He learned their views of the transmigration of souls and of the law of karma; how the souls of bad men had to suffer by being reborn in men of low caste, in animals, or in hell, while those who purified themselves by libations, by sacrifices, and by self-mortification would become kings, or Brahmans, or devas, so as to rise higher and higher in the grades of existence. He studied their incantations and offerings and the methods by which they attained deliverance of the ego from material existence in states of ecstasy. 2
Alāra said: “What is that self which perceives the actions of the five roots of mind, touch, smell, taste, sight, and hearing? What is that which is active in the two ways of motion, in the hands and in the feet? The problem of the soul appears in the expressions ‘I say,’ ‘I know and perceive,’ ‘I come,’ and ‘I go’ or ‘I will stay here.’ Thy soul is not thy body; it is not thy eye, not thy ear, not thy nose, not thy tongue, nor is it thy mind. The I is the one who feels the touch in thy body. The I is the smeller in the nose, the taster in the tongue, the seer in the eye, the hearer in the ear, and the thinker in the mind. The I moves thy hands and thy feet. The I is thy soul. Doubt in the existence of the soul is irreligious, and without discerning this truth there is no way of salvation. Deep speculation will easily involve the mind; it leads to confusion and unbelief; but a purification of the soul leads to the way of escape. True deliverance is reached by removing from the crowd and leading a hermit’s life, depending entirely on alms for food. Putting away all desire and clearly recognizing the non-existence of matter, we reach a state of perfect emptiness. Here we find the condition of immaterial life. As the muñja grass when freed from its horny case, as a sword when drawn from its scabbard, or as the wild bird escaped from its prison, so the ego, liberating itself from all limitations, finds perfect release. This is true deliverance, but those only who will have deep faith will learn.” 3
The Bodhisatta found no satisfaction in these teachings. He replied: “People are in bondage, because they have not yet removed the idea of the ego. 4
“The thing and its quality are different in our thought, but not in reality. Heat is different from fire in our thought, but you cannot remove heat from fire in reality. You say that you can remove the qualities and leave the thing, but if you think your theory to the end, you will find that this is not so. 5
“Is not man an organism of many aggregates? Are we not composed of various attributes? Man consists of the material form, of sensation, of thought, of dispositions, and, lastly, of understanding. That which men call the ego when they say ‘I am’ is not an entity behind the attributes; it originates by their co-operation. There is mind; there is sensation and thought, and there is truth; and truth is mind when it walks in the path of righteousness. But there is no separate ego-soul outside or behind the thought of man. He who believes that the ego is a distinct being has no correct conception of things. The very search for the ātman is wrong; it is a wrong start and it will lead you in a false direction. 6
“How much confusion of thought comes from our interest in self, and from our vanity when thinking ‘I am so great,’ or ‘I have done this wonderful deed?’ The thought of thine ego stands between thy rational nature and truth; banish it, and then wilt thou see things as they are. He who thinks correctly will rid himself of ignorance and acquire wisdom. The ideas ‘I am’ and ‘I shall be’ or ‘I shall not be’ do not occur to a clear thinker. 7
“Moreover, if our ego remains, how can we attain true deliverance? If the ego is to be reborn in any of the three worlds, be it in hell, upon earth, or be it even in heaven, we shall meet again and again the same inevitable doom of sorrow. We shall remain chained to the wheel of individuality and shall be implicated in egotism and wrong. 8
“All combination is subject to separation, and we cannot escape birth, disease, old age, and death. Is this a final escape?” 9
Said Uddaka: “Consider the unity of things. Things are not their parts, yet they exist. The members and organs of thy body are not thine ego, but thine ego possesses all these parts. What, for instance, is the Ganges? Is the sand the Ganges? Is the water the Ganges? Is the hither bank the Ganges? Is the farther bank the Ganges? The Ganges is a mighty river and it possesses all these several qualities. Exactly so is our ego”. 10
But the Bodhisatta replied: “Not so, sir! If we except the water, the sand, the hither bank and the farther bank, where can we find any Ganges? In the same way I observe the activities of man in their harmonious union, but there is no ground for an ego outside its parts.” 11
The Brahman sage, however, insisted on the existence of the ego, saying: “The ego is the doer of our deeds. How can there be karma without a self as its performer? Do we not see around us the effects of karma? What makes men different in character, station, possessions, and fate? It is their karma, and karma includes merit and demerit. The transmigration of the soul is subject to its karma. We inherit from former existences the evil effects of our evil deeds and the good effects of our good deeds. If that were not so, how could we be different?” 12
The Tathāgata meditated deeply on the problems of transmigration and karma, and found the truth that lies in them. 13
“The doctrine of karma,” he said, “is undeniable, but thy theory of the ego has no foundation. 14
“Like everything else in nature, the life of man is subject to the law of cause and effect. The present reaps what the past has sown, and the future is the product of the present. But there is no evidence of the existence of an immutable ego-being, of a self which remains the same and migrates from body to body. There is rebirth but no transmigration. 15
“Is not this individuality of mine a combination, material as well as mental? Is it not made up of qualities that sprang into being by a gradual evolution? The five roots of sense-perception in this organism have come from ancestors who performed these functions. The ideas which I think, came to me partly from others who thought them, and partly they rise from combinations of the ideas in my own mind. Those who have used the same sense-organs, and have thought the same ideas before I was composed into this individuality of mine are my previous existences; they are my ancestors as much as the I of yesterday is the father of the I of to-day, and the karma of my past deeds conditions the fate of my present existence. 16
“Supposing there were an ātman that performs the actions of the senses, then if the door of sight were torn down and the eye plucked out, that ātman would be able to peep through the larger aperture and see the forms of its surroundings better and more clearly than before. It would be able to hear sounds better if the ears were torn away; smell better if the nose were cut off; taste better if the tongue were pulled out; and feel better if the body were destroyed. 17
“I observe the preservation and transmission of character; I perceive the truth of karma, but see no ātman whom your doctrine makes the doer of your deeds. There is rebirth without the transmigration of a self. For this ātman, this self, this ego in the ‘I say’ and in the ‘I will’ is an illusion. If this self were a reality, how could there be an escape from selfhood? The terror of hell would be infinite, and no release could be granted. The evils of existence would not be due to our ignorance and wrong-doing, but would constitute the very nature of our being.” 18
And the Bodhisatta went to the priests officiating in the temples. But the gentle mind of the Sakyamuni was offended at the unnecessary cruelty performed on the altars of the gods. He said: 19
“Ignorance only can make these men prepare festivals and hold vast meetings for sacrifices. Far better to revere the truth than try to appease the gods by shedding blood. 20
“What love can a man possess who believes that the destruction of life will atone for evil deeds? Can a new wrong expiate old wrongs? And can the slaughter of an innocent victim blot out the evil deeds of mankind? This is practising religion by the neglect of moral conduct. 21
“Purify your hearts and cease to kill; that is true religion. 22
“Rituals have no efficacy; prayers are vain repetitions; and incantations have no saving power. But to abandon covetousness and lust, to become free from evil passions, and to give up all hatred and ill-will, that is the right sacrifice and the true worship.” 23
X.
URUVELĀ, THE PLACE OF MORTIFICATION.
The Bodhisatta went in search of a better system and came to a settlement of five bhikkhus in the jungle of Uruvelā; and when the Blessed One saw the life of those five men, virtuously keeping in check their senses, subduing their passions, and practising austere self-discipline, he admired their earnestness and joined their company. 1
With holy zeal and a strong heart, the Sakyamuni gave himself up to meditative thought and rigorous mortification of the body. Whereas the five bhikkhus were severe, the Sakyamuni was severer still, and they revered him, their junior, as their master. 2
So the Bodhisatta continued for six years patiently torturing himself and suppressing the wants of nature. He trained his body and exercised his mind in the modes of the most rigorous ascetic life. At last, he ate each day one hemp-grain only, seeking to cross the ocean of birth and death and to arrive at the shore of deliverance. 3
And when the Bodhisatta was ahungered, lo! Māra, the Evil One, approached him and said: “Thou art emaciated from fasts, and death is near. What good is thy exertion? Deign to live, and thou wilt be able to do good works.” But the Sakyamuni made reply: “O thou friend of the indolent, thou wicked one; for what purpose hast thou come? Let the flesh waste away, if but the mind becomes more tranquil and attention more steadfast. What is life in this world? Death in battle is better to me than that I should live defeated.” 4
And Māra withdrew, saying: “For seven years I have followed the Blessed One step by step, but I have found no fault in the Tathāgata”. 5
The Bodhisatta was shrunken and attenuated, and his body was like a withered branch; but the fame of his holiness spread in the surrounding countries, and people came from great distances to see him and receive his blessing. 6
However, the Holy One was not satisfied. Seeking true wisdom he did not find it, and he came to the conclusion that mortification would not extinguish desire nor afford enlightenment in ecstatic contemplation. 7
Seated beneath a jambu-tree, he considered the state of his mind and the fruits of his mortification. His body had become weaker, nor had his fasts advanced him in his search for salvation, and therefore when he saw that it was not the right path, he proposed to abandon it. 8
He went to bathe in the Nerañjara river, but when he strove to leave the water he could not rise on account of his weakness. Then espying the branch of a tree and taking hold of it, he raised himself and left the stream. But while returning to his abode, he staggered and fell to the ground, and the five bhikkhus thought he was dead. 9
There was a chief herdsman living near the grove whose eldest daughter was called Nandā; and Nandā happened to pass by the spot where the Blessed One had swooned, and bowing down before him she offered him rice-milk and he accepted the gift. When he had partaken of the rice-milk all his limbs were refreshed, his mind became clear again, and he was strong to receive the highest enlightenment. 10
After this occurrence, the Bodhisatta again took some food. His disciples, having witnessed the scene of Nandā and observing the change in his mode of living, were filled with suspicion. They were convinced that Siddhattha’s religious zeal was flagging and that he whom they had hitherto revered as their Master had become oblivious of his high purpose. 11
When the Bodhisatta saw the bhikkhus turning away from him, he felt sorry for their lack of confidence, and was aware of the loneliness in which he lived. 12
Suppressing his grief he wandered on alone, and his disciples said, “Siddhattha leaves us to seek a more pleasant abode.” 13
XI.
MĀRA THE EVIL ONE.
The Holy One directed his steps to that blessed Bodhitree beneath whose shade he was to accomplish his search. 1
As he walked, the earth shook and a brilliant light transfigured the world. 2
When he sat down the heavens resounded with joy and all living beings were filled with good cheer. 3
Māra alone, lord of the five desires, bringer of death and enemy of truth, was grieved and rejoiced not. With his three daughters, Tanhā, Ragā and Arati, the tempters, and with his host of evil demons, he went to the place where the great samana sat. But Sakyamuni heeded him not. 4
Māra uttered fear-inspiring threats and raised a whirlwind so that the skies were darkened and the ocean roared and trembled. But the Blessed One under the Bodhitree remained calm and feared not. The Enlightened One knew that no harm could befall him. 5
The three daughters of Māra tempted the Bodhisatta, but he paid no attention to them, and when Māra saw that he could kindle no desire in the heart of the victorious samana, he ordered all the evil spirits at his command to attack him and overawe the great muni. 6
But the Blessed One watched them as one would watch the harmless games of children. All the fierce hatred of the evil spirits was of no avail. The flames of hell became wholesome breezes of perfume, and the angry thunderbolts were changed into lotus-blossoms. 7
When Māra saw this, he fled away with his army from the Bodhi-tree, whilst from above a rain of heavenly flowers fell, and voices of good spirits were heard: 8
“Behold the great muni! his heart unmoved by hatred. The wicked Māra’s host ’gainst him did not prevail. Pure is he and wise, loving and full of mercy. 9
“As the rays of the sun drown the darkness of the world, so he who perseveres in his search will find the truth and the truth will enlighten him.” 10
XII.
ENLIGHTENMENT.
The Bodhisatta, having put Māra to flight, gave himself up to meditation. All the miseries of the world, the evils produced by evil deeds and the sufferings arising therefrom, passed before his mental eye, and he thought: 1
“Surely if living creatures saw the results of all their evil deeds, they would turn away from them in disgust. But selfhood blinds them, and they cling to their obnoxious desires. 2
“They crave pleasure for themselves and they cause pain to others; when death destroys their individuality, they find no peace; their thirst for existence abides and their selfhood reappears in new births. 3
“Thus they continue to move in the coil and can find no escape from the hell of their own making. And how empty are their pleasures, how vain are their endeavors! Hollow like the plantain-tree and without contents like the bubble. 4
“The world is full of evil and sorrow, because it is full of lust. Men go astray because they think that delusion is better than truth. Rather than truth they follow error, which is pleasant to look at in the beginning but in the end causes anxiety, tribulation, and misery.” 5
And the Bodhisatta began to expound the Dharma. The Dharma is the truth. The Dharma is the sacred law. The Dharma is religion. The Dharma alone can deliver us from error, from wrong and from sorrow. 6
Pondering on the origin of birth and death, the Enlightened One recognized that ignorance was the root of all evil; and these are the links in the development of life, called the twelve nidānas: 7
In the beginning there is existence blind and without knowledge; and in this sea of ignorance there are stirrings formative and organizing. From stirrings, formative and organizing, rises awareness or feelings. Feelings beget organisms that live as individual beings. These organisms develop the six fields, that is, the five senses and the mind. The six fields come in contact with things. Contact begets sensation. Sensation creates the thirst of individualized being. The thirst of being creates a cleaving to things. The cleaving produces the growth and continuation of selfhood. Selfhood continues in renewed births. The renewed births of selfhood are the cause of suffering, old age, sickness, and death. They produce lamentation, anxiety, and despair. 8
The cause of all sorrow lies at the very beginning; it is hidden in the ignorance from which life grows. Remove ignorance and you will destroy the wrong appetences that rise from ignorance; destroy these appetences and you will wipe out the wrong perception that rises from them. Destroy wrong perception and there is an end of errors in individualized beings. Destroy the errors in individualized beings and the illusions of the six fields will disappear. Destroy illusions and the contact with things will cease to beget misconception. Destroy misconception and you do away with thirst. Destroy thirst and you will be free of all morbid cleaving. Remove the cleaving and you destroy the selfishness of selfhood. If the selfishness of selfhood is destroyed you will be above birth, old age, disease, and death, and you will escape all suffering. 9
The Enlightened One saw the four noble truths which point out the path that leads to Nirvāna or the extinction of self: 10
The first noble truth is the existence of sorrow. 11
The second noble truth is the cause of suffering. 12
The third noble truth is the cessation of sorrow. 13
The fourth noble truth is the eightfold path that leads to the cessation of sorrow. 14
This is the Dharma. This is the truth. This is religion. And the Enlightened One uttered this stanza: 15
- “Through many births I sought in vain
- The Builder of this House of Pain.
- Now, Builder, thee I plainly see!
- This is the last abode for me.
- Thy gable’s yoke and rafters broke,
- My heart has peace. All lust will cease.” 16
There is self and there is truth. Where self is, truth is not. Where truth is, self is not. Self is the fleeting error of samsāra; it is individual separateness and that egotism which begets envy and hatred. Self is the yearning for pleasure and the lust after vanity. Truth is the correct comprehension of things; it is the permanent and everlasting, the real in all existence, the bliss of righteousness. 17
The existence of self is an illusion, and there is no wrong in this world, no vice, no evil, except what flows from the assertion of self. 18
The attainment of truth is possible only when self is recognized as an illusion. Righteousness can be practised only when we have freed our mind from passions of egotism. Perfect peace can dwell only where all vanity has disappeared. 19
Blessed is he who has understood the Dharma. Blessed is he who does no harm to his fellow-beings. Blessed is he who overcomes wrong and is free from passion. To the highest bliss has he attained who has conquered all selfishness and vanity. He has become the Buddha, the Perfect One, the Blessed One, the Holy One. 20
XIII.
THE FIRST CONVERTS.
The Blessed One tarried in solitude seven times seven days, enjoying the bliss of emancipation. 1
At that time Tapussa and Bhallika, two merchants, came traveling on the road near by, and when they saw the great samana, majestic and full of peace, they approached him respectfully and offered him rice cakes and honey. 2
This was the first food that the Enlightened One ate after he attained Buddhahood. 3
And the Buddha addressed them and pointed out to them the way of salvation. The two merchants, conceiving in their minds the holiness of the conqueror of Māra, bowed down in reverence and said: “We take our refuge, Lord, in the Blessed One and in the Dharma.” 4
Tapussa and Bhallika were the first that became followers of the Buddha and they were lay disciples. 5
XIV.
BRAHMĀS REQUEST.
The Blessed One having attained Buddhahood while resting under the shepherd’s Nigrodha tree on the banks of the river Nerañjarā, pronounced this solemn utterance: 1
- “How blest in happy solitude
- Is he who hears of truth the call!
- How blest to be both kind and good,
- To practice self-restraint to all!
- How blest from passion to be free,
- All sensuous joys to let pass by!
- Yet highest bliss enjoyeth he
- Who quits the pride of ‘I am I.’ 2
“I have recognized the deepest truth, which is sublime and peace-giving, but difficult to understand; for most men move in a sphere of worldly interests and find their delight in worldly desires. 3
“The worldling will not understand the doctrine, for to him there is happiness in selfhood only, and the bliss that lies in a complete surrender to truth is unintelligible to him. 4
“He will call resignation what to the enlightened mind is the purest joy. He will see annihilation where the perfected one finds immortality. He will regard as death what the conqueror of self knows to be life everlasting. 5
“The truth remains hidden from him who is in the bondage of hate and desire. Nirvāna remains incomprehensible and mysterious to the vulgar whose minds are beclouded with worldly interests. Should I preach the doctrine and mankind not comprehend it, it would bring me only fatigue and trouble.” 6
Māra, the Evil One, on hearing the words of the Blessed Buddha, approached and said: “Be greeted, thou Holy One. Thou hast attained the highest bliss and it is time for thee to enter into the final Nirvāna.” 7
Then Brahmā Sahampati descended from the heavens and, having worshipped the Blessed One, said: 8
“Alas! the world must perish, should the Holy One, the Tathāgata, decide not to teach the Dharma. 9
“Be merciful to those that struggle; have compassion upon the sufferers; pity the creatures who are hopelessly entangled in the snares of sorrow. 10
“There are some beings that are almost free from the dust of worldliness. If they hear not the doctrine preached, they will be lost. But if they hear it, they will believe and be saved.” 11
The Blessed One, full of compassion, looked with the eye of a Buddha upon all sentient creatures, and he saw among them beings whose minds were but scarcely covered by the dust of worldliness, who were of good disposition and easy to instruct. He saw some who were conscious of the dangers of lust and wrong doing. 12
And the Blessed One said to Brahmā Sahampati: “Wide open be the door of immortality to all who have ears to hear. May they receive the Dharma with faith.” 13
And the Blessed One turned to Māra, saying: “I shall not pass into the final Nirvāna, O Evil One, until there be not only brethren and sisters of an Order, but also lay-disciples of both sexes, who shall have become true hearers, wise, well trained, ready and learned, versed in the scriptures, fulfilling all the greater and lesser duties, correct in life, walking according to the precepts—until they, having thus themselves learned the doctrine, shall be able to give information to others concerning it, preach it, make it known, establish it, open it, minutely explain it, and make it clear—until they, when others start vain doctrines, shall be able to vanquish and refute them, and so to spread the wonder-working truth abroad. I shall not die until the pure religion of truth shall have become successful, prosperous, widespread, and popular in all its full extent—until, in a word, it shall have been well proclaimed among men!” 14
Then Brahmā Sahampati understood that the Blessed One had granted his request and would preach the doctrine. 15
THE FOUNDATION OF THE KINGDOM OF RIGHTEOUSNESS.
XV.
UPAKA.
NOW the Blessed One thought: “To whom shall I preach the doctrine first? My old teachers are dead. They would have received the good news with joy. But my five disciples are still alive. I shall go to them, and to them shall I first proclaim the gospel of deliverance.” 1
At that time the five bhikkhus dwelt in the Deer Park at Benares, and the Blessed One rose and journeyed to their abode, not thinking of their unkindness in having left him at a time when he was most in need of their sympathy and help, but mindful only of the services which they had ministered unto him, and pitying them for the austerities which they practised in vain. 2
Upaka, a young Brahman and a Jain, a former acquaintance of Siddhattha, saw the Blessed One while he journeyed to Benares, and, amazed at the majesty and sublime joyfulness of his appearance, said: “Thy countenance, friend, is serene; thine eyes are bright and indicate purity and blessedness.” 3
The holy Buddha replied: “I have obtained deliverance by the extinction of self. My body is chastened, my mind is free from desire, and the deepest truth has taken abode in my heart. I have obtained Nirvāna, and this is the reason that my countenance is serene and my eyes are bright. I now desire to found the kingdom of truth upon earth, to give light to those who are enshrouded in darkness and to open the gate of deathlessness.” 4
Upaka replied: “Thou professest then, friend, to be Jina, the conqueror of the world, the absolute one and the holy one.” 5
The Blessed One said: “Jinas are all those who have conquered self and the passions of self, those alone are victors who control their minds and abstain from evil. Therefore, Upaka, I am the Jina.” 6
Upaka shook his head. “Venerable Gotama,” he said, “thy way lies yonder,” and taking another road, he went away. 7
XVI.
THE SERMON AT BENARES.
On seeing their old teacher approach, the five bhikkhus agreed among themselves not to salute him, nor to address him as a master, but by his name only. “For,” so they said, “he has broken his vow and has abandoned holiness. He is no bhikkhu but Gotama, and Gotama has become a man who lives in abundance and indulges in the pleasures of worldliness.” 1
But when the Blessed One approached in a dignified manner, they involuntarily rose from their seats and greeted him in spite of their resolution. Still they called him by his name and addressed him as “friend Gotama.” 2
When they had thus received the Blessed One, he said: “Do not call the Tathāgata by his name nor address him as ‘friend,’ for he is the Buddha, the Holy One. The Buddha looks with a kind heart equally on all living beings, and they therefore call him ‘Father.’ To disrespect a father is wrong; to despise him, is wicked. 3
“The Tathāgata,” the Buddha continued, “does not seek salvation in austerities, but neither does he for that reason indulge in worldly pleasures, nor live in abundance. The Tathāgata has found the middle path. 4
“There are two extremes, O bhikkhus, which the man who has given up the world ought not to follow—the habitual practice, on the one hand, of self-indulgence which is unworthy, vain and fit only for the worldly-minded—and the habitual practice, on the other hand, of self-mortification, which is painful, useless and unprofitable. 5
“Neither abstinence from fish or flesh, nor going naked, nor shaving the head, nor wearing matted hair, nor dressing in a rough garment, nor covering oneself with dirt, nor sacrificing to Agni, will cleanse a man who is not free from delusions. 6
“Reading the Vedas, making offerings to priests, or sacrifices to the gods, self-mortification by heat or cold, and many such penances performed for the sake of immortality, these do not cleanse the man who is not free from delusions. 7
“Anger, drunkenness, obstinacy, bigotry, deception, envy, self-praise, disparaging others, superciliousness and evil intentions constitute uncleanness; not verily the eating of flesh. 8
“A middle path, O bhikkhus, avoiding the two extremes, has been discovered by the Tathāgata—a path which opens the eyes, and bestows understanding, which leads to peace of mind, to the higher wisdom, to full enlightenment, to Nirvāna! 9
“What is that middle path, O bhikkhus, avoiding these two extremes, discovered by the Tathāgata—that path which opens the eyes, and bestows understanding, which leads to peace of mind, to the higher wisdom, to full enlightenment, to Nirvāna? 10
“Let me teach you, O bhikkhus, the middle path, which keeps aloof from both extremes. By suffering, the emaciated devotee produces confusion and sickly thoughts in his mind. Mortification is not conducive even to worldly knowledge; how much less to a triumph over the senses! 11
“He who fills his lamp with water will not dispel the darkness, and he who tries to light a fire with rotten wood will fail. And how can any one be free from self by leading a wretched life, if he does not succeed in quenching the fires of lust, if he still hankers after either worldly or heavenly pleasures. But he in whom self has become extinct is free from lust; he will desire neither worldly nor heavenly pleasures, and the satisfaction of his natural wants will not defile him. However, let him be moderate, let him eat and drink according to the needs of the body. 12
“Sensuality is enervating; the self-indulgent man is a slave to his passions, and pleasure-seeking is degrading and vulgar. 13
“But to satisfy the necessities of life is not evil. To keep the body in good health is a duty, for otherwise we shall not be able to trim the lamp of wisdom, and keep our mind strong and clear. Water surrounds the lotusflower, but does not wet its petals. 14
“This is the middle path, O bhikkhus, that keeps aloof from both extremes.” 15
And the Blessed One spoke kindly to his disciples, pitying them for their errors, and pointing out the uselessness of their endeavors, and the ice of ill-will that chilled their hearts melted away under the gentle warmth of the Master’s persuasion. 16
Now the Blessed One set the wheel of the most excellent law rolling, and he began to preach to the five bhikkhus, opening to them the gate of immortality, and showing them the bliss of Nirvāna. 17
The Buddha said: 18
“The spokes of the wheel are the rules of pure conduct: justice is the uniformity of their length; wisdom is the tire; modesty and thoughtfulness are the hub in which the immovable axle of truth is fixed. 19
“He who recognizes the existence of suffering, its cause, its remedy, and its cessation has fathomed the four noble truths. He will walk in the right path. 20
“Right views will be the torch to light his way. Right aspirations will be his guide. Right speech will be his dwelling-place on the road. His gait will be straight, for it is right behavior. His refreshments will be the right way of earning his livelihood. Right efforts will be his steps: right thoughts his breath; and right contemplation will give him the peace that follows in his footprints. 21
“Now, this, O bhikkhus, is the noble truth concerning suffering: 22
“Birth is attended with pain, decay is painful, disease is painful, death is painful. Union with the unpleasant is painful, painful is separation from the pleasant; and any craving that is unsatisfied, that too is painful. In brief, bodily conditions which spring from attachment are painful. 23
“This, then, O bhikkhus, is the noble truth concerning suffering. 24
“Now this, O bhikkhus, is the noble truth concerning the origin of suffering: 25
“Verily, it is that craving which causes the renewal of existence, accompanied by sensual delight, seeking satisfaction now here, now there, the craving for the gratification of the passions, the craving for a future life, and the craving for happiness in this life. 26
“This, then, O bhikkhus, is the noble truth concerning the origin of suffering. 27
“Now this, O bhikkhus, is the noble truth concerning the destruction of suffering: 28
“Verily, it is the destruction, in which no passion remains, of this very thirst; it is the laying aside of, the being free from, the dwelling no longer upon this thirst. 29
“This, then, O bhikkhus, is the noble truth concerning the destruction of suffering. 30
“Now this, O bhikkhus, is the noble truth concerning the way which leads to the destruction of sorrow. Verily! it is this noble eightfold path; that is to say: 31
“Right views; right aspirations; right speech; right behavior; right livelihood; right effort; right thoughts; and right contemplation. 32
“This, then, O bhikkhus, is the noble truth concerning the destruction of sorrow. 33
“By the practice of lovingkindness I have attained liberation of heart, and thus I am assured that I shall never return in renewed births. I have even now attained Nirvāna.” 34
And when the Blessed One had thus set the royal chariot-wheel of truth rolling onward, a rapture thrilled through all the universes. 35
The devas left their heavenly abodes to listen to the sweetness of the truth; the saints that had parted from life crowded around the great teacher to receive the glad tidings; even the animals of the earth felt the bliss that rested upon the words of the Tathāgata: and all the creatures of the host of sentient beings, gods, men, and beasts, hearing the message of deliverance, received and understood it in their own language. 36
And when the doctrine was propounded, the venerable Kondañña, the oldest one among the five bhikkhus, discerned the truth with his mental eye, and he said: “Truly, O Buddha, our Lord, thou hast found the truth!” Then the other bhikkhus too, joined him and exclaimed: “Truly, thou art the Buddha, thou hast found the truth.” 37
And the devas and saints and all the good spirits of the departed generations that had listened to the sermon of the Tathāgata, joyfully received the doctrine and shouted: “Truly, the Blessed One has founded the kingdom of righteousness. The Blessed One has moved the earth; he has set the wheel of Truth rolling, which by no one in the universe, be he god or man, can ever be turned back. The kingdom of Truth will be preached upon earth; it will spread; and righteousness, good-will, and peace will reign among mankind.” 38
XVII.
THE SANGHA.
Having pointed out to the five bhikkhus the truth, the Buddha said: 1
“A man that stands alone, having decided to obey the truth, may be weak and slip back into his old ways. Therefore, stand ye together, assist one another, and strengthen one another’s efforts. 2
“Be like unto brothers; one in love, one in holiness, and one in your zeal for the truth. 3
“Spread the truth and preach the doctrine in all quarters of the world, so that in the end all living creatures will be citizens of the kingdom of righteousness. 4
“This is the holy brotherhood; this is the church, the congregation of the saints of the Buddha; this is the Sangha that establishes a communion among all those who have taken their refuge in the Buddha.” 5
And Kondañña was the first disciple of the Buddha who had thoroughly grasped the doctrine of the Holy One, and the Tathāgata looking into his heart said: “Truly, Kondañña has understood the truth.” Hence the venerable Kondañña received the name “Aññāta-Kondañña,” that is, “Kondañña who has understood the doctrine.” 6
Then the venerable Kondañña spoke to the Buddha and said: “Lord, let us receive the ordination from the Blessed One.” 7
And the Buddha said: “Come, O bhikkhus! Well taught is the doctrine. Lead a holy life for the extinction of suffering.” 8
Then Kondañña and the other bhikkhus uttered three times these solemn vows: 9
“To the Buddha will I look in faith: He, the Perfect One, is holy and supreme. The Buddha conveys to us instruction, wisdom, and salvation; he is the Blessed One, who knows the law of being; he is the Lord of the world, who yoketh men like oxen, the Teacher of gods and men, the Exalted Buddha. Therefore, to the Buddha will I look in faith. 10
“To the doctrine will I look in faith: well-preached is the doctrine by the Exalted One. The doctrine has been revealed so as to become visible; the doctrine is above time and space. The doctrine is not based upon hearsay, it means ‘Come and see’; the doctrine leads to welfare; the doctrine is recognized by the wise in their own hearts. Therefore to the doctrine will I look in faith. 11
“To the community will I look in faith; the community of the Buddha’s disciples instructs us how to lead a life of righteousness; the community of the Buddha’s disciples teaches us how to exercise honesty and justice; the community of the Buddha’s disciples shows us how to practise the truth. They form a brotherhood in kindness and charity, and their saints are worthy of reverence. The community of the Buddha’s disciples is founded as a holy brotherhood in which men bind themselves together to teach the behests of rectitude and to do good. Therefore, to the community will I look in faith.” 12
And the gospel of the Blessed One increased from day to day, and many people came to hear him and to accept the ordination to lead thenceforth a holy life for the sake of the extinction of suffering. 13
And the Blessed One seeing that it was impossible to attend to all who wanted to hear the truth and receive the ordination, sent out from the number of his disciples such as were to preach the Dharma and said unto them: 14
“The Dharma and the Vinaya proclaimed by the Tathāgata shine forth when they are displayed, and not when they are concealed. But let not this doctrine, so full of truth and so excellent, fall into the hands of those unworthy of it, where it would be despised and contemned, treated shamefully, ridiculed and censured. 15
“I now grant you, O bhikkhus, this permission. Confer henceforth in the different countries the ordination upon those who are eager to receive it, when you find them worthy. 16
“Go ye now, O bhikkhus, for the benefit of the many, for the welfare of mankind, out of compassion for the world. Preach the doctrine which is glorious in the beginning, glorious in the middle, and glorious in the end, in the spirit as well as in the letter. There are beings whose eyes are scarcely covered with dust, but if the doctrine is not preached to them they cannot attain salvation. Proclaim to them a life of holiness. They will understand the doctrine and accept it.” 17
And it became an established custom that the bhikkhus went out preaching while the weather was good, but in the rainy season they came together again and joined their master, to listen to the exhortations of the Tathāgata. 18
XVIII.
YASA, THE YOUTH OF BENARES.
At that time there was in Benares a noble youth, Yasa by name, the son of a wealthy merchant. Troubled in his mind about the sorrows of the world, he secretly rose up in the night and stole away to the Blessed One. 1
The Blessed One saw Yasa, the noble youth, coming from afar. And Yasa approached and exclaimed: “Alas, what distress! What tribulations!” 2
The Blessed One said to Yasa: “Here is no distress; here are no tribulations. Come to me and I will teach you the truth, and the truth will dispel your sorrows.” 3
And when Yasa, the noble youth, heard that there were neither distress, nor tribulations, nor sorrows, his heart was comforted. He went into the place where the Blessed One was, and sat down near him. 4
Then the Blessed One preached about charity and morality. He explained the vanity of the thought “I am”; the dangers of desire, and the necessity of avoiding the evils of life in order to walk on the path of deliverance. 5
Instead of disgust with the world, Yasa felt the cooling stream of holy wisdom, and, having obtained the pure and spotless eye of truth, he looked at his person, richly adorned with pearls and precious stones, and his heart was filled with shame. 6
The Tathāgata, knowing his inward thoughts, said: 7
“Though a person be ornamented with jewels, the heart may have conquered the senses. The outward form does not constitute religion or affect the mind. Thus the body of a samana may wear an ascetic’s garb while his mind is immersed in worldliness. 8
“A man that dwells in lonely woods and yet covets worldly vanities, is a worldling, while the man in worldly garments may let his heart soar high to heavenly thoughts. 9
“There is no distinction between the layman and the hermit, if but both have banished the thought of self.” 10
Seeing that Yasa was ready to enter upon the path, the Blessed One said to him: “Follow me!” And Yasa joined the brotherhood, and having put on a bhikkhu’s robe, received the ordination. 11
While the Blessed One and Yasa were discussing the doctrine, Yasa’s father passed by in search of his son; and in passing he asked the Blessed One: “Pray, Lord, hast thou seen Yasa, my son?” 12
And the Buddha said to Yasa’s father: “Come in, sir, thou wilt find thy son”; and Yasa’s father became full of joy and he entered. He sat down near his son, but his eyes were holden and he knew him not; and the Lord began to preach. And Yasa’s father, understanding the doctrine of the Blessed One, said: 13
“Glorious is the truth, O Lord! The Buddha, the Holy One, our Master, sets up what has been overturned; he reveals what has been hidden; he points out the way to the wanderer who has gone astray; he lights a lamp in the darkness so that all who have eyes to see can discern the things that surround them. I take refuge in the Buddha, our Lord: I take refuge in the doctrine revealed by him: I take refuge in the brotherhood which he has founded. May the Blessed One receive me from this day forth while my life lasts as a lay disciple who has taken refuge in him.” 14
Yasa’s father was the first lay-member who became the first lay disciple of the Buddha by pronouncing the three-fold formula of refuge. 15
When the wealthy merchant had taken refuge in the Buddha, his eyes were opened and he saw his son sitting at his side in a bhikkhu’s robe. “My son, Yasa,” he said, “thy mother is absorbed in lamentation and grief. Return home and restore thy mother to life.” 16
Then Yasa looked at the Blessed One, and the Blessed One said: “Should Yasa return to the world and enjoy the pleasures of a worldly life as he did before?” 17
And Yasa’s father replied: “If Yasa, my son, finds it a gain to stay with thee, let him stay. He has become delivered from the bondage of worldliness.” 18
When the Blessed One had cheered their hearts with words of truth and righteousness, Yasa’s father said: “May the Blessed One, O Lord, consent to take his meal with me together with Yasa as his attendant?” 19
The Blessed One, having donned his robes, took his alms-bowl and went with Yasa to the house of the rich merchant. When they had arrived there, the mother and also the former wife of Yasa saluted the Blessed One and sat down near him. 20
Then the Blessed One preached, and the women having understood his doctrine, exclaimed: “Glorious is the truth, O Lord! We take refuge in the Buddha, our Lord. We take refuge in the doctrine revealed by him. We take refuge in the brotherhood which has been founded by him. May the Blessed One receive us from this day forth while our life lasts as lay disciples who have taken refuge in him.” 21
The mother and the wife of Yasa, the noble youth of Benares, were the first women who became lay disciples and took their refuge in the Buddha. 22
Now there were four friends of Yasa belonging to the wealthy families of Benares. Their names were Vimala, Subāhu, Puññaji, and Gavampati. 23
When Yasa’s friends heard that Yasa had cut off his hair and put on bhikkhu robes to give up the world and go forth into homelessness, they thought: “Surely that cannot be a common doctrine, that must be a noble renunciation of the world, if Yasa, whom we know to be good and wise, has shaved his hair and put on bhikkhu robes to give up the world and go forth into homelessness.” 24
And they went to Yasa, and Yasa addressed the Blessed One, saying: “May the Blessed One administer exhortation and instruction to these four friends of mine.” And the Blessed One preached to them, and Yasa’s friends accepted the doctrine and took refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha. 25
XIX.
KASSAPA.
At that time there lived in Uruvelā the Jatilas, Brahman hermits with matted hair, worshipping the fire and keeping a fire-dragon; and Kassapa was their chief. 1
Kassapa was renowned throughout all India, and his name was honored as one of the wisest men on earth and an authority on religion. 2
And the Blessed One went to Kassapa of Uruvelā, the Jatila, and said: “Let me stay a night in the room where you keep your sacred fire.” 3
Kassapa, seeing the Blessed One in his majesty and beauty, thought to himself: “This is a great muni and a noble teacher. Should he stay over night in the room where the sacred fire is kept, the serpent will bite him and he will die.” And he said: “I do not object to your staying over-night in the room where the sacred fire is kept, but the serpent lives there; he will kill you and I should be sorry to see you perish.” 4
But the Buddha insisted and Kassapa admitted him to the room where the sacred fire was kept. 5
And the Blessed One sat down with his body erect, surrounding himself with watchfulness. 6
In the night the dragon came to the Buddha, belching forth in rage his fiery poison, and filling the air with burning vapor, but could do him no harm, and the fire consumed itself while the World-honored One remained composed. And the venomous fiend became very wroth so that he died in his anger. 7
When Kassapa saw the light shining forth from the room he said: “Alas, what misery! Truly, the countenance of Gotama the great Sakyamuni is beautiful, but the serpent will destroy him.” 8
In the morning the Blessed One showed the dead body of the fiend to Kassapa, saying: “His fire has been conquered by my fire.” 9
And Kassapa thought to himself. “Sakyamuni is a great samana and possesses high powers, but he is not holy like me.” 10
There was in those days a festival, and Kassapa thought: “The people will come hither from all parts of the country and will see the great Sakyamuni. When he speaks to them, they will believe in him and abandon me.” And he grew envious. 11
When the day of the festival arrived, the Blessed One retired and did not come to Kassapa. And Kassapa went to the Buddha on the next morning and said: “Why did the great Sakyamuni not come?” 12
The Tathāgata replied: “Didst thou not think, O Kassapa, that it would be better if I stayed away from the festival?” 13
And Kassapa was astonished and thought: “Great is Sakyamuni; he can read my most secret thoughts, but he is not holy like me.” 14
And the Blessed One addressed Kassapa and said: “Thou seest the truth, but acceptest it not because of the envy that dwells in thy heart. Is envy holiness? Envy is the last remnant of self that has remained in thy mind. Thou art not holy, Kassapa; thou hast not yet entered the path.” 15
And Kassapa gave up his resistance. His envy disappeared, and, bowing down before the Blessed One, he said: “Lord, our Master, let me receive the ordination from the Blessed One.” 16
And the Blessed One said: “Thou, Kassapa, art chief of the Jatilas. Go, then, first and inform them of thine intention, and let them do as thou thinkest fit.” 17
Then Kassapa went to the Jatilas and said: “I am anxious to lead a religious life under the direction of the great Sakyamuni, who is the Enlightened One, the Buddha. Do as ye think best.” 18
And the Jatilas replied: “We have conceived a profound affection for the great Sakyamuni, and if thou wilt join his brotherhood, we will do likewise.” 19
The Jatilas of Uruvelā now flung their paraphernalia of fire-worship into the river and went to the Blessed One. 20
Nadī Kassapa and Gayā Kassapa, brothers of the great Uruvelā Kassapa, powerful men and chieftains among the people, were dwelling below on the stream, and when they saw the instruments used in fire-worship floating in the river, they said: “Something has happened to our brother.” And they came with their folk to Uruvelā. Hearing what had happened, they, too, went to the Buddha. 21
The Blessed One, seeing that the Jatilas of Nadī and Gayā, who had practised severe austerities and worshipped fire, were now come to him, preached a sermon on fire, and said: 22
“Everything, O Jatilas, is burning. The eye is burning, all the senses are burning, thoughts are burning. They are burning with the fire of lust. There is anger, there is ignorance, there is hatred, and as long as the fire finds inflammable things upon which it can feed, so long will it burn, and there will be birth and death, decay, grief, lamentation, suffering, despair, and sorrow. Considering this, a disciple of the Dharma will see the four noble truths and walk in the eightfold path of holiness. He will become wary of his eye, wary of all his senses, wary of his thoughts. He will divest himself of passion and become free. He will be delivered from selfishness and attain the blessed state of Nirvāna.” 23
And the Jatilas rejoiced and took refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha. 24
XX.
THE SERMON AT RĀJAGAHA.
And the Blessed One having dwelt some time in Uruvelā went forth to Rājagaha, accompanied by a great number of bhikkhus, many of whom had been Jatilas before; and the great Kassapa, chief of the Jatilas and formerly a fireworshipper, went with him. 1
When the Magadha king, Seniya Bimbisāra, heard of the arrival of Gotama Sakyamuni, of whom the people said, “He is the Holy One, the blessed Buddha, guiding men as a driver curbs bullocks, the teacher of high and low,” he went out surrounded with his counsellors and generals and came to the grove where the Blessed One was. 2
There they saw the Blessed One in the company of Kassapa, the great religious teacher of the Jatilas, and they were astonished and thought: “Has the great Sakyamuni placed himself under the spiritual direction of Kassapa, or has Kassapa become a disciple of Gotama?” 3
And the Tathāgata, reading the thoughts of the people, said to Kassapa: “What knowledge hast thou gained, O Kassapa, and what has induced thee to renounce the sacred fire and give up thine austere penances?” 4
Kassapa said: “The profit I derived from adoring the fire was continuance in the wheel of individuality with all its sorrows and vanities. This service I have cast away, and instead of continuing penances and sacrifices I have gone in quest of the highest Nirvāna. Since I have seen the light of truth, I have abandoned worshipping the fire.” 5
The Buddha, perceiving that the whole assembly was ready as a vessel to receive the doctrine, spoke thus to Bimbisāra the king: 6
“He who knows the nature of self and understands how the senses act, finds no room for selfishness, and thus he will attain peace unending. The world holds the thought of self, and from this arises false apprehension. 7
“Some say that the self endures after death, some say it perishes. Both are wrong and their error is most grievous. 8
“For if they say the self is perishable, the fruit they strive for will perish too, and at some time there will be no hereafter. Good and evil would be indifferent. This salvation from selfishness is without merit. 9
“When some, on the other hand, say the self will not perish, then in the midst of all life and death there is but one identity unborn and undying. If such is their self, then it is perfect and cannot be perfected by deeds. The lasting, imperishable self could never be changed. The self would be lord and master, and there would be no use in perfecting the perfect; moral aims and salvation would be unnecessary. 10
“But now we see the marks of joy and sorrow. Where is any constancy? If there is no permanent self that does our deeds, then there is no self; there is no actor behind our actions, no perceiver behind our perception, no lord behind our deeds. 11
“Now attend and listen: The senses meet the object and from their contact sensation is born. Thence results recollection. Thus, as the sun’s power through a burning-glass causes fire to appear, so through the cognizance born of sense and object, the mind originates and with it the ego, the thought of self, whom some Brahman teachers call the lord. The shoot springs from the seed; the seed is not the shoot; both are not one and the same, but successive phases in a continuous growth. Such is the birth of animated life. 12
“Ye that are slaves of the self and toil in its service from morn until night, ye that live in constant fear of birth, old age, sickness, and death, receive the good tidings that your cruel master exists not. 13
“Self is an error, an illusion, a dream. Open your eyes and awaken. See things as they are and ye will be comforted. 14
“He who is awake will no longer be afraid of nightmares. He who has recognized the nature of the rope that seemed to be a serpent will cease to tremble. 15
“He who has found there is no self will let go all the lusts and desires of egotism. 16
“The cleaving to things, covetousness, and sensuality inherited from former existences, are the causes of the misery and vanity in the world. 17
“Surrender the grasping disposition of selfishness, and you will attain to that calm state of mind which conveys perfect peace, goodness, and wisdom.” 18
And the Buddha breathed forth this solemn utterance: 19
- “Do not deceive, do not despise
- Each other, anywhere.
- Do not be angry, nor should ye
- Secret resentment bear;
- For as a mother risks her life
- And watches o’er her child,
- So boundless be your love to all,
- So tender, kind and mild. 20
- “Yea, cherish good-will right and left,
- All round, early and late,
- And without hindrance, without stint,
- From envy free and hate,
- While standing, walking, sitting down,
- Whate’er you have in mind,
- The rule of life that’s always best
- Is to be loving-kind. 21
“Gifts are great, the founding of vihāras is meritorious, meditations and religious exercises pacify the heart, comprehension of the truth leads to Nirvāna, but greater than all is lovingkindness. As the light of the moon is sixteen times stronger than the light of all the stars, so lovingkindness is sixteen times more efficacious in liberating the heart than all other religious accomplishments taken together. 22
“This state of heart is the best in the world. Let a man remain steadfast in it while he is awake, whether he is standing, walking, sitting, or lying down.” 23
When the Enlightened One had finished his sermon, the Magadha king said to the Blessed One: 24
“In former days, Lord, when I was a prince, I cherished five wishes. I wished: O, that I might be inaugurated as a king. This was my first wish, and it has been fulfilled. Further, I wished: Might the Holy Buddha, the Perfect One, appear on earth while I rule and might he come to my kingdom. This was my second wish and it is fulfilled now. Further I wished: Might I pay my respects to him. This was my third wish and it is fulfilled now. The fourth wish was: Might the Blessed One preach the doctrine to me, and this is fulfilled now. The greatest wish, however, was the fifth wish: Might I understand the doctrine of the Blessed One. And this wish is fulfilled too. 25
“Glorious Lord! Most glorious is the truth preached by the Tathāgata! Our Lord, the Buddha, sets up what has been overturned; he reveals what has been hidden; he points out the way to the wanderer who has gone astray; he lights a lamp in the darkness so that those who have eyes to see may see. 26
“I take my refuge in the Buddha. I take my refuge in the Dharma. I take my refuge in the Sangha.” 27
The Tathāgata, by the exercise of his virtue and by wisdom, showed his unlimited spiritual power. He subdued and harmonized all minds. He made them see and accept the truth, and throughout the kingdom the seeds of virtue were sown. 28
XXI.
THE KING’S GIFT.
The king, having taken his refuge in the Buddha, invited the Tathāgata to his palace, saying: “Will the Blessed One consent to take his meal with me to-morrow together with the fraternity of bhikkhus?” 1
The next morning Seniya Bimbisāra, the king, announced to the Blessed One that it was time for taking food: “Thou art my most welcome guest, O Lord of the world, come; the meal is prepared.” 2
And the Blessed One having donned his robes, took his alms-bowl and, together with a great number of bhikkhus, entered the city of Rājagaha. 3
Sakka, the king of the Devas, assuming the appearance of a young Brahman, walked in front, and said: 4
“He who teaches self-control with those who have learned self-control; the redeemer with those whom he has redeemed; the Blessed One with those to whom he has given peace, is entering Rājagaha! Hail to the Buddha, our Lord! Honor to his name and blessings to all who take refuge in him.” And Sakka intoned this stanza: 5
- “So blest is an age in which Buddhas arise,
- So blest is the truth’s proclamation.
- So blest is the Sangha, concordant and wise,
- So blest a devout congregation! 6
- “And if by all the truth were known,
- More seeds of kindness would be sown,
- And richer crops of good deeds grown.” 7
When the Blessed One had finished his meal, and had cleansed his bowl and his hands, the king sat down near him and thought: 8
“Where may I find a place for the Blessed One to live in, not too far from the town and not too near, suitable for going and coming, easily accessible to all people who want to see him, a place that is by day not too crowded and by night not exposed to noise, wholesome and well fitted for a retired life? There is my pleasure-garden, the bamboo grove Veluvana, fulfilling all these conditions. I shall offer it to the brotherhood whose head is the Buddha.” 9
The king dedicated his garden to the brotherhood, saying: “May the Blessed One accept my gift.” 10
Then the Blessed One, having silently shown his consent and having gladdened and edified the Magadha king by religious discourse, rose from his seat and went away. 11
XXII.
SĀRIPUTTA AND MOGGALLĀNA.
At that time Sāriputta and Moggallāna, two Brahmans and chiefs of the followers of Sañjaya, led a religious life. They had promised each other: “He who first attains Nirvāna shall tell the other one.” 1
Sāriputta seeing the venerable Assaji begging for alms, modestly keeping his eyes to the ground and dignified in deportment, exclaimed: “Truly this samana has entered the right path; I will ask him in whose name he has retired from the world and what doctrine he professes.” Being addressed by Sāriputta, Assaji replied: “I am a follower of the Buddha, the Blessed One, but being a novice I can tell you the substance only of the doctrine.” 2
Said Sāriputta: “Tell me, venerable monk, it is the substance I want.” And Assaji recited the stanza: 3
- “The Buddha did the cause unfold
- Of all the things that spring from causes.
- And further the great sage has told
- How finally all passion pauses.” 4
Having heard this stanza, Sāriputta obtained the pure and spotless eye of truth and said: “Now I see clearly, whatsoever is subject to origination is also subject to cessation. If this be the doctrine I have reached the state to enter Nirvāna which heretofore has remained hidden from me.” 5
Sāriputta went to Moggallāna and told him, and both said: “We will go to the Blessed One, that he, the Blessed One, may be our teacher.” 6
When the Buddha saw Sāriputta and Moggallāna coming from afar, he said to his disciples, “These two monks are highly auspicious.” 7
When the two friends had taken refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma and the Sangha, the Holy One said to his other disciples: “Sāriputta, like the first-born son of a world-ruling monarch, is well able to assist the king as his chief follower to set the wheel of the law rolling.” 8
And the people were annoyed. Seeing that many distinguished young men of the kingdom of Magadha led a religious life under the direction of the Blessed One, they became angry and murmured: “Gotama Sakyamuni induces fathers to leave their wives and causes families to become extinct.” 9
When they saw the bhikkhus, they reviled them, saying: “The great Sakyamuni has come to Rājagaha subduing the minds of men. Who will be the next to be led astray by him?” 10
The bhikkhus told it to the Blessed One, and the Blessed One said: “This murmuring, O bhikkhus, will not last long. It will last seven days. If they revile you, O bhikkhus, answer them with these words: 11
“ ‘It is by preaching the truth that Tathāgatas lead men. Who will murmur at the wise? Who will blame the virtuous? Who will condemn self-control, righteousness, and kindness?’ ” 12
And the Blessed One proclaimed this verse:
- “Commit no wrong but good deeds do
- And let thy heart be pure.
- All Buddhas teach this doctrine true
- Which will for aye endure.” 13
XXIII.
ANĀTHAPINDIKA.
At this time there was Anāthapindika, a man of unmeasured wealth, visiting Rājagaha. Being of a charitable disposition, he was called “the supporter of orphans and the friend of the poor.” 1
Hearing that the Buddha had come into the world and was stopping in the bamboo grove near the city, he set out in the very night to meet the Blessed One. 2
And the Blessed One saw at once the sterling quality of Anāthapindika’s heart and greeted him with words of religious comfort. And they sat down together, and Anāthapindika listened to the sweetness of the truth preached by the Blessed One. And the Buddha said: 3
“The restless, busy nature of the world, this, I declare, is at the root of pain. Attain that composure of mind which is resting in the peace of immortality. Self is but a heap of composite qualities, and its world is empty like a fantasy. 4
“Who is it that shapes our lives? Is it Īśvara, a personal creator? If Īśvara be the maker, all living things should have silently to submit to their maker’s power. They would be like vessels formed by the potter’s hand; and if it were so, how would it be possible to practise virtue? If the world had been made by Īśvara there should be no such thing as sorrow, or calamity, or evil; for both pure and impure deeds must come from him. If not, there would be another cause beside him, and he would not be self-existent. Thus, thou seest, the thought of Īśvara is overthrown. 5
“Again, it is said that the Absolute has created us. But that which is absolute cannot be a cause. All things around us come from a cause as the plant comes from the seed; but how can the Absolute be the cause of all things alike? If it pervades them, then, certainly, it does not make them. 6
“Again, it is said that Self is the maker. But if self is the maker, why did it not make things pleasing? The causes of sorrow and joy are real and objective. How can they have been made by self? 7
“Again, if we adopt the argument that there is no maker, our fate is such as it is, and there is no causation, what use would there be in shaping our lives and adjusting means to an end? 8
“Therefore, we argue that all things that exist are not without cause. However, neither Īśvara, nor the absolute, nor the self, nor causeless chance, is the maker, but our deeds produce results both good and evil according to the law of causation. 9
“Let us, then, abandon the heresy of worshipping Īśvara and of praying to him; let us no longer lose ourselves in vain speculations of profitless subtleties; let us surrender self and all selfishness, and as all things are fixed by causation, let us practise good so that good may result from our actions.” 10
And Anāthapindika said: “I see that thou art the Buddha, the Blessed One, the Tathāgata, and I wish to open to thee my whole mind. Having listened to my words advise me what I shall do. 11
“My life is full of work, and having acquired great wealth, I am surrounded with cares. Yet I enjoy my work, and apply myself to it with all diligence. Many people are in my employ and depend upon the success of my enterprises. 12
“Now, I have heard thy disciples praise the bliss of the hermit and denounce the unrest of the world. ‘The Holy One,’ they say, ‘has given up his kingdom and his inheritance, and has found the path of righteousness, thus setting an example to all the world how to attain Nirvāna.’ 13
“My heart yearns to do what is right and to be a blessing unto my fellows. Let me then ask thee, Must I give up my wealth, my home, and my business enterprises, and, like thyself, go into homelessness in order to attain the bliss of a religious life?” 14
And the Buddha replied: “The bliss of a religious life is attainable by every one who walks in the noble eightfold path. He that cleaves to wealth had better cast it away than allow his heart to be poisoned by it; but he who does not cleave to wealth, and possessing riches, uses them rightly, will be a blessing unto his fellows. 15
“It is not life and wealth and power that enslave men, but the cleaving to life and wealth and power. 16
“The bhikkhu who retires from the world in order to lead a life of leisure will have no gain, for a life of indolence is an abomination, and lack of energy is to be despised. 17
“The Dharma of the Tathāgata does not require a man to go into homelessness or to resign the world, unless he feels called upon to do so; but the Dharma of the Tathāgata requires every man to free himself from the illusion of self, to cleanse his heart, to give up his thirst for pleasure and lead a life of righteousness. 18
“And whatever men do, whether they remain in the world as artisans, merchants, and officers of the king, or retire from the world and devote themselves to a life of religious meditation, let them put their whole heart into their task; let them be diligent and energetic, and, if they are like the lotus, which, although it grows in the water, yet remains untouched by the water, if they struggle in life without cherishing envy or hatred, if they live in the world not a life of self but a life of truth, then surely joy, peace, and bliss will dwell in their minds.” 19
XXIV.
THE SERMON ON CHARITY.
Anāthapindika rejoiced at the words of the Blessed One and said: “I dwell at Sāvatthi, the capital of Kosala, a land rich in produce and enjoying peace. Pasenadi is the king of the country, and his name is renowned among our own people and our neighbors. Now I wish to found there a vihāra which shall be a place of religious devotion for your brotherhood, and I pray you kindly to accept it.” 1
The Buddha saw into the heart of the supporter of orphans; and knowing that unselfish charity was the moving cause of his offer, in acceptance of the gift, the Blessed One said: 2
“The charitable man is loved by all; his friendship is prized highly; in death his heart is at rest and full of joy, for he suffers not from repentance; he receives the opening flower of his reward and the fruit that ripens from it. 3
“Hard it is to understand: By giving away our food, we get more strength, by bestowing clothing on others, we gain more beauty; by donating abodes of purity and truth, we acquire great treasures. 4
“There is a proper time and a proper mode in charity just as the vigorous warrior goes to battle, so is the man; who is able to give. He is like an able warrior, a champion strong and wise in action. 5
“Loving and compassionate he gives with reverence and banishes all hatred, envy, and anger. 6
“The charitable man has found the path of salvation. He is like the man who plants a sapling, securing thereby the shade, the flowers, and the fruit in future years. Even so is the result of charity, even so is the joy of him who helps those that are in need of assistance; even so is the great Nirvāna. 7
“We reach the immortal path only by continuous acts of kindliness and we perfect our souls by compassion and charity.” 8
Anāthapindika invited Sāriputta to accompany him on his return to Kosala and help him in selecting a pleasant site for the vihāra. 9
XXV.
JETAVANA.
Anāthapindika, the friend of the destitute and the supporter of orphans, having returned home, saw the garden of the heir-apparent, Jeta, with its green groves and limpid rivulets, and thought: “This is the place which will be most suitable as a vihāra for the brotherhood of the Blessed One.” And he went to the prince and asked leave to buy the ground. 1
The prince was not inclined to sell the garden, for he valued it highly. He at first refused but said at last, “If thou canst cover it with gold, then, and for no other price, shalt thou have it.” 2
Anāthapindika rejoiced and began to spread his gold; but Jeta said: “Spare thyself the trouble, for I will not sell.” But Anāthapindika insisted. Thus they contended until they resorted to the magistrate. 3
Meanwhile the people began to talk of the unwonted proceeding, and the prince, hearing more of the details and knowing that Anāthapindika was not only very wealthy but also straightforward and sincere, inquired into his plans. On hearing the name of the Buddha, the prince became anxious to share in the foundation and he accepted only one-half of the gold, saying: “Yours is the land, but mine are the trees. I will give the trees as my share of this offering to the Buddha.” 4
Then Anāthapindika took the land and Jeta the trees, and they placed them in trust of Sāriputta for the Buddha. 5
After the foundations were laid, they began to build the hall which rose loftily in due proportions according to the directions which the Buddha had suggested; and it was beautifully decorated with appropriate carvings. 6
This vihāra was called Jetavana, and the friend of the orphans invited the Lord to come to Sāvatthi and receive the donation. And the Blessed One left Kapilavatthu and came to Sāvatthi. 7
While the Blessed One was entering Jetavana, Anāthapindika scattered flowers and burned incense, and as a sign of the gift he poured water from a golden dragon decanter, saying, “This Jetavana vihāra I give for the use of the brotherhood throughout the world.” 8
The Blessed One received the gift and replied: “May all evil influences be overcome; may the offering promote the kingdom of righteousness and be a permanent blessing to mankind in general, to the land of Kosala, and especially also to the giver.” 9
Then the king Pasenadi, hearing that the Lord had come, went in his royal equipage to the Jetavana vihāra and saluted the Blessed One with clasped hands, saying: 10
“Blessed is my unworthy and obscure kingdom that it has met with so great a fortune. For how can calamities and dangers befall it in the presence of the Lord of the world, the Dharmarāja, the King of Truth. 11
“Now that I have seen thy sacred countenance, let me partake of the refreshing waters of thy teachings. 12
“Worldly profit is fleeting and perishable, but religious profit is eternal and inexhaustible. A worldly man, though a king, is full of trouble, but even a common man who is holy has peace of mind.” 13
Knowing the tendency of the king’s heart, weighed down by avarice and love of pleasure, the Buddha seized the opportunity and said: 14
“Even those who, by their evil karma, have been born in low degree, when they see a virtuous man, feel reverence for him. How much more must an independent king, on account of merits acquired in previous existences, when meeting a Buddha, conceive reverence for him. 15
“And now as I briefly expound the law, let the Mahārāja listen and weigh my words, and hold fast that which I deliver! 16
“Our good or evil deeds follow us continually like shadows. 17
“That which is most needed is a loving heart! 18
“Regard thy people as men do an only son. Do not oppress them, do not destroy them; keep in due check every member of thy body, forsake unrighteous doctrine and walk in the straight path. Exalt not thyself by trampling down others, but comfort and befriend the suffering. 19
“Neither ponder on kingly dignity, nor listen to the smooth words of flatterers. 20
“There is no profit in vexing oneself by austerities, but meditate on the Buddha and weigh his righteous law. 21
“We are encompassed on all sides by the rocks of birth, old age, disease, and death, and only by considering and practising the true law can we escape from this sorrow-piled mountain. 22
“What profit, then, in practising iniquity? 23
“All who are wise spurn the pleasures of the body. They loathe lust and seek to promote their spiritual existence. 24
“When a tree is burning with fierce flames, how can the birds congregate therein? Truth cannot dwell where passion lives. He who does not know this, though he be a learned man and be praised by others as a sage, is beclouded with ignorance. 25
“To him who has this knowledge true wisdom dawns, and he will beware of hankering after pleasure. To acquire this state of mind, wisdom is the one thing needful. To neglect wisdom will lead to failure in life. 26
“The teachings of all religions should center here, for without wisdom there is no reason. 27
“This truth is not for the hermit alone; it concerns every human being, priest and layman alike. There is no distinction between the monk who has taken the vows, and the man of the world living with his family. There are hermits who fall into perdition, and there are humble householders who mount to the rank of rishis. 28
“Hankering after pleasure is a danger common to all; it carries away the world. He who is involved in its eddies finds no escape. But wisdom is the handy boat, reflection is the rudder. The slogan of religion calls you to overcome the assaults of Māra, the enemy. 29
“Since it is impossible to escape the result of our deeds, let us practise good works. 30
“Let us guard our thoughts that we do no evil, for as we sow so shall we reap. 31
“There are ways from light into darkness and from darkness into light. There are ways, also, from the gloom into deeper darkness, and from the dawn into brighter light. The wise man will use the light he has to receive more light. He will constantly advance in the knowledge of truth. 32
“Exhibit true superiority by virtuous conduct and the exercise of reason; meditate deeply on the vanity of earthly things, and understand the fickleness of life. 33
“Elevate the mind, and seek sincere faith with firm purpose; transgress not the rules of kingly conduct, and let your happiness depend, not upon external things, but upon your own mind. Thus you will lay up a good name for distant ages and will secure the favor of the Tathāgata.” 34
The king listened with reverence and remembered all the words of the Buddha in his heart. 35
XXVI.
THE THREE CHARACTERISTICS AND THE UNCREATE.
When the Buddha was staying at the Veluvana, the bamboo grove at Rājagaha, he addressed the brethren thus: 1
“Whether Buddhas arise, O priests, or whether Buddhas do not arise, it remains a fact and the fixed and necessary constitution of being that all conformations are transitory. This fact a Buddha discovers and masters, and when he has discovered and mastered it, he announces, teaches, publishes, proclaims, discloses, minutely explains and makes it clear that all conformations are transitory. 2
“Whether Buddhas arise, O priests, or whether Buddhas do not arise, it remains a fact and a fixed and necessary constitution of being, that all conformations are suffering. This fact a Buddha discovers and masters, and when he has discovered and mastered it, he announces, publishes, proclaims, discloses, minutely explains and makes it clear that all conformations are suffering. 3
“Whether Buddhas arise, O priests, or whether Buddhas do not arise, it remains a fact and a fixed and necessary constitution of being, that all conformations are lacking a self. This fact a Buddha discovers and masters, and when he has discovered and mastered it, he announces, teaches, publishes, proclaims, discloses, minutely explains and makes it clear that all conformations are lacking a self.” 4
And on another occasion the Blessed One dwelt at Sāvatthī in the Jetavana, the garden of Anāthapindika. 5
At that time the Blessed One edified, aroused, quickened and gladdened the monks with a religious discourse on the subject of Nirvāna. And these monks grasping the meaning, thinking it out, and accepting with their hearts the whole doctrine, listened attentively. But there was one brother who had some doubt left in his heart. He arose and clasping his hands made the request: “May I be permitted to ask a question?” When permission was granted he spoke as follows: 6
“The Buddha teaches that all conformations are transient, that all conformations are subject to sorrow, that all conformations are lacking a self. How then can there be Nirvāna, a state of eternal bliss?” 7
And the Blessed One, in this connection, on that occasion, breathed forth this solemn utterance: 8
“There is, O monks, a state where there is neither earth, nor water, nor heat, nor air; neither infinity of space nor infinity of consciousness, nor nothingness, nor perception nor non-perception; neither this world nor that world, neither sun nor moon. It is the uncreate. 9
“That, O monks, I term neither coming nor going nor standing; neither death nor birth. It is without stability, without change; it is the eternal which never originates and never passes away. There is the end of sorrow. 10
“It is hard to realize the essential, the truth is not easily perceived; desire is mastered by him who knows, and to him who sees aright all things are naught. 11
“There is, O monks, an unborn, unoriginated, uncreated, unformed. Were there not, O monks, this unborn, unoriginated, uncreated, unformed, there would be no escape from the world of the born, originated, created, formed. 12
“Since, O monks, there is an unborn, unoriginated, uncreated, and unformed, therefore is there an escape from the born, originated, created, formed.” 13
XXVII.
THE BUDDHA’S FATHER.
The Buddha’s name became famous over all India and Suddhodana, his father, sent word to him saying: “I am growing old and wish to see my son before I die. Others have had the benefit of his doctrine, but not his father nor his relatives.” 1
And the messenger said: “O world-honored Tathāgata, thy father looks for thy coming as the lily longs for the rising of the sun.” 2
The Blessed One consented to the request of his father and set out on his journey to Kapilavatthu. Soon the tidings spread in the native country of the Buddha: “Prince Siddhattha, who wandered forth from home into homelessness to obtain enlightenment, having attained his purpose, is coming back.” 3
Suddhodana went out with his relatives and ministers to meet the prince. When the king saw Siddhattha, his son, from afar, he was struck with his beauty and dignity, and he rejoiced in his heart, but his mouth found no words to utter. 4
This, indeed, was his son; these were the features of Siddhattha. How near was the great samana to his heart, and yet what a distance lay between them! That noble muni was no longer Siddhattha, his son; he was the Buddha, the Blessed One, the Holy One, Lord of truth, and teacher of mankind. 5
Suddhodana the king, considering the religious dignity of his son, descended from his chariot and after saluting his son said: “It is now seven years since I have seen thee. How I have longed for this moment!” 6
Then the Sakyamuni took a seat opposite his father, and the king gazed eagerly at his son. He longed to call him by his name, but he dared not. “Siddhattha,” he exclaimed silently in his heart, “Siddhattha, come back to thine aged father and be his son again!” But seeing the determination of his son, he suppressed his sentiments, and desolation overcame him. 7
Thus the king sat face to face with his son, rejoicing in his sadness and sad in his rejoicing. Well might he be proud of his son, but his pride broke down at the idea that his great son would never be his heir. 8
“I would offer thee my kingdom,” said the king, “but if I did, thou wouldst account it but as ashes.” 9
And the Buddha said: “I know that the king’s heart is full of love and that for his son’s sake he feels deep grief. But let the ties of love that bind him to the son whom he lost embrace with equal kindness all his fellow-beings, and he will receive in his place a greater one than Siddhattha; he will receive the Buddha, the teacher of truth, the preacher of righteousness, and the peace of Nirvāna will enter into his heart.” 10
Suddhodana trembled with joy when he heard the melodious words of his son, the Buddha, and clasping his hands, exclaimed with tears in his eyes: “Wonderful is this change! The overwhelming sorrow has passed away. At first my sorrowing heart was heavy, but now I reap the fruit of thy great renunciation. It was right that, moved by thy mighty sympathy, thou shouldst reject the pleasures of royal power and achieve thy noble purpose in religious devotion. Now that thou hast found the path, thou canst preach the law of immortality to all the world that yearns for deliverance.” 11
The king returned to the palace, while the Buddha remained in the grove before the city. 12
XXVIII.
YASODHARĀ.
On the next morning the Buddha took his bowl and set out to beg his food. 1
And the news spread abroad: “Prince Siddhattha is going from house to house to receive alms in the city where he used to ride in a chariot attended by his retinue. His robe is like a red clod, and he holds in his hand an earthen bowl.” 2
On hearing the strange rumor, the king went forth in great haste and when he met his son he exclaimed: “Why dost thou thus disgrace me? Knowest thou not that I can easily supply thee and thy bhikkhus with food?” 3
And the Buddha replied: “It is the custom of my race.” 4
But the king said: “How can this be? Thou art descended from kings, and not one of them ever begged for food.” 5
“O great king,” rejoined the Buddha, “thou and thy race may claim descent from kings; my descent is from the Buddhas of old. They, begging their food, lived on alms.” 6
The king made no reply, and the Blessed One continued: “It is customary, O king, when one has found a hidden treasure, for him to make an offering of the most precious jewel to his father. Suffer me, therefore, to open this treasure of mine which is the Dharma, and accept from me this gem:” 7
And the Blessed One recited the following stanza:
- “Rise from dreams and loiter not
- Open to truth thy mind.
- Practise righteousness and thou
- Eternal bliss shalt find.” 8
Then the king conducted the prince into the palace, and the ministers and all the members of the royal family greeted him with great reverence, but Yasodharā, the mother of Rāhula, did not make her appearance. The king sent for Yasodharā, but she replied: “Surely, if I am deserving of any regard, Siddhattha will come and see me.” 9
The Blessed One, having greeted all his relatives and friends, asked: “Where is Yasodharā?” And on being informed that she had refused to come, he rose straightway and went to her appartments. 10
“I am free,” the Blessed One said to his disciples, Sāriputta and Moggallāna, whom he had bidden to accompany him to the princess’s chamber; “the princess, however, is not as yet free. Not having seen me for a long time, she is exceedingly sorrowful. Unless her grief be allowed its course her heart will cleave. Should she touch the Tathāgata, the Holy One, ye must not prevent her.” 11
Yasodharā sat in her room, dressed in mean garments, and her hair cut. When Prince Siddhattha entered, she was, from the abundance of her affection, like an overflowing vessel, unable to contain her love. 12
Forgetting that the man whom she loved was the Buddha, the Lord of the world, the preacher of truth, she held him by his feet and wept bitterly. 13
Remembering, however, that Suddhodana was present, she felt ashamed, and rising, seated herself reverently at a little distance. 14
The king apologized for the princess, saying: “This arises from her deep affection, and is more than a temporary emotion. During the seven years that she has lost her husband, when she heard that Siddhattha had shaved his head, she did likewise; when she heard that he had left off the use of perfumes and ornaments, she also refused their use. Like her husband she had eaten at appointed times from an earthen bowl only. Like him she had renounced high beds with splendid coverings, and when other princes asked her in marriage, she replied that she was still his. Therefore, grant her forgiveness.” 15
And the Blessed One spoke kindly to Yasodharā, telling of her great merits inherited from former lives. She had indeed been again and again of great assistance to him. Her purity, her gentleness, her devotion had been invaluable to the Bodhisatta when he aspired to attain enlightenment, the highest aim of mankind. And so holy had she been that she desired to become the wife of a Buddha. This, then, is her karma, and it is the result of great merits. Her grief has been unspeakable, but the consciousness of the glory that surrounds her spiritual inheritance increased by her noble attitude during her life, will be a balm that will miraculously transform all sorrows into heavenly joy. 16
XXIX.
RĀHULA.
Many people in Kapilavatthu believed in the Tathāgata and took refuge in his doctrine, among them Nanda, Siddhattha’s halfbrother, the son of Pajāpatī; Devadatta, his cousin and brother-in-law; Upāli the barber; and Anuruddha the philosopher. Some years later Ānanda, another cousin of the Blessed One, also joined the Sangha. 1
Ānanda was a man after the heart of the Blessed One; he was his most beloved disciple, profound in comprehension and gentle in spirit. And Ānanda remained always near the Blessed Master of truth, until death parted them. 2
On the seventh day after the Buddha’s arrival in Kapilavatthu, Yasodharā dressed Rāhula, now seven years old, in all the splendor of a prince and said to him: 3
“This holy man, whose appearance is so glorious that he looks like the great Brahmā, is thy father. He possesses four great mines of wealth which I have not yet seen. Go to him and entreat him to put thee in possession of them, for the son ought to inherit the property of his father.” 4
Rāhula replied: “I know of no father but the king. Who is my father?” 5
The princess took the boy in her arms and from the window she pointed out to him the Buddha, who happened to be near the palace, partaking of food. 6
Rāhula then went to the Buddha, and looking up into his face said without fear and with much affection: “My father!” 7
And standing near by him, he added: “O samana, even thy shadow is a place of bliss!” 8
When the Tathāgata had finished his repast, he gave blessings and went away from the palace, but Rāhula followed and asked his father for his inheritance. 9
No one prevented the boy, nor did the Blessed One himself. 10
Then the Blessed One turned to Sāriputta, saying: “My son asks for his inheritance. I cannot give him perishable treasures that will bring cares and sorrows, but I can give him the inheritance of a holy life, which is a treasure that will not perish.” 11
Addressing Rāhula with earnestness, the Blessed One said: “Gold and silver and jewels are not in my possession. But if thou art willing to receive spiritual treasures, and art strong enough to carry them and to keep them, I shall give thee the four truths which will teach thee the eightfold path of righteousness. Dost thou desire to be admitted to the brotherhood of those who devote their life to the culture of the heart seeking for the highest bliss attainable?” 12
And Rāhula replied with firmness: “I do. I want to join the brotherhood of the Buddha.” 13
When the king heard that Rāhula had joined the brotherhood of bhikkhus he was grieved. He had lost Siddhattha and Nanda, his sons, and Devadatta, his nephew. But now that his grandson had been taken from him, he went to the Blessed One and spoke to him. And the Blessed One promised that from that time forward he would not ordain any minor without the consent of his parents or guardians. 14
CONSOLIDATION OF THE BUDDHA’S RELIGION.
XXX.
JĪVAKA, THE PHYSICIAN.
LONG before the Blessed One had attained enlightenment, self-mortification had been the custom among those who earnestly sought for salvation. Deliverance of the soul from all the necessities of life and finally from the body itself, they regarded as the aim of religion. Thus, they avoided everything that might be a luxury in food, shelter, and clothing, and lived like the beasts in the woods. Some went naked, while others wore the rags cast away upon cemeteries or dungheaps. 1
When the Blessed One retired from the world, he recognized at once the error of the naked ascetics, and, considering the indecency of their habit, clad himself in cast-off rags. 2
Having attained enlightenment and rejected all unnecessary self-mortifications, the Blessed One and his bhikkhus continued for a long time to wear the cast-off rags of cemeteries and dung-heaps. 3
Then it happened that the bhikkhus were visited with diseases of all kinds, and the Blessed One permitted and explicitly ordered the use of medicines, and among them he even enjoined, whenever needed, the use of unguents. 4
One of the brethren suffered from a sore on his foot, and the Blessed One enjoined the bhikkhus to wear foot-coverings. 5
Now it happened that a disease befell the body of the Blessed One himself, and Ānanda went to Jīvaka, physician to Bimbisāra, the king. 6
And Jīvaka, a faithful believer in the Holy One, ministered unto the Blessed One with medicines and baths until the body of the Blessed One was completely restored. 7
At that time, Pajjota, king of Ujjenī, was suffering from jaundice, and Jīvaka, the physician to king Bimbisâra, was consulted. When king Pajjota had been restored to health, he sent to Jīvaka a suit of the most excellent cloth. And Jīvaka said to himself: “This suit is made of the best cloth, and nobody is worthy to receive it but the Blessed One, the perfect and holy Buddha, or the Magadha king, Senija Bimbisāra.” 8
Then Jīvaka took that suit and went to the place where the Blessed One was; having approached him, and having respectfully saluted the Blessed One, he sat down near him and said: “Lord, I have a boon to ask of the Blessed One.” 9
The Buddha replied: “The Tathāgatas, Jīvaka, do not grant boons before they know what they are.” 10
Jīvaka said: “Lord, it is a proper and unobjectionable request.” 11
“Speak, Jīvaka,” said the Blessed One. 12
“Lord of the world, the Blessed One wears only robes made of rags taken from a dung-heap or a cemetery, and so also does the brotherhood of bhikkhus. Now, Lord, this suit has been sent to me by King Pajjota, which is the best and most excellent, and the finest and the most precious, and the noblest that can be found. Lord of the world, may the Blessed One accept from me this suit, and may he allow the brotherhood of bhikkhus to wear lay robes.” 13
The Blessed One accepted the suit, and after having delivered a religious discourse, he addressed the bhikkhus thus: 14
“Henceforth ye shall be at liberty to wear either cast-off rags or lay robes. Whether ye are pleased with the one or with the other, I will approve of it.” 15
When the people at Rājagaha heard, “The Blessed One has allowed the bhikkhus to wear lay robes,” those who were willing to bestow gifts became glad. And in one day many thousands of robes were presented at Rājagaha to the bhikkhus. 16
XXXI.
THE BUDDHA’S PARENTS ATTAIN NIRVĀNA.
When Suddhodana had grown old, he fell sick and sent for his son to come and see him once more before he died; and the Blessed One came and stayed at the sick-bed, and Suddhodana, having attained perfect enlightenment, died in the arms of the Blessed One. 1
And it is said that the Blessed One, for the sake of preaching to his mother Māyā-devī, ascended to heaven and dwelt with the devas. Having concluded his pious mission, he returned to the earth and went about again, converting those who listened to his teachings. 2
XXXII.
WOMEN ADMITTED TO THE SANGHA.
Yasodharā had three times requested of the Buddha that she might be admitted to the Sangha, but her wish had not been granted. Now Pajāpatī, the foster-mother of the Blessed One, in the company of Yasodharā, and many other women, went to the Tathāgata entreating him earnestly to let them take the vows and be ordained as disciples. 1
And the Blessed One, foreseeing the danger that lurked in admitting women to the Sangha, protested that while the good religion ought surely to last a thousand years it would, when women joined it, likely decay after five hundred years; but observing the zeal of Pajāpatī and Yasodharā for leading a religious life he could no longer resist and assented to have them admitted as his disciples. 2
Then the venerable Ānanda addressed the Blessed One thus: 3
“Are women competent, Venerable Lord, if they retire from household life to the homeless state, under the doctrine and discipline announced by the Tathāgata, to attain to the fruit of conversion, to attain to a release from a wearisome repetition of rebirths, to attain to saintship?” 4
And the Blessed One declared: “Women are competent, Ānanda, if they retire from household life to the homeless state, under the doctrine and discipline announced by the Tathāgata, to attain to the fruit of conversion, to attain to a release from a wearisome repetition of rebirths, to attain to saintship. 5
“Consider, Ānanda, how great a benefactress Pajāpatī has been. She is the sister of the mother of the Blessed One, and as foster-mother and nurse, reared the Blessed One after the death of his mother. So, Ānanda, women may retire from household life to the homeless state, under the doctrine and discipline announced by the Tathāgata.” 6
Pajāpatī was the first woman to become a disciple of the Buddha and to receive the ordination as a bhikkhunī. 7
XXXIII.
THE BHIKKHUS’ CONDUCT TOWARD WOMEN.
The bhikkhus came to the Blessed One and asked him: 1
“O Tathāgata, our Lord and Master, what conduct toward women dost thou prescribe to the samanas who have left the world?” 2
And the Blessed One said: 3
“Guard against looking on a woman. 4
“If ye see a woman, let it be as though ye saw her not, and have no conversation with her. 5
“If, after all, ye must speak with her, let it be with a pure heart, and think to yourself, ‘I as a samana will live in this sinful world as the spotless leaf of the lotus, unsoiled by the mud in which it grows.’ 6
“If the woman be old, regard her as your mother, if young, as your sister, if very young, as your child. 7
“The samana who looks on a woman as a woman, or touches her as a woman, has broken his vow and is no longer a disciple of the Tathāgata. 8
“The power of lust is great with men, and is to be feared withal; take then the bow of earnest perseverance, and the sharp arrow-points of wisdom. 9
“Cover your heads with the helmet of right thought, and fight with fixed resolve against the five desires. 10
“Lust beclouds a man’s heart, when it is confused with woman’s beauty, and the mind is dazed. 11
“Better far with red-hot irons bore out both your eyes, than encourage in yourself sensual thoughts, or look upon a woman’s form with lustful desires. 12
“Better fall into the fierce tiger’s mouth, or under the sharp knife of the executioner, than dwell with a woman and excite in yourself lustful thoughts. 13
“A woman of the world is anxious to exhibit her form and shape, whether walking, standing, sitting, or sleeping. Even when represented as a picture, she desires to captivate with the charms of her beauty, and thus to rob men of their steadfast heart. 14
“How then ought ye to guard yourselves? 15
“By regarding her tears and her smiles as enemies, her stooping form, her hanging arms, and her disentangled hair as toils designed to entrap man’s heart. 16
“Therefore, I say, restrain the heart, give it no unbridled license.” 17
XXXIV.
VISĀKHĀ.
Visākhā, a wealthy woman in Sāvatthī who had many children and grandchildren, had given to the order the Pubbārāma or Eastern Garden, and was the first in Northern Kosala to become a matron of the lay sisters. 1
When the Blessed One stayed at Sāvatthī, Visākhā went up to the place where the Blessed One was, and tendered him an invitation to take his meal at her house, which the Blessed One accepted. 2
And a heavy rain fell during the night and the next morning; and the bhikkhus doffed their robes to keep them dry and let the rain fall upon their bodies. 3
When on the next day the Blessed One had finished his meal, she took her seat at his side and spoke thus: “Eight are the boons, Lord, which I beg of the Blessed One.” 4
Said the Blessed One: “The Tathāgatas, O Visākhā, grant no boons until they know what they are.” 5
Visākhā replied: “Befitting, Lord, and unobjectionable are the boons I ask.” 6
Having received permission to make known her requests, Visākhā said: “I desire, Lord, through all my life long to bestow robes for the rainy season on the Sangha, and food for incoming bhikkhus, and food for outgoing bhikkhus, and food for the sick, and food for those who wait upon the sick, and medicine for the sick, and a constant supply of rice-milk for the Sangha, and bathing robes for the bhikkhunīs, the sisters.” 7
Said the Buddha: “But what circumstance is it, O Visākhā, that thou hast in view in asking these eight boons of the Tathāgata?” 8
And Visākhā replied: 9
“I gave command, Lord, to my maid-servant, saying, ‘Go, and announce to the brotherhood that the meal is ready.’ And the maid went, but when she came to the vihāra, she observed that the bhikkhus had doffed their robes while it was raining, and she thought: ‘These are not bhikkhus, but naked ascetics letting the rain fall on them.’ So she returned to me and reported accordingly, and I had to send her a second time. Impure, Lord, is nakedness, and revolting. It was this circumstance, Lord, that I had in view in desiring to provide the Sangha my life long with special garments for use in the rainy season. 10
“As to my second wish, Lord, an incoming bhikkhu, not being able to take the direct roads, and not knowing the places where food can be procured, comes on his way tired out by seeking for alms. It was this circumstance, Lord, that I had in view in desiring to provide the Sangha my life long with food for incoming bhikkhus. 11
“Thirdly, Lord, an outgoing bhikkhu, while seeking about for alms, may be left behind, or may arrive too late at the place whither he desires to go, and will set out on the road in weariness. 12
“Fourthly, Lord, if a sick bhikkhu does not obtain suitable food, his sickness may increase upon him, and he may die. 13
“Fifthly, Lord, a bhikkhu who is waiting upon the sick will lose his opportunity of going out to seek food for himself. 14
“Sixthly, Lord, if a sick bhikkhu does not obtain suitable medicines, his sickness may increase upon him, and he may die. 15
“Seventhly, Lord, I have heard that the Blessed One has praised rice-milk, because it gives readiness of mind, dispels hunger and thirst; it is wholesome for the healthy as nourishment, and for the sick as a medicine. Therefore I desire to provide the Sangha my life long with a constant supply of rice-milk. 16
“Finally, Lord, the bhikkhunīs are in the habit of bathing in the river Achiravatī with the courtesans, at the same landing-place, and naked. And the courtesans, Lord, ridicule the bhikkhunīs, saying, ‘What is the good, ladies, of your maintaining chastity when you are young? When you are old, maintain chastity then; thus will you obtain both worldly pleasure and religious consolation.’ Impure, Lord, is nakedness for a woman, disgusting, and revolting. 17
“These are the circumstances, Lord, that I had in view.” 18
The Blessed One said: “But what was the advantage you had in view for yourself, O Visākhā, in asking the eight boons of the Tathāgatha?” 19
Visākhā replied: 20
“Bhikkhus who have spent the rainy seasons in various places will come, Lord, to Sāvatthī to visit the Blessed One. And on coming to the Blessed One they will ask, saying: ‘Such and such a bhikkhu, Lord, has died. What, now, is his destiny?’ Then will the Blessed One explain that he has attained the fruits of conversion; that he has attained arahatship or has entered Nirvāna, as the case may be. 21
“And I, going up to them, will ask, ‘Was that brother, Sirs, one of those who had formerly been at Sāvatthī?’ If they reply to me, ‘He has formerly been at Sāvatthī,’ then shall I arrive at the conclusion, ‘For a certainty did that brother enjoy either the robes for the rainy season, or the food for the incoming bhikkhus, or the food for the outgoing bhikkhus, or the food for the sick, or the food for those that wait upon the sick, or the medicine for the sick, or the constant supply of rice-milk.’ 22
“Then will gladness spring up within me; thus gladdened, joy will come to me; and so rejoicing all my mind will be at peace. Being thus at peace I shall experience a blissful feeling of content; and in that bliss my heart will be at rest. That will be to me an exercise of my moral sense, an exercise of my moral powers, an exercise of the seven kinds of wisdom! This, Lord, was the advantage I had in view for myself in asking those eight boons of the Blessed One.” 23
The Blessed One said: “It is well, it is well, Visākhā. Thou hast done well in asking these eight boons of the Tathāgata with such advantages in view. Charity bestowed upon those who are worthy of it is like good seed sown on a good soil that yields an abundance of fruits. But alms given to those who are yet under the tyrannical yoke of the passions are like seed deposited in a bad soil. The passions of the receiver of the alms choke, as it were, the growth of merits.” 24
And the Blessed One gave thanks to Visākhā in these verses: 25
- “O noble woman of an upright life,
- Disciple of the Blessed One, thou givest
- Unstintedly in purity of heart. 26
- “Thou spreadest joy, assuagest pain,
- And verily thy gift will be a blessing
- As well to many others as to thee.” 27
XXXV.
THE UPOSATHA AND PĀTIMOKKHA.
When Seniya Bimbisāra, the king of Magadha, was advanced in years, he retired from the world and led a religious life. He observed that there were Brahmanical sects in Rājagaha keeping sacred certain days, and the people went to their meeting-houses and listened to their sermons. 1
Concerning the need of keeping regular days for retirement from worldly labors and religious instruction, the king went to the Blessed One and said: “The Parivrājaka, who belong to the Titthiya school, prosper and gain adherents because they keep the eighth day and also the fourteenth or fifteenth day of each half-month. Would it not be advisable for the reverend brethren of the Sangha also to assemble on days duly appointed for that purpose?” 2
And the Blessed One commanded the bhikkhus to assemble on the eighth day and also on the fourteenth or fifteenth day of each half-month, and to devote these days to religious exercises. 3
A bhikkhu duly appointed should address the congregation and expound the Dharma. He should exhort the people to walk in the eightfold path of righteousness; he should comfort them in the vicissitudes of life and gladden them with the bliss of the fruit of good deeds. Thus the brethren should keep the Uposatha. 4
Now the bhikkhus, in obedience to the rule laid down by the Blessed One, assembled in the vihāra on the day appointed, and the people went to hear the Dharma, but they were greatly disappointed, for the bhikkhus remained silent and delivered no discourse. 5
When the Blessed One heard of it, he ordered the bhikkhus to recite the Pātimokkha, which is a ceremony of disburdening the conscience; and he commanded them to make confession of their trespasses so as to receive the absolution of the order. 6
A fault, if there be one, should be confessed by the bhikkhu who remembers it and desires to be cleansed. For a fault, when confessed, shall be light on him. 7
And the Blessed One said: “The Pātimokkha must be recited in this way: 8
“Let a competent and venerable bhikkhu make the following proclamation to the Sangha: ‘May the Sangha hear me! To-day is Uposatha, the eighth, or the fourteenth or fifteenth day of the half-month. If the Sangha is ready, let the Sangha hold the Uposatha service and recite the Pātimokkha. I will recite the Pātimokkha.’ 9
“And the bhikkhus shall reply: ‘We hear it well and we concentrate well our minds on it, all of us.’ 10
“Then the officiating bhikkhu shall continue: ‘Let him who has committed an offence, confess it; if there be no offence, let all remain silent; from your being silent I shall understand that the reverend brethren are free from offences. 11
“ ‘As a single person who has been asked a question answers it, so also, if before an assembly like this a question is solemnly proclaimed three times, an answer is expected: if a bhikkhu, after a threefold proclamation, does not confess an existing offence which he remembers, he commits an intentional falsehood. 12
“ ‘Now, reverend brethren, an intentional falsehood has been declared an impediment by the Blessed One. Therefore, if an offence has been committed by a bhikkhu who remembers it and desires to become pure, the offence should be confessed by the bhikkhu; and when it has been confessed, it is treated duly.’ ” 13
XXXVI.
THE SCHISM.
While the Blessed One dwelt at Kosambī, a certain bhikkhu was accused of having committed an offence, and, as he refused to acknowledge it, the brotherhood pronounced against him the sentence of expulsion. 1
Now, that bhikkhu was erudite. He knew the Dharma, had studied the rules of the order, and was wise, learned, intelligent, modest, conscientious, and ready to submit himself to discipline. And he went to his companions and friends among the bhikkhus, saying: “This is no offence, friends; this is no reason for a sentence of expulsion. I am not guilty. The verdict is unconstitutional and invalid. Therefore I consider myself still as a member of the order. May the venerable brethren assist me in maintaining my right.” 2
Those who sided with the expelled brother went to the bhikkhus who had pronounced the sentence, saying: “This is no offence”; while the bhikkhus who had pronounced the sentence replied: “This is an offence.” 3
Thus altercations and quarrels arose, and the Sangha was divided into two parties, reviling and slandering each other. 4
And all these happenings were reported to the Blessed One. 5
Then the Blessed One went to the place where the bhikkhus were who had pronounced the sentence of expulsion, and said to them: “Do not think, O bhikkhus, that you are to pronounce expulsion against a bhikkhu, whatever be the facts of the case, simply by saying: ‘It occurs to us that it is so, and therefore we are pleased to proceed thus against our brother.’ Let those bhikkhus who frivolously pronounce a sentence against a brother who knows the Dharma and the rules of the order, who is learned, wise, intelligent, modest, conscientious, and ready to submit himself to discipline, stand in awe of causing divisions. They must not pronounce a sentence of expulsion against a brother merely because he refuses to see his offence.” 6
Then the Blessed One rose and went to the brethren who sided with the expelled brother and said to them: “Do not think, O bhikkhus, that if you have given offence you need not atone for it, thinking: ‘We are without offence.’ When a bhikkhu has committed an offence, which he considers no offence while the brotherhood consider him guilty, he should think: ‘These brethren know the Dharma and the rules of the order; they are learned, wise, intelligent, modest, conscientious, and ready to submit themselves to discipline; it is impossible that they should on my account act with selfishness or in malice or in delusion or in fear.’ Let him stand in awe of causing divisions, and rather acknowledge his offence on the authority of his brethren.” 7
Both parties continued to keep Uposatha and perform official acts independently of one another; and when their doings were related to the Blessed One, he ruled that the keeping of Uposatha and the performance of official acts were lawful, unobjectionable, and valid for both parties. For he said: “The bhikkhus who side with the expelled brother form a different communion from those who pronounced the sentence. There are venerable brethren in both parties. As they do not agree, let them keep Uposatha and perform official acts separately.” 8
And the Blessed One reprimanded the quarrelsome bhikkhus saying to them: 9
“Loud is the voice which worldlings make; but how can they be blamed when divisions arise also in the Sangha? Hatred is not appeased in those who think: ‘He has reviled me, he has wronged me, he has injured me.’ 10
“For not by hatred is hatred appeased. Hatred is appeased by not-hatred. This is an eternal law. 11
“There are some who do not know the need of self-restraint; if they are quarrelsome we may excuse their behavior. But those who know better, should learn to live in concord. 12
“If a man finds a wise friend who lives righteously and is constant in his character, he may live with him, overcoming all dangers, happy and mindful. 13
“But if he finds not a friend who lives righteously and is constant in his character, let him rather walk alone, like a king who leaves his empire and the cares of government behind him to lead a life of retirement like a lonely elephant in the forest. 14
“With fools there is no companionship. Rather than to live with men who are selfish, vain, quarrelsome, and obstinate let a man walk alone.” 15
And the Blessed One thought to himself: “It is no easy task to instruct these headstrong and infatuate fools.” And he rose from his seat and went away. 16
XXXVII.
THE RE-ESTABLISHMENT OF CONCORD.
Whilst the dispute between the parties was not yet settled, the Blessed One left Kosambī, and wandering from place to place he came at last to Sāvatthī. 1
And in the absence of the Blessed One the quarrels grew worse, so that the lay devotees of Kosambī became annoyed and they said: “These quarrelsome monks are a great nuisance and will bring upon us misfortunes. Worried by their altercations the Blessed One is gone, and has selected another abode for his residence. Let us, therefore, neither salute the bhikkhus nor support them. They are not worthy of wearing yellow robes, and must either propitiate the Blessed One, or return to the world.” 2
And the bhikkhus of Kosambī, when no longer honored and no longer supported by the lay devotees, began to repent and said: “Let us go to the Blessed One and let him settle the question of our disagreement.” 3
And both parties went to Sāvatthī to the Blessed One. And the venerable Sāriputta, having heard of their arrival, addressed the Blessed One and said: “These contentious, disputatious, and quarrelsome bhikkhus of Kosambī, the authors of dissensions, have come to Sāvatthī. How am I to behave, O Lord, toward those bhikkhus.” 4
“Do not reprove them, Sāriputta,” said the Blessed One, “for harsh words do not serve as a remedy and are pleasant to no one. Assign separate dwelling-places to each party and treat them with impartial justice. Listen with patience to both parties. He alone who weighs both sides is called a muni. When both parties have presented their case, let the Sangha come to an agreement and declare the re-establishment of concord.” 5
And Pajāpatī, the matron, asked the Blessed One for advice, and the Blessed One said: “Let both parties enjoy the gifts of lay members, be they robes or food, as they may need, and let no one receive any noticeable preference over any other.” 6
And the venerable Upāli, having approached the Blessed One, asked concerning the re-establishment of peace in the Sangha: “Would it be right, O Lord,” said he, “that the Sangha, to avoid further disputations, should declare the restoration of concord without inquiring into the matter of the quarrel?” 7
And the Blessed One said: 8
“If the Sangha declares the re-establishment of concord without having inquired into the matter, the declaration is neither right nor lawful. 9
“There are two ways of re-establishing concord; one is in the letter, and the other one is in the spirit and in the letter. 10
“If the Sangha declares the re-establishment of concord without having inquired into the matter, the peace is concluded in the letter only. But if the Sangha, having inquired into the matter and having gone to the bottom of it, decides to declare the re-establishment of concord, the peace is concluded in the spirit and also in the letter. 11
“The concord re-established in the spirit and in the letter is alone right and lawful.” 12
And the Blessed One addressed the bhikkhus and told them the story of Prince Dīghāvu, the Long-lived. He said: 13
“In former times, there lived at Benares a powerful king whose name was Brahmadatta of Kāsi; and he went to war against Dīghīti, the Long-suffering, a king of Kosala, for he thought, ‘The kingdom of Kosala is small and Dīghīti will not be able to resist my armies.’ 14
“And Dīghīti, seeing that resistance was impossible against the great host of the king of Kāsi, fled, leaving his little kingdom in the hands of Brahmadatta; and having wandered from place to place, he came at last to Benares, and lived there with his consort in a potter’s dwelling outside the town. 15
“And the queen bore him a son and they called him Dīghāvu. 16
“When Dīghāvu had grown up, the king thought to himself: ‘King Brahmadatta has done us great harm, and he is fearing our revenge; he will seek to kill us. Should he find us he will slay all three of us.’ And he sent his son away, and Dīghāvu having received a good education from his father, applied himself diligently to learn all arts, becoming very skilful and wise. 17
“At that time the barber of king Dīghīti dwelt at Benares, and he saw the king, his former master, and, being of an avaricious nature, betrayed him to King Brahmadatta. 18
“When Brahmadatta, the king of Kāsi, heard that the fugitive king of Kosala and his queen, unknown and in disguise, were living a quiet life in a potter’s dwelling, he ordered them to be bound and executed; and the sheriff to whom the order was given seized king Dīghīti and led him to the place of execution. 19
“While the captive king was being led through the streets of Benares he saw his son who had returned to visit his parents, and, careful not to betray the presence of his son, yet anxious to communicate to him his last advice, he cried: ‘O Dīghāvu, my son! Be not far-sighted, be not near-sighted, for not by hatred is hatred appeased; hatred is appeased by not-hatred only.’ 20
“The king and queen of Kosala were executed, but Dīghāvu their son bought strong wine and made the guards drunk. When the night arrived he laid the bodies of his parents upon a funeral pyre and burned them with all honors and religious rites. 21
“When king Brahmadatta heard of it, he became afraid, for he thought, ‘Dīghāvu, the son of king Dīghīti, is a wise youth and he will take revenge for the death of his parents. If he espies a favorable opportunity, he will assassinate me.’ 22
“Young Dīghāvu went to the forest and wept to his heart’s content. Then he wiped his tears and returned to Benares. Hearing that assistants were wanted in the royal elephants’ stable, he offered his services and was engaged by the master of the elephants. 23
“And it happened that the king heard a sweet voice ringing through the night and singing to the lute a beautiful song that gladdened his heart. And having inquired among his attendants who the singer might be, was told that the master of the elephants had in his service a young man of great accomplishments, and beloved by all his comrades. They said, ‘He is wont to sing to the lute, and he must have been the singer that gladdened the heart of the king.’ 24
“And the king summoned the young man before him and, being much pleased with Dīghāvu, gave him employment in the royal castle. Observing how wisely the youth acted, how modest he was and yet punctilious in the performance of his work, the king very soon gave him a position of trust. 25
“Now it came to pass that the king went hunting and became separated from his retinue, young Dīghāvu alone remaining with him. And the king worn out from the hunt laid his head in the lap of young Dīghāvu and slept. 26
“And Dīghāvu thought: ‘People will forgive great wrongs which they have suffered, but they will never be at ease about the wrongs which they themselves have done. They will persecute their victims to the bitter end. This king Brahmadatta has done us great injury; he robbed us of our kingdom and slew my father and my mother. He is now in my power.’ Thinking thus he unsheathed his sword. 27
“Then Dīghāvu thought of the last words of his father. ‘Be not far-sighted, be not near-sighted. For not by hatred is hatred appeased. Hatred is appeased by not-hatred alone.’ Thinking thus, he put his sword back into the sheath. 28
“The king became restless in his sleep and he awoke, and when the youth asked, ‘Why art thou frightened, O king?’ he replied: ‘My sleep is always restless because I often dream that young Dīghāvu is coming upon me with his sword. While I lay here with my head in thy lap I dreamed the dreadful dream again; and I awoke full of terror and alarm.’ 29
“Then the youth, laying his left hand upon the defenceless king’s head and with his right hand drawing his sword, said: ‘I am Dīghāvu, the son of king Dīghīti, whom thou hast robbed of his kingdom and slain together with his queen, my mother. I know that men overcome the hatred entertained for wrongs which they have suffered much more easily than for the wrongs which they have done, and so I cannot expect that thou wilt take pity on me; but now a chance for revenge has come to me.’ 30
“The king seeing that he was at the mercy of young Dīghāvu raised his hands and said: ‘Grant me my life, my dear Dīghāvu, grant me my life. I shall be forever grateful to thee.’ 31
“And Dīghāvu said without bitterness or ill-will: ‘How can I grant thee thy life, O king, since my life is endangered by thee. I do not mean to take thy life. It is thou, O king, who must grant me my life.’ 32
“And the king said: ‘Well, my dear Dīghāvu, then grant me my life, and I will grant thee thine.’ 33
“Thus, king Brahmadatta of Kāsi and young Dīghāvu granted each other’s life and took each other’s hand and swore an oath not to do any harm to each other. 34
“And king Brahmadatta of Kāsi said to young Dīghāvu: ‘Why did thy father say to thee in the hour of his death: “Be not far-sighted, be not near-sighted, for hatred is not appeased by hatred. Hatred is appeased by not-hatred alone,”—what did thy father mean by that?’ 35
“The youth replied: ‘When my father, O king, in the hour of his death said: “Be not far-sighted,” he meant, Let not thy hatred go far. And when my father said, “Be not nearsighted,” he meant, Be not hasty to fall out with thy friends. And when he said, “For not by hatred is hatred appeased; hatred is appeased by not-hatred,” he meant this: Thou hast killed my father and mother, O king, and if I should deprive thee of thy life, then thy partisans in turn would take away my life; my partisans again would deprive thine of their lives. Thus by hatred, hatred would not be appeased. But now, O king, thou hast granted me my life, and I have granted thee thine; thus by not-hatred hatred has been appeased.’ 36
“Then king Brahmadatta of Kāsi thought: ‘How wise is young Dīghāvu that he understands in its full extent the meaning of what his father spoke concisely.’ And the king gave him back his father’s kingdom and gave him his daughter in marriage.” 37
Having finished the story, the Blessed One said: “Brethren, ye are my lawful sons in the faith, begotten by the words of my mouth. Children ought not to trample under foot the counsel given them by their father; do ye henceforth follow my admonitions.” 38
Then the bhikkhus met in conference; they discussed their differences in mutual good will, and the concord of the Sangha was re-established. 39
XXXVIII.
THE BHIKKHUS REBUKED.
And it happened that the Blessed One walked up and down in the open air unshod. 1
When the elders saw that the Blessed One walked unshod, they put away their shoes and did likewise. But the novices did not heed the example of their elders and kept their feet covered. 2
Some of the brethren noticed the irreverent behavior of the novices and told the Blessed One; and the Blessed One rebuked the novices and said: “If the brethren, even now, while I am yet living, show so little respect and courtesy to one another, what will they do when I have passed away?” 3
And the Blessed One was filled with anxiety for the welfare of the truth; and he continued: 4
“Even the laymen, O bhikkhus, who move in the world, pursuing some handicraft that they may procure them a living, will be respectful, affectionate, and hospitable to their teachers. Do ye, therefore, O bhikkhus, so let your light shine forth, that ye, having left the world and devoted your entire life to religion and to religious discipline, may observe the rules of decency, be respectful, affectionate, and hospitable to your teachers and superiors, or those who rank as your teachers and superiors. Your demeanor, O bhikkhus, does not conduce to the conversion of the unconverted and to the increase of the number of the faithful. It serves, O bhikkhus, to repel the unconverted and to estrange them. I exhort you to be more considerate in the future, more thoughtful and more respectful” 5
XXXIX.
DEVADATTA.
When Devadatta, the son of Suprabuddha and a brother of Yasodharā, became a disciple, he cherished the hope of attaining the same distinctions and honors as Gotama Siddhattha. Being disappointed in his ambitions, he conceived in his heart a jealous hatred, and, attempting to excel the Perfect One in virtue, he found fault with his regulations and reproved them as too lenient. 1
Devadatta went to Rājagaha and gained the ear of Ajātasattu, the son of King Bimbisāra. And Ajātasattu built a new vihāra for Devadatta, and founded a sect whose disciples were pledged to severe rules and self-mortification. 2
Soon afterwards the Blessed One himself came to Rājagaha and stayed at the Veluvana vihāra. 3
Devadatta called on the Blessed One, requesting him to sanction his rules of greater stringency, by which a greater holiness might be procured. “The body,” he said, “consists of its thirty-two parts and has no divine attributes. It is conceived in sin and born in corruption. Its attributes are liability to pain and dissolution, for it is impermanent. It is the receptacle of karma which is the curse of our former existences; it is the dwelling-place of sin and diseases and its organs constantly discharge disgusting secretions. Its end is death and its goal the charnel house. Such being the condition of the body it behooves us to treat it as a carcass full of abomination and to clothe it in such rags only as have been gathered in cemeteries or upon dung-hills.” 4
The Blessed One said: “Truly, the body is full of impurity and its end is the charnel house, for it is impermanent and destined to be dissolved into its elements. But being the receptacle of karma, it lies in our power to make it a vessel of truth and not of evil. It is not good to indulge in the pleasures of the body, but neither is it good to neglect our bodily needs and to heap filth upon impurities. The lamp that is not cleansed and not filled with oil will be extinguished, and a body that is unkempt, unwashed, and weakened by penance will not be a fit receptacle for the light of truth. Attend to your body and its needs as you would treat a wound which you care for without loving it. Severe rules will not lead the disciples on the middle path which I have taught. Certainly, no one can be prevented from keeping more stringent rules, if he sees fit to do so, but they should not be imposed upon any one, for they are unnecessary.” 5
Thus the Tathāgata refused Devadatta’s proposal; and Devadatta left the Buddha and went into the vihāra speaking evil of the Lord’s path of salvation as too lenient and altogether insufficient. 6
When the Blessed One heard of Devadatta’s intrigues, he said: “Among men there is no one who is not blamed. People blame him who sits silent and him who speaks, they also blame the man who preaches the middle path.” 7
Devadatta instigated Ajātasattu to plot against his father Bimbisāra, the king, so that the prince would no longer be subject to him; Bimbisāra was imprisoned by his son in a tower where he died leaving the kingdom of Magadha to his son Ajātasattu. 8
The new king listened to the evil advice of Devadatta, and he gave orders to take the life of the Tathāgata. However, the murderers sent out to kill the Lord could not perform their wicked deed, and became converted as soon as they saw him and listened to his preaching. The rock hurled down from a precipice upon the great Master split in twain, and the two pieces passed by on either side without doing any harm. Nalagiri, the wild elephant let loose to destroy the Lord, became gentle in his presence; and Ajātasattu, suffering greatly from the pangs of his conscience, went to the Blessed One and sought peace in his distress. 9
The Blessed One received Ajātasattu kindly and taught him the way of salvation; but Devadatta still tried to become the founder of a religious school of his own. 10
Devadatta did not succeed in his plans and having been abandoned by many of his disciples, he fell sick, and then repented. He entreated those who had remained with him to carry his litter to the Buddha, saying: “Take me, children, take me to him; though I have done evil to him, I am his brother-in-law. For the sake of our relationship the Buddha will save me.” And they obeyed, although reluctantly. 11
And Devadatta in his impatience to see the Blessed One rose from his litter while his carriers were washing their hands. But his feet burned under him; he sank to the ground; and, having chanted a hymn on the Buddha, died. 12
XL.
NAME AND FORM.
On one occasion the Blessed One entered the assembly hall and the brethren hushed their conversation. 1
When they had greeted him with clasped hands, they sat down and became composed. Then the Blessed One said: “Your minds are inflamed with intense interest; what was the topic of your discussion?” 2
And Sāriputta rose and spake: “World-honored master, we were discussing the nature of man’s own existence. We were trying to grasp the mixture of our own being which is called Name and Form. Every human being consists of conformations, and there are three groups which are not corporeal. They are sensation, perception, and the dispositions, all three constitute consciousness and mind, being comprised under the term Name. And there are four elements, the earthy element, the watery element, the fiery element, and the gaseous element, and these four elements constitute man’s bodily form, being held together so that this machine moves like a puppet. How does this name and form endure and how can it live?” 3
Said the Blessed One: “Life is instantaneous and living is dying. Just as a chariot-wheel in rolling rolls only at one point of the tire, and in resting rests only at one point; in exactly the same way, the life of a living being lasts only for the period of one thought. As soon as that thought has ceased the being is said to have ceased. 4
“As it has been said:—‘The being of a past moment of thought has lived, but does not live, nor will it live. The being of a future moment of thought will live, but has not lived, nor does it live. The being of the present moment of thought does live, but has not lived, nor will it live.’ ” 5
“As to Name and Form we must understand how they interact. Name has no power of its own, nor can it go on of its own impulse, either to eat, or to drink, or to utter sounds, or to make a movement. Form also is without power and cannot go on of its own impulse. It has no desire to eat, or to drink, or to utter sounds, or to make a movement. But Form goes on when supported by Name, and Name when supported by Form. When Name has a desire to eat, or to drink, or to utter sounds, or to make a movement, then Form eats, drinks, utters sounds, makes a movement. 6
“It is as if two men, the one blind from birth and the other a cripple, were desirous of going traveling, and the man blind from birth were to say to the cripple as follows: ‘See here! I am able to use my legs, but I have no eyes with which to see the rough and the smooth places in the road.’ 7
“And the cripple were to say to the man blind from birth as follows: ‘See here! I am able to use my eyes, but I have no legs with which to go forward and back.’ 8
“And the man blind from birth, pleased and delighted, were to mount the cripple on his shoulders. And the cripple sitting on the shoulders of the man blind from birth were to direct him, saying, ‘Leave the left and go to the right; leave the right and go to the left.’ 9
“Here the man blind from birth is without power of his own, and weak, and cannot go of his own impulse or might. The cripple also is without power of his own, and weak, and cannot go of his own impulse or might. Yet when they mutually support one another it is not impossible for them to go. 10
“In exactly the same way Name is without power of its own, and cannot spring up of its own might, nor perform this or that action. Form also is without power of its own, and cannot spring up of its own might, nor perform this or that action. Yet when they mutually support one another it is not impossible for them to spring up and go on. 11
“There is no material that exists for the production of Name and Form; and when Name and Form cease, they do not go anywhither in space. After Name and Form have ceased, they do not exist anywhere in the shape of heaped-up music material. Thus when a lute is played upon, there is no previous store of sound; and when the music ceases it does not go anywhither in space. When it has ceased, it exists nowhere in a stored-up state. Having previously been non-existent, it came into existence on account of the structure and stem of the lute and the exertions of the performer; and as it came into existence so it passes away. In exactly the same way, all the elements of being, both corporeal and non-corporeal come into existence after having previously been non-existent; and having come into existence pass away. 12
“There is not a self residing in Name and Form, but the cooperation of the conformations produces what people call a man. 13
“Just as the word ‘chariot’ is but a mode of expression for axle, wheels, the chariot-body and other constituents in their proper combination, so a living being is the appearance of the groups with the four elements as they are joined in a unit. There is no self in the carriage and there is no self in man. 14
“O bhikkhus, this doctrine is sure and an eternal truth, that there is no self outside of its parts. This self of ours which constitutes Name and Form is a combination of the groups with the four elements, but there is no ego entity, no self in itself. 15
“Paradoxical though it may sound: There is a path to walk on, there is walking being done, but there is no traveler. There are deeds being done, but there is no doer. There is a blowing of the air, but there is no wind that does the blowing. The thought of self is an error and all existences are as hollow as the plantain tree and as empty as twirling water bubbles. 16
“Therefore, O bhikkhus, as there is no self, there is no transmigration of a self; but there are deeds and the continued effect of deeds. There is a rebirth of karma; there is reincarnation. This rebirth, this reincarnation, this reappearance of the conformations is continuous and depends on the law of cause and effect. Just as a seal is impressed upon the wax reproducing the configurations of its device, so the thoughts of men, their characters, their aspirations are impressed upon others in continuous transference and continue their karma, and good deeds will continue in blessings while bad deeds will continue in curses. 17
“There is no entity here that migrates, no self is transferred from one place to another; but there is a voice uttered here and the echo of it comes back. The teacher pronounces a stanza and the disciple who attentively listens to his teacher’s instruction, repeats the stanza. Thus the stanza is reborn in the mind of the disciple. 18
“The body is a compound of perishable organs. It is subject to decay; and we should take care of it as of a wound or a sore; we should attend to its needs without being attached to it, or loving it. 19
“The body is like a machine, and there is no self in it that makes it walk or act, but the thoughts of it, as the windy elements, cause the machine to work. 20
“The body moves about like a cart. Therefore ’tis said: 21
- “As ships are by the wind impelled,
- As arrows from their bowstrings speed,
- So likewise when the body moves
- The windy element must lead. 22
- “Machines are geared to work by ropes;
- So too this body is, in fact,
- Directed by a mental pull
- Whene’er it stand or sit or act. 23
- “No independent self is here
- That could intrinsic forces prove
- To make man act without a cause,
- To make him stand or walk or move. 24
“He only who utterly abandons all thought of the ego escapes the snares of the Evil One; he is out of the reach of Māra. 25
“Thus says the pleasure-promising tempter: 26
- “So long as to the things
- Called ‘mine’ and ‘I’ and ‘me’
- Thine anxious heart still clings,
- My snares thou canst not flee.” 27
“The faithful disciple replies: 28
- “Naught’s mine and naught of me,
- The self I do not mind!
- Thus Māra, I tell thee,
- My path thou canst not find.” 29
“Dismiss the error of the self and do not cling to possessions which are transient but perform deeds that are good, for deeds are enduring and in deeds your karma continues. 30
“Since then, O bhikkhus, there is no self, there can not be any after life of a self. Therefore abandon all thought of self. But since there are deeds and since deeds continue, be careful with your deeds. 31
“All beings have karma as their portion: they are heirs of their karma; they are sprung from their karma; their karma is their kinsman; their karma is their refuge; karma allots beings to meanness or to greatness. 32
- “Assailed by death in life’s last throes
- On quitting all thy joys and woes
- What is thine own, thy recompense?
- What stays with thee when passing hence?
- What like a shadow follows thee
- And will Beyond thine heirloom be? 33
- “T’is deeds, thy deeds, both good and bad;
- Naught else can after death be had.
- Thy deeds are thine, thy recompense;
- They are thine own when going hence;
- They like a shadow follow thee
- And will Beyond thine heirloom be. 34
- “Let all then here perform good deeds,
- For future weal a treasure store;
- There to reap crops from noble seeds,
- A bliss increasing evermore.” 35
XLI.
THE GOAL.
And the Blessed One thus addressed the bhikkhus: 1
“It is through not understanding the four noble truths, O bhikkhus, that we had to wander so long in the weary path of samsāra, both you and I. 2
“Through contact thought is born from sensation, and is reborn by a reproduction of its form. Starting from the simplest forms, the mind rises and falls according to deeds, but the aspirations of a Bodhisatta pursue the straight path of wisdom and righteousness, until they reach perfect enlightenment in the Buddha. 3
“All creatures are what they are through the karma of their deeds done in former and in present existences. 4
“The rational nature of man is a spark of the true light; it is the first step on the upward road. But new births are required to insure an ascent to the summit of existence, the enlightenment of mind and heart, where the immeasurable light of moral comprehension is gained which is the source of all righteousness. 5
“Having attained this higher birth, I have found the truth and have taught you the noble path that leads to the city of peace. 6
“I have shown you the way to the lake of Ambrosia, which washes away all evil desire. 7
“I have given you the refreshing drink called the perception of truth, and he who drinks of it becomes free from excitement, passion, and wrong-doing. 8
“The very gods envy the bliss of him who has escaped from the floods of passion and has climbed the shores of Nirvāna. His heart is cleansed from all defilement and free from all illusion. 9
“He is like unto the lotus which grows in the water, yet not a drop of water adheres to its petals. 10
“The man who walks in the noble path lives in the world, and yet his heart is not defiled by worldly desires. 11
“He who does not see the four noble truths, he who does not understand the three characteristics and has not grounded himself in the uncreate, has still a long path to traverse by repeated births through the desert of ignorance with its mirages of illusion and through the morass of wrong. 12
“But now that you have gained comprehension, the cause of further migrations and aberrations is removed. The goal is reached. The craving of selfishness is destroyed, and the truth is attained. 13
“This is true deliverance; this is salvation; this is heaven and the bliss of a life immortal.” 14
XLII.
MIRACLES FORBIDDEN.
Jotikkha, the son of Subhadda, was a householder living in Rājagaha. Having received a precious bowl of sandalwood decorated with jewels, he erected a long pole before his house and put the bowl on its top with this legend: “Should a samana take this bowl down without using a ladder or a stick with a hook, or without climbing the pole, but by magic power, he shall receive as reward whatever he desires.” 1
And the people came to the Blessed One, full of wonder and their mouths overflowing with praise, saying: “Great is the Tathāgata. His disciples perform miracles. Kassapa, the disciple of the Buddha, saw the bowl on Jotikkha’s pole, and, stretching out his hand, he took it down, carrying it away in triumph to the vihāra.” 2
When the Blessed One heard what had happened, he went to Kassapa, and, breaking the bowl to pieces, forbade his disciples to perform miracles of any kind. 3
Soon after this it happened that in one of the rainy seasons many bhikkhus were staying in the Vajjī territory during a famine. And one of the bhikkhus proposed to his brethren that they should praise one another to the householders of the village, saying: “This bhikkhu is a saint; he has seen celestial visions; and that bhikkhu possesses supernatural gifts; he can work miracles.” And the villagers said: “It is lucky, very lucky for us, that such saints are spending the rainy season with us.” And they gave willingly and abundantly, and the bhikkhus prospered and did not suffer from the famine. 4
When the Blessed One heard it, he told Ānanda to call the bhikkhus together, and he asked them: “Tell me, O bhikkhus, when does a bhikkhu cease to be a bhikkhu?” 5
And Sāriputta replied: 6
“An ordained disciple must not commit any unchaste act. The disciple who commits an unchaste act is no longer a disciple of the Sakyamuni. 7
“Again, an ordained disciple must not take except what has been given him. The disciple who takes, be it so little as a penny’s worth, is no longer a disciple of the Sakyamuni. 8
“And lastly, an ordained disciple must not knowingly and malignantly deprive any harmless creature of life, not even an earth-worm or an ant. The disciple who knowingly and malignantly deprives any harmless creature of its life is no longer a disciple of the Sakyamuni. 9
“These are the three great prohibitions.” 10
And the Blessed One addressed the bhikkhus and said: 11
“There is another great prohibition which I declare to you: 12
“An ordained disciple must not boast of any superhuman perfection. The disciple who with evil intent and from covetousness boasts of a superhuman perfection, be it celestial visions or miracles, is no longer a disciple of the Sakyamuni. 13
“I forbid you, O bhikkhus, to employ any spells or supplications, for they are useless, since the law of karma governs all things. He who attempts to perform miracles has not understood the doctrine of the Tathāgata.” 14
XLIII.
THE VANITY OF WORLDLINESS.
There was a poet who had acquired the spotless eye of truth, and he believed in the Buddha, whose doctrine gave him peace of mind and comfort in the hour of affliction. 1
And it happened that an epidemic swept over the country in which he lived, so that many died, and the people were terrified. Some of them trembled with fright, and in anticipation of their fate were smitten with all the horrors of death before they died, while others began to be merry, shouting loudly, “Let us enjoy ourselves to-day, for we know not whether to-morrow we shall live”; yet was their laughter no genuine gladness, but a mere pretence and affectation. 2
Among all these worldly men and women trembling with anxiety, the Buddhist poet lived in the time of the pestilence, as usual, calm and undisturbed, helping wherever he could and ministering unto the sick, soothing their pains by medicine and religious consolation. 3
And a man came to him and said: “My heart is nervous and excited, for I see people die. I am not anxious about others, but I tremble because of myself. Help me; cure me of my fear.” 4
The poet replied: “There is help for him who has compassion on others, but there is no help for thee so long as thou clingest to thine own self alone. Hard times try the souls of men and teach them righteousness and charity. Canst thou witness these sad sights around thee and still be filled with selfishness? Canst thou see thy brothers, sisters, and friends suffer, yet not forget the petty cravings and lust of thine own heart?” 5
Noticing the desolation in the mind of the pleasure-seeking man, the Buddhist poet composed this song and taught it to the brethren in the vihāra: 6
- “Unless refuge you take in the Buddha and find in Nirvāna rest
- Your life is but vanity—empty and desolate vanity.
- To see the world is idle, and to enjoy life is empty.
- The world, including man, is but like a phantom, and the hope of heaven is as a mirage. 7
- “The worldling seeks pleasures fattening himself like a caged fowl.
- But the Buddhist saint flies up to the sun like the wild crane.
- The fowl in the coop has food but will soon be boiled in the pot.
- No provisions are given to the wild crane, but the heavens and the earth are his.” 8
The poet said: “The times are hard and teach the people a lesson; yet do they not heed it.” And he composed another poem on the vanity of worldliness: 9
- “It is good to reform, and it is good to exhort people to reform.
- The things of the world will all be swept away.
- Let others be busy and buried with care.
- My mind all unvexed shall be pure. 10
- “After pleasures they hanker and find no satisfaction;
- Riches they covet and can never have enough.
- They are like unto puppets held up by a string.
- When the string breaks they come down with a shock. 11
- “In the domain of death there are neither great nor small;
- Neither gold nor silver is used, nor precious jewels.
- No distinction is made between the high and the low.
- And daily the dead are buried beneath the fragrant sod. 12
- “Look at the sun setting behind the western hills.
- You lie down to rest, but soon the cock will announce morn.
- Reform to-day and do not wait until it be too late.
- Do not say it is early, for the time quickly passes by. 13
- “It is good to reform and it is good to exhort people to reform.
- It is good to lead a righteous life and take refuge in the Buddha’s name.
- Your talents may reach to the skies, your wealth may be untold—
- But all is in vain unless you attain the peace of Nirvāna.” 14
XLIV.
SECRECY AND PUBLICITY.
The Buddha said: “Three things, O disciples, are characterized by secrecy: love affairs, priestly wisdom, and all aberrations from the path of truth. 1
“Women who are in love, O disciples, seek secrecy and shun publicity; priests who claim to be in possession of special revelations, O disciples, seek secrecy and shun publicity; all those who stray from the path of truth, O disciples, seek secrecy and shun publicity. 2
“Three things, O disciples, shine before the world and cannot be hidden. What are the three? 3
“The moon, O disciples, illumines the world and cannot be hidden; the sun, O disciples, illumines the world and cannot be hidden; and the truth proclaimed by the Tathāgata illumines the world and cannot be hidden. These three things, O disciples, illumine the world and cannot be hidden. There is no secrecy about them.” 4
XLV.
THE ANNIHILATION OF SUFFERING.
And the Buddha said: “What, my friends, is evil? 1
“Killing is evil; stealing is evil; yielding to sexual passion is evil; lying is evil; slandering is evil; abuse is evil; gossip is evil; envy is evil; hatred is evil; to cling to false doctrine is evil; all these things, my friends, are evil. 2
“And what, my friends, is the root of evil? 3
“Desire is the root of evil; hatred is the root of evil; illusion is the root of evil; these things are the root of evil. 4
“What, however, is good? 5
“Abstaining from killing is good; abstaining from theft is good; abstaining from sensuality is good; abstaining from falsehood is good; abstaining from slander is good; suppression of unkindness is good; abandoning gossip is good; letting go all envy is good; dismissing hatred is good; obedience to the truth is good; all these things are good. 6
“And what, my friends, is the root of the good? 7
“Freedom from desire is the root of the good; freedom from hatred and freedom from illusion; these things, my friends, are the root of the good. 8
“What, however, O brethren, is suffering? What is the origin of suffering? What is the annihilation of suffering? 9
“Birth is suffering; old age is suffering; disease is suffering; death is suffering; sorrow and misery are suffering; affliction and despair are suffering; to be united with loathsome things is suffering; the loss of that which we love and the failure in attaining that which is longed for are suffering; all these things, O brethren, are suffering. 10
“And what, O brethren, is the origin of suffering? 11
“It is lust, passion, and the thirst for existence that yearns for pleasure everywhere, leading to a continual rebirth! It is sensuality, desire, selfishness; all these things, O brethren, are the origin of suffering. 12
“And what is the annihilation of suffering? 13
“The radical and total annihilation of this thirst and the abandonment, the liberation, the deliverance from passion, that, O brethren, is the annihilation of suffering. 14
“And what, O brethren, is the path that leads to the annihilation of suffering? 15
“It is the holy eightfold path that leads to the annihilation of suffering, which consists of, right views, right decision, right speech, right action, right living, right struggling, right thoughts, and right meditation. 16
“In so far, O friends, as a noble youth thus recognizes suffering and the origin of suffering, as he recognizes the annihilation of suffering, and walks on the path that leads to the annihilation of suffering, radically forsaking passion, subduing wrath, annihilating the vain conceit of the “I-am,” leaving ignorance, and attaining to enlightenment, he will make an end of all suffering even in this life.” 17
XLVI.
AVOIDING THE TEN EVILS.
The Buddha said: “All acts of living creatures become bad by ten things, and by avoiding the ten things they become good. There are three evils of the body, four evils of the tongue, and three evils of the mind. 1
“The evils of the body are, murder, theft, and adultery; of the tongue, lying, slander, abuse, and idle talk; of the mind, covetousness, hatred, and error. 2
“I exhort you to avoid the ten evils: 3
“I. Kill not, but have regard for life. 4
“II. Steal not, neither do ye rob; but help everybody to be master of the fruits of his labor. 5
“III. Abstain from impurity, and lead a life of chastity. 6
“IV. Lie not, but be truthful. Speak the truth with discretion, fearlessly and in a loving heart. 7
“V. Invent not evil reports, neither do ye repeat them. Carp not, but look for the good sides of your fellow-beings, so that ye may with sincerity defend them against their enemies. 8
“VI. Swear not, but speak decently and with dignity. 9
“VII. Waste not the time with gossip, but speak to the purpose or keep silence. 10
“VIII. Covet not, nor envy, but rejoice at the fortunes of other people. 11
“IX. Cleanse your heart of malice and cherish no hatred, not even against your enemies; but embrace all living beings with kindness. 12
“X. Free your mind of ignorance and be anxious to learn the truth, especially in the one thing that is needful, lest you fall a prey either to scepticism or to errors. Scepticism will make you indifferent and errors will lead you astray, so that you shall not find the noble path that leads to life eternal.” 13
XLVII.
THE PREACHER’S MISSION.
And the Blessed One said to his disciples: 1
“When I have passed away and can no longer address you and edify your minds with religious discourse, select from among you men of good family and education to preach the truth in my stead. And let those men be invested with the robes of the Tathāgata, let them enter into the abode of the Tathāgata, and occupy the pulpit of the Tathāgata. 2
“The robe of the Tathāgata is sublime forbearance and patience. The abode of the Tathāgata is charity and love of all beings. The pulpit of the Tathāgata is the comprehension of the good law in its abstract meaning as well as in its particular application. 3
“The preacher must propound the truth with unshrinking mind. He must have the power of persuasion rooted in virtue and in strict fidelity to his vows. 4
“The preacher must keep in his proper sphere and be steady in his course. He must not flatter his vanity by seeking the company of the great, nor must he keep company with persons who are frivolous and immoral. When in temptation, he should constantly think of the Buddha and he will conquer. 5
“All who come to hear the doctrine, the preacher must receive with benevolence, and his sermon must be without invidiousness. 6
“The preacher must not be prone to carp at others, or to blame other preachers; nor speak scandal, nor propagate bitter words. He must not mention by name other disciples to vituperate them and reproach their demeanor. 7
“Clad in a clean robe, dyed with good color, with appropriate undergarments, he must ascend the pulpit with a mind free from blame and at peace with the wole world. 8
“He must not take delight in quarrelous disputations or engage in controversies so as to show the superiority of his talents, but be calm and composed. 9
“No hostile feelings shall reside in his heart, and he must never abandon the disposition of charity toward all beings. His sole aim must be that all beings become Buddhas. 10
“Let the preacher apply himself with zeal to his work, and the Tathāgata will show to him the body of the holy law in its transcendent glory. He shall be honored as one whom the Tathāgata has blessed. The Tathāgata blesses the preacher and also those who reverently listen to him and joyfully accept the doctrine. 11
“All those who receive the truth will find perfect enlightenment. And, verily, such is the power of the doctrine that even by the reading of a single stanza, or by reciting, copying, and keeping in mind a single sentence of the good law, persons may be converted to the truth and enter the path of righteousness which leads to deliverance from evil. 12
“Creatures that are swayed by impure passions, when they listen to the voice, will be purified. The ignorant who are infaturated with the follies of the world will, when pondering on the profundity of the doctrine, acquire wisdom. Those who act under the impulse of hatred will, when taking refuge in the Buddha, be filled with good-will and love. 13
“A preacher must be full of energy and cheerful hope, never tiring and never despairing of final success. 14
“A preacher must be like a man in quest of water who digs a well in an arid tract of land. So long as he sees that the sand is dry and white, he knows that the water is still far off. But let him not be troubled or give up the task as hopeless. The work of removing the dry sand must be done so that he can dig down deeper into the ground. And often the deeper he has to dig, the cooler and purer and more refreshing will the water be. 15
“When after some time of digging he sees that the sand becomes moist, he accepts it as a token that the water is near. 16
“So long as the people do not listen to the words of truth, the preacher knows that he has to dig deeper into their hearts; but when they begin to heed his words he apprehends that they will soon attain enlightenment. 17
“Into your hands, O ye men of good family and education who take the vow of preaching the words of the Tathāgata, the Blessed One transfers, intrusts, and commends the good law of truth. 18
“Receive the good law of truth, keep it, read and reread it, fathom it, promulgate it, and preach it to all beings in all the quarters of the universe. 19
“The Tathāgata is not avaricious, nor narrow-minded, and he is willing to impart the perfect Buddha-knowledge unto all who are ready and willing to receive it. Be ye like unto him. Imitate him and follow his example in bounteously giving, showing, and bestowing the truth. 20
“Gather round you hearers who love to listen to the benign and comforting words of the law; rouse the unbelievers to accept the truth and fill them with delight and joy. Quicken them, edify them, and lift them higher and higher until they see the truth face to face in all its splendor and infinite glory.” 21
When the Blessed One had thus spoken, the disciples said: 22
“O thou who rejoicest in kindness having its source in compassion, thou great cloud of good qualities and of benevolent mind, thou quenchest the fire that vexeth living beings, thou pourest out nectar, the rain of the law! 23
“We shall do, O Lord, what the Tathāgata commands. We shall fulfil his behest; the Lord shall find us obedient to his words.” 24
And this vow of the disciples resounded through the universe, and like an echo it came back from all the Bodhisattas who are to be and will come to preach the good law of Truth to future generations. 25
And the Blessed One said: “The Tathāgata is like unto a powerful king who rules his kingdom with righteousness, but being attacked by envious enemies goes out to wage war against his foes. When the king sees his soldiers fight he is delighted with their gallantry and will bestow upon them donations of all kinds. Ye are the soldiers of the Tathāgata, while Māra, the Evil One, is the enemy who must be conquered. And the Tathāgata will give to his soldiers the city of Nirvāna, the great capital of the good law. And when the enemy
is overcome, the Dharma-rāja, the great king of
truth, will bestow upon all his disciples
the most precious crown which jewel
brings perfect enlightenment,
supreme wisdom, and
undisturbed
peace.”
THE TEACHER.
XLVIII.
THE DHAMMAPADA.
THIS is the Dhammapada, the path of religion pursued by those who are followers of the Buddha: 1
Creatures from mind their character derive; mind-marshalled are they, mind-made. Mind is the source either of bliss or of corruption. 2
By oneself evil is done; by oneself one suffers; by oneself evil is left undone; by oneself one is purified. Purity and impurity belong to oneself, no one can purify another. 3
You yourself must make an effort. The Tathāgatas are only preachers. The thoughtful who enter the way are freed from the bondage of Māra. 4
He who does not rouse himself when it is time to rise; who, though young and strong, is full of sloth; whose will and thoughts are weak; that lazy and idle man will never find the way to enlightenment. 5
If a man hold himself dear, let him watch himself carefully; the truth guards him who guards himself. 6
If a man makes himself as he teaches others to be, then, being himself subdued, he may subdue others; one’s own self is indeed difficult to subdue. 7
If some men conquer in battle a thousand times a thousand men, and if another conquer himself, he is the greatest of conquerors. 8
It is the habit of fools, be they laymen or members of the clergy, to think, “this is done by me. May others be subject to me. In this or that transaction a prominent part should be played by me.” Fools do not care for the duty to be performed or the aim to be reached, but think of their self alone. Everything is but a pedestal of their vanity. 9
Bad deeds, and deeds hurtful to ourselves, are easy to do; what is beneficial and good, that is very difficult. 10
If anything is to be done, let a man do it, let him attack it vigorously! 11
Before long, alas! this body will lie on the earth, despised, without understanding, like a useless log; yet our thoughts will endure. They will be thought again, and will produce action. Good thoughts will produce good actions, and bad thoughts will produce bad actions. 12
Earnestness is the path of immortality, thoughtlessness the path of death. Those who are in earnest do not die; those who are thoughtless are as if dead already. 13
Those who imagine they find truth in untruth, and see untruth in truth, will never arrive at truth, but follow vain desires. They who know truth in truth, and untruth in untruth, arrive at truth, and follow true desires. 14
As rain breaks through an ill-thatched house, passion will break through an unreflecting mind. As rain does not break through a well-thatched house, passion will not break through a well-reflecting mind. 15
Well-makers lead the water wherever they like; fletchets bend the arrow; carpenters bend a log of wood; wise people fashion themselves; wise people falter not amidst blame and praise. Having listened to the law, they become serene, like a deep, smooth, and still lake. 16
If a man speaks or acts with an evil thought, pain follows him as the wheel follows the foot of the ox that draws the carriage. 17
An evil deed is better left undone, for a man will repent of it afterwards; a good deed is better done, for having done it one will not repent. 18
If a man commits a wrong let him not do it again; let him not delight in wrongdoing; pain is the outcome of evil. If a man does what is good, let him do it again; let him delight in it; happiness is the outcome of good. 19
Let no man think lightly of evil, saying in his heart, “It will not come nigh unto me.” As by the falling of water-drops a water-pot is filled, so the fool becomes full of evil, though he gather it little by little. 20
Let no man think lightly of good, saying in his heart, “It will not come nigh unto me.” As by the falling of water-drops a water-pot is filled, so the wise man becomes full of good, though he gather it little by little. 21
He who lives for pleasure only, his senses uncontrolled, immoderate in his food, idle, and weak, him Māra, the tempter, will certainly overthrow, as the wind throws down a weak tree. He who lives without looking for pleasures, his senses well-controlled, moderate in his food, faithful and strong, him Māra will certainly not overthrow, any more than the wind throws down a rocky mountain. 22
The fool who knows his foolishness, is wise at least so far. But a fool who thinks himself wise, he is a fool indeed. 23
To the evil-doer wrong appears sweet as honey; he looks upon it as pleasant so long as it bears no fruit; but when its fruit ripens, then he looks upon it as wrong. And so the good man looks upon the goodness of the Dharma as a burden and an evil so long as it bears no fruit; but when its fruit ripens, then he sees its goodness. 24
A hater may do great harm to a hater, or an enemy to an enemy; but a wrongly-directed mind will do greater mischief unto itself. A mother, a father, or any other relative will do much good; but a well-directed mind will do greater service unto itself. 25
He whose wickedness is very great brings himself down to that state where his enemy wishes him to be. He himself is his greatest enemy. Thus a creeper destroys the life of a tree on which it finds support. 26
Do not direct thy thought to what gives pleasure, that thou mayest not cry out when burning, “This is pain.” The wicked man burns by his own deeds, as if burnt by fire. 27
Pleasures destroy the foolish; the foolish man by his thirst for pleasures destroys himself as if he were his own enemy. The fields are damaged by hurricanes and weeds; mankind is damaged by passion, by hatred, by vanity, and by lust. 28
Let no man ever take into consideration whether a thing is pleasant or unpleasant. The love of pleasure begets grief and the dread of pain causes fear; he who is free from the love of pleasure and the dread of pain knows neither grief nor fear. 29
He who gives himself to vanity, and does not give himself to meditation, forgetting the real aim of life and grasping at pleasure, will in time envy him who has exerted himself in meditation. 30
The fault of others is easily noticed, but that of oneself is difficult to perceive. A man winnows his neighbor’s faults like chaff, but his own fault he hides, as a cheat hides the false die from the gambler. 31
If a man looks after the faults of others, and is always inclined to take offence, his own passions will grow, and he is far from the destruction of passions. 32
Not about the perversities of others, not about their sins of commission or omission, but about his own misdeeds and negligences alone should a sage be worried. 33
Good people shine from afar, like the snowy mountains; had people are concealed, like arrows shot by night. 34
If a man by causing pain to others, wishes to obtain pleasure for himself, he, entangled in the bonds of selfishness, will never be free from hatred. 35
Let a man overcome anger by love, let him overcome evil by good; let him overcome the greedy by liberality, the liar by truth! 36
For hatred does not cease by hatred at any time; hatred ceases by not-hatred, this is an old rule. 37
Speak the truth, do not yield to anger; give, if thou art asked; by these three steps thou wilt become divine. 38
Let a wise man blow off the impurities of his self, as a smith blows off the impurities of silver, one by one, little by little, and from time to time. 39
Lead others, not by violence, but by righteousness and equity. 40
He who possesses virtue and intelligence, who is just, speaks the truth, and does what is his own business, him the world will hold dear. 41
As the bee collects nectar and departs without injuring the flower, or its color or scent, so let a sage dwell in the community. 42
If a traveller does not meet with one who is his better, or his equal, let him firmly keep to his solitary journey; there is no companionship with fools. 43
Long is the night to him who is awake; long is a mile to him who is tired; long is life to the foolish who do not know the true religion. 44
Better than living a hundred years, not seeing the highest truth, is one day in the life of a man who sees the highest truth. 45
Some form their Dharma arbitrarily and fabricate it artificially; they advance complex speculations and imagine that good results are attainable only by the acceptance of their theories; yet the truth is but one; there are not different truths in the world. Having reflected on the various theories, we have gone into the yoke with him who has shaken off all sin. But shall we be able to proceed together with him? 46
The best of ways is the eightfold path. This is the path. There is no other that leads to the purifying of intelligence. Go on this path! Everything else is the deceit of Māra, the tempter. If you go on this path, you will make an end of pain! Says the Tathāgata, The path was preached by me, when I had understood the removal of the thorn in the flesh. 47
Not only by discipline and vows, not only by much learning, do I earn the happiness of release which no worldling can know. Bhikkhu, be not confident as long as thou hast not attained the extinction of thirst. The extinction of evil desire is the highest religion. 48
The gift of religion exceeds all gifts; the sweetness of religion exceeds all sweetness; the delight in religion exceeds all delights; the extinction of thirst overcomes all pain. 49
Few are there among men who cross the river and reach the goal. The great multitudes are running up and down the shore; but there is no suffering for him who has finished his journey. 50
As the lily will grow full of sweet perfume and delight upon a heap of rubbish, thus the disciple of the truly enlightened Buddha shines forth by his wisdom among those who are like rubbish, among the people that walk in darkness. 51
Let us live happily then, not hating those who hate us! Among men who hate us let us dwell free from hatred! 52
Let us live happily then, free from all ailments among the ailing! Among men who are ailing let us dwell free from ailments! 53
Let us live happily, then, free from greed among the greedy! Among men who are greedy let us dwell free from greed! 54
The sun is bright by day, the moon shines by night, the warrior is bright in his armor, thinkers are bright in their meditation; but among all the brightest with splendor day and night is the Buddha, the Awakened, the Holy, Blessed. 55
XLIX.
THE TWO BRAHMANS.
At one time when the Blessed One was journeying through Kosala he came to the Brahman village which is called Manasākata. There he stayed in a mango grove. 1
And two young Brahmans came to him who were of different schools. One was named Vāsettha and the other Bhāradvāja. And Vāsettha said to the Blessed One: 2
“We have a dispute as to the true path. I say the straight path which leads unto a union with Brahmā is that which has been announced by the Brahman Pokkharasāti, while my friend says the straight path which leads unto a union with Brahmā is that which has been announced by the Brahman Tārukkha. 3
“Now, regarding thy high reputation, O samana, and knowing that thou art called the Enlightened One, the teacher of men and gods, the Blessed Buddha, we have come to ask thee, are all these paths paths of salvation? There are many roads all around our village, and all lead to Manasākata. Is it just so with the paths of the sages? Are all paths paths to salvation, and do they all lead to a union with Brahmā? 4
And the Blessed One proposed these questions to the two Brahmans: “Do you think that all paths are right?” 5
Both answered and said: “Yes, Gotama, we think so.” 6
“But tell me,” continued the Buddha, “has any one of the Brahmans, versed in the Vedas, seen Brahmā face to face?” 7
“No, sir!” was the reply. 8
“But, then,” said the Blessed One, “has any teacher of the Brahmans, versed in the Vedas, seen Brahmā face to face?” 9
The two Brahmans said: “No, sir.” 10
“But, then,” said the Blessed One, “has any one of the authors of the Vedas seen Brahmā face to face?” 11
Again the two Brahmans answered in the negative and exclaimed: “How can any one see Brahmā or understand him, for the mortal cannot understand the immortal.” And the Blessed One proposed an illustration, saying: 12
“It is as if a man should make a staircase in the place where four roads cross, to mount up into a mansion. And people should ask him, ‘Where, good friend, is this mansion, to mount up into which you are making this staircase? Knowest thou whether it is in the east, or in the south, or in the west, or in the north? Whether it is high, or low, or of medium size?’ And when so asked he should answer, ‘I know it not.’ And people should say to him, ‘But, then, good friend, thou art making a staircase to mount up into something—taking it for a mansion—which all the while thou knowest not, neither hast thou seen it.’ And when so asked he should answer, ‘That is exactly what I do; yea I know that I cannot know it.’ What would you think of him? Would you not say that the talk of that man was foolish talk?” 13
“In sooth, Gotama,” said the two Brahmans, “it would be foolish talk!” 14
The Blessed One continued: “Then the Brahmans should say, ‘We show you the way unto a union of what we know not and what we have not seen.’ This being the substance of Brahman lore, does it not follow that their task is vain?” 15
“It does follow,” replied Bhāradvāja. 16
Said the Blessed One: “Thus it is impossible that Brahmans versed in the three Vedas should be able to show the way to a state of union with that which they neither know nor have seen. Just as when a string of blind men are clinging one to the other. Neither can the foremost see, nor can those in the middle see, nor can the hindmost see. Even so, methinks, the talk of the Brahmans versed in the three Vedas is but blind talk; it is ridiculous, consists of mere words, and is a vain and empty thing.” 17
“Now suppose,” added the Blessed One, “that a man should come hither to the bank of the river, and, having some business on the other side, should want to cross. Do you suppose that if he were to invoke the other bank of the river to come over to him on this side, the bank would come on account of his praying?” 18
“Certainly not, Gotama.” 19
“Yet this is the way of the Brahmans. They omit the practice of those qualities which really make a man a Brahman, and say, ‘Indra, we call upon thee; Soma, we call upon thee; Varuna, we call upon thee; Brahmā, we call upon thee.’ Verily, it is not possible that these Brahmahns, on account of their invocations, prayers, and praises, should after death be united with Brahmā.” 20
“Now tell me,” continued the Buddha, “what do the Brahmans say of Brahmā? Is his mind full of lust?” 21
And when the Brahmans denied this, the Buddha asked: “Is Brahmā’s mind full of malice, sloth, or pride?” 22
“No, sir!” was the reply. “He is the opposite of all this.” 23
And the Buddha went on: “But are the Brahmans free from these vices?” 24
“No, sir!” said Vāsettha. 25
The Holy One said: “The Brahmans cling to the five things leading to worldliness and yield to the temptations of the senses; they are entangled in the five hindrances, lust, malice, sloth, pride, and doubt. How can they be united to that which is most unlike their nature? Therefore the threefold wisdom of the Brahmans is a waterless desert, a pathless jungle, and a hopeless desolation.” 26
When the Buddha had thus spoken, one of the Brahmans said: “We are told, Gotama, that the Sakyamuni knows the path to a union with Brahmā.” 27
And the Blessed One said: “What do you think, O Brahmans, of a man born and brought up in Manasākata? Would he be in doubt about the most direct way from this spot to Manasākata?” 28
“Certainly not, Gotama.” 29
“Thus,” replied the Buddha, “the Tathāgata knows the straight path that leads to a union with Brahmā. He knows it as one who has entered the world of Brahmā and has been born in it. There can be no doubt in the Tathāgata.” 30
And the two young Brahmans said: “If thou knowest the way show it to us.” 31
And the Buddha said: 32
“The Tathāgata sees the universe face to face and understands its nature. He proclaims the truth both in its letter and in its spirit, and his doctrine is glorious in its origin, glorious in its progress, glorious in its consummation. The Tathāgata reveals the higher life in its purity and perfection. He can show you the way to that which is contrary to the five great hindrances. 33
“The Tathāgata lets his mind pervade the four quarters of the world with thoughts of love. And thus the whole wide world, above, below, around, and everywhere will continue to be filled with love, far-reaching, grown great, and beyond measure. 34
“Just as a mighty trumpeter makes himself heard—and that without difficulty—in all the four quarters of the earth; even so is the coming of the Tathāgata: there is not one living creature that the Tathāgata passes by or leaves aside, but regards them all with mind set free, and deep-felt love. 35
“And this is the sign that a man follows the right path: Uprightness is his delight, and he sees danger in the least of those things which he should avoid. He trains himself in the commands of morality, he encompasseth himself with holiness in word and deed; he sustains his life by means that are quite pure; good is his conduct, guarded is the door of his senses; mindful and self-possessed, he is altogether happy. 36
“He who walks in the eightfold noble path with unswerving determination is sure to reach Nirvāna. The Tathāgata anxiously watches over his children and with loving care helps them to see the light. 37
“When a hen has eight or ten or twelve eggs, over which she has properly brooded, the wish arises in her heart, ‘O would that my little chickens would break open the egg-shell with their claws, or with their beaks, and come forth into the light in safety!’ yet all the while those little chickens are sure to break the egg-shell and will come forth into the light in safety. Even so, a brother who with firm determination walks in the noble path is sure to come forth into the light, sure to reach up to the higher wisdom, sure to attain to the highest bliss of enlightenment.” 38
L.
GUARD THE SIX QUARTERS.
While the Blessed One was staying at the bamboo grove near Rājagaha, he once met on his way Sigāla, a householder, who, clasping his hands, turned to the four quarters of the world, to the zenith above, and to the nadir below. And the Blessed One, knowing that this was done according to the traditional religious superstition to avert evil, asked Sigāla: “Why performest thou these strange ceremonies?” 1
And Sigāla in reply said: “Dost thou think it strange that I protect my home against the influences of demons? I know thou wouldst fain tell me, O Gotama Sakyamuni, whom people call the Tathāgata and the Blessed Buddha, that incantations are of no avail and possess no saving power. But listen to me and know, that in performing this rite I honor, reverence, and keep sacred the words of my father.” 2
Then the Tathāgata said: 3
Thou dost well, O Sigāla, to honor, reverence, and keep sacred the words of thy father; and it is thy duty to protect thy home, thy wife, thy children, and thy children’s children against the hurtful influences of evil spirits. I find no fault with the performance of thy father’s rite. But I find that thou dost not understand the ceremony. Let the Tathāgata, who now speaks to thee as a spiritual father and loves thee no less than did thy parents, explain to thee the meaning of the six directions. 4
“To guard thy home by mysterious ceremonies is not sufficient; thou must guard it by good deeds. Turn to thy parents in the East, to thy teachers in the South, to thy wife and children in the West, to thy friends in the North, and regulate the zenith of thy religious relations above thee, and the nadir of thy servants below thee. 5
“Such is the religion thy father wants thee to have, and the performance of the ceremony shall remind thee of thy duties.” 6
And Sigāla looked up to the Blessed One with reverence as to his father and said: “Truly, Gotama, thou art the Buddha, the Blessed One, the holy teacher. I never knew what I was doing, but now I know. Thou hast revealed to me the truth that was hidden as one who bringeth a lamp into the darkness. I take my refuge in the Enlightened Teacher, in the truth that enlightens, and in the community of brethren who have been taught the truth.” 7
LI.
SIMHA’S QUESTION CONCERNING ANNIHILATION.
At that time many distinguished citizens were sitting together assembled in the town-hall and spoke in many ways in praise of the Buddha, of the Dharma, and of the Sangha. Simha, the general-in-chief, a disciple of the Niggantha sect, was sitting among them. And Simha thought: “Truly, the Blessed One must be the Buddha, the Holy One. I will go and visit him.” 1
Then Simha, the general, went to the place where the Niggantha chief, Nātaputta, was; and having approached him, he said: “I wish, Lord, to visit the samana Gotama.” 2
Nātaputta said: “Why should you, Simha, who believe in the result of actions according to their moral merit, go to visit the samana Gotama, who denies the result of actions? The samana Gotama, O Simha, denies the result of actions; he teaches the doctrine of non-action; and in this doctrine he trains his disciples.” 3
Then the desire to go and visit the Blessed One, which had arisen in Simha, the general, abated. 4
Hearing again the praise of the Buddha, of the Dharma, and of the Sangha, Simha asked the Niggantha chief a second time; and again Nātaputta persuaded him not to go. 5
When a third time the general heard some men of distinction extol the merits of the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha, the general thought: “Truly the samana Gotama must be the Holy Buddha. What are the Nigganthas to me, whether they give their consent or not? I shall go without asking their permission to visit him, the Blessed One, the Holy Buddha.” 6
And Simha, the general, said to the Blessed One: “I have heard, Lord, that the samana Gotama denies the result of actions; he teaches the doctrine of non-action, saying that the actions of sentient beings do not receive their reward, for he teaches annihilation and the contemptibleness of all things; and in this doctrine he trains his disciples. Teachest thou the doing away of the soul and the burning away of man’s being? Pray tell me, Lord, do those who speak thus say the truth, or do they bear false witness against the Blessed One, passing off a spurious Dharma as thy Dharma?” 7
The Blessed One said: 8
“There is a way, Simha, in which one who says so, is speaking truly of me; on the other hand, Simha, there is a way in which one who says the opposite is speaking truly of me, too. Listen, and I will tell thee: 9
“I teach, Simha, the not-doing of such actions as are unrighteous, either by deed, or by word, or by thought; I teach the not-bringing about of all those conditions of heart which are evil and not good. However, I teach, Simha, the doing of such actions as are righteous, by deed, by word, and by thought; I teach the bringing about of all those conditions of heart which are good and not evil. 10
“I teach, Simha, that all the conditions of heart which are evil and not good, unrighteous actions by deed, by word, and by thought, must be burnt away. He who has freed himself, Simha, from all those conditions of heart which are evil and not good, he who has destroyed them as a palm-tree which is rooted out, so that they cannot grow up again, such a man has accomplished the eradication of self. 11
“I proclaim, Simha, the annihilation of egotism, of lust, of ill-will, of delusion. However, I do not proclaim the annihilation of forbearance, of love, of charity, and of truth. 12
“I deem, Simha, unrighteous actions contemptible, whether they be performed by deed, or by word, or by thought; but I deem virtue and righteousness praiseworthy.” 13
And Simha said: “One doubt still lurks in my mind concerning the doctrine of the Blessed One. Will the Blessed One consent to clear the cloud away so that I may understand the Dharma as the Blessed One teaches it?” 14
The Tathāgata having given his consent, Simha continued: “I am a soldier, O Blessed One, and am appointed by the king to enforce his laws and to wage his wars. Does the Tathāgata who teaches kindness without end and compassion with all sufferers, permit the punishment of the criminal? and further, does the Tathāgata declare that it is wrong to go to war for the protection of our homes, our wives, our children, and our property? Does the Tathāgata teach the doctrine of a complete self-surrender, so that I should suffer the evil-doer to do what he pleases and yield submissively to him who threatens to take by violence what is my own? Does the Tathāgata maintain that all strife, including such warfare as is waged for a righteous cause, should be forbidden?” 15
The Buddha replied: “He who deserves punishment must be punished, and he who is worthy of favor must be favored. Yet at the same time he teaches to do no injury to any living being but to be full of love and kindness. These injunctions are not contradictory, for whosoever must be punished for the crimes which he has committed, suffers his injury not through the ill-will of the judge but on account of his evil-doing. His own acts have brought upon him the injury that the executer of the law inflicts. When a magistrate punishes, let him not harbor hatred in his breast, yet a murderer, when put do death, should consider that this is the fruit of his own act. As soon as he will understand that the punishment will purify his soul, he will no longer lament his fate but rejoice at it.” 16
And the Blessed One continued: “The Tathāgata teaches that all warfare in which man tries to slay his brother is lamentable, but he does not teach that those who go to war in a righteous cause after having exhausted all means to preserve the peace are blameworthy. He must be blamed who is the cause of war. 17
“The Tathāgata teaches a complete surrender of self, but he does not teach a surrender of anything to those powers that are evil, be they men or gods or the elements of nature. Struggle must be, for all life is a struggle of some kind. But he that struggles should look to it lest he struggle in the interest of self against truth and righteousness. 18
“He who struggles in the interest of self, so that he himself may be great or powerful or rich or famous, will have no reward, but he who struggles for righteousness and truth, will have great reward, for even his defeat will be a victory. 19
“Self is not a fit vessel to receive any great success; self is small and brittle and its contents will soon be spilt for the benefit, and perhaps also for the curse, of others. 20
“Truth, however, is large enough to receive the yearnings and aspirations of all selves and when the selves break like soap-bubbles, their contents will be preserved and in the truth they will lead a life everlasting. 21
“He who goeth to battle, O Simha, even though it be in a righteous cause, must be prepared to be slain by his enemies, for that is the destiny of warriors; and should his fate overtake him he has no reason for complaint. 22
“But he who is victorious should remember the instability of earthly things. His success may be great, but be it ever so great the wheel of fortune may turn again and bring him down into the dust. 23
“However, if he moderates himself and, extinguishing all hatred in his heart lifts his down-trodden adversary up and says to him, ‘Come now and make peace and let us be brothers,’ he will gain a victory that is not a transient success, for its fruits will remain forever. 24
“Great is a successful general, O Simha, but he who has conquered self is the greater victor. 25
“The doctrine of the conquest of self, O Simha, is not taught to destroy the souls of men, but to preserve them. He who has conquered self is more fit to live, to be successful, and to gain victories than he who is the slave of self. 26
“He whose mind is free from the illusion of self, will stand and not fall in the battle of life. 27
“He whose intentions are righteousness and justice, will meet with no failure, but be successful in his enterprises and his success will endure. 28
“He who harbors in his heart love of truth will live and not die, for he has drunk the water of immortality. 29
“Struggle then, O general, courageously; and fight thy battles vigorously, but be a soldier of truth and the Tathāgata will bless thee.” 30
When the Blessed One had spoken thus, Simha, the general, said: “Glorious Lord, glorious Lord! Thou hast revealed the truth. Great is the doctrine of the Blessed One. Thou, indeed, art the Buddha, the Tathāgata, the Holy One. Thou art the teacher of mankind. Thou showest us the road of salvation, for this indeed is true deliverance. He who follows thee will not miss the light to enlighten his path. He will find blessedness and peace. I take my refuge, Lord, in the Blessed One, and in his doctrine, and in his brotherhood. May the Blessed One receive me from this day forth while my life lasts as a disciple who has taken refuge in him.” 31
And the Blessed One said: “Consider first, Simha, what thou doest. It is becoming that persons of rank like thyself should do nothing without due consideration.” 32
Simha’s faith in the Blessed One increased. He replied: “Had other teachers, Lord, succeeded in making me their disciple, they would carry around their banners through the whole city of Vesālī, shouting: ‘Simha, the general has become our disciple! For the second time, Lord, I take my refuge in the Blessed One, and in the Dharma, and in the Sangha; may the Blessed One receive me from this day forth while my life lasts as a disciple who has taken his refuge in him.” 33
Said the Blessed One: “For a long time, Simha, offerings have been given to the Nigganthas in thy house. Thou shouldst therefore deem it right also in the future to give them food when they come to thee on their alms-pilgrimage.” 34
And Simha’s heart was filled with joy. He said: “I have been told, Lord: ‘The samana Gotama says: To me alone and to nobody else should gifts be given. My pupils alone and the pupils of no one else should receive offerings.’ But the Blessed One exhorts me to give also to the Nigganthas. Well, Lord, we shall see what is seasonable. For the third time, Lord, I take my refuge in the Blessed One, and in his Dharma, and in his fraternity.” 35
LII.
ALL EXISTENCE IS SPIRITUAL.
And there was an officer among the retinue of Simha who had heard of the discourses of the Blessed One, and there was some doubt left in his heart. 1
This man came to the Blessed One and said: “It is said, O Lord, that the samana Gotama denies the existence of the soul. Do they who say so speak the truth, or do they bear false witness against the Blessed One?” 2
And the Blessed One said: “There is a way in which those who say so are speaking truly of me; on the other hand, there is a way in which those who say so do not speak truly of me. 3
“The Tathāgata teaches that there is no self. He who says that the soul is his self and that the self is the thinker of our thoughts and the actor of our deeds, teaches a wrong doctrine which leads to confusion and darkness. 4
“On the other hand, the Tathāgata teaches that there is mind. He who understands by soul mind, and says that mind exists, teaches the truth which leads to clearness and enlightenment.” 5
The officer said: “Does, then, the Tathāgata maintain that two things exist? that which we perceive with our senses and that which is mental?” 6
Said the Blessed One: “Verily, I say unto thee, thy mind is spiritual, but neither is the sense-perceived void of spirituality. The bodhi is eternal and it dominates all existence as the good law guiding all beings in their search for truth. It changes brute nature into mind, and there is no being that cannot be transformed into a vessel of truth.” 7
LIII.
IDENTITY AND NON-IDENTITY.
Kūtadanta, the head of the Brahmans in the village of Dānamatī having approached the Blessed One respectfully, greeted him and said: “I am told, O samana, that thou art the Buddha, the Holy One, the Allknowing, the Lord of the world. But if thou wert the Buddha, wouldst thou not come like a king in all thy glory and power?” 1
Said the Blessed One: “Thine eyes are holden. If the eye of thy mind were undimmed thou couldst see the glory and the power of truth.” 2
Said Kūtadanta: “Show me the truth and I shall see it. But thy doctrine is without consistency. If it were consistent, it would stand; but as it is not, it will pass away.” 3
The Blessed One replied: “The truth will never pass away.” 4
Kūtadanta said: “I am told that thou teachest the law, yet thou tearest down religion. Thy disciples despise rites and abandon immolation, but reverence for the gods can be shown only by sacrifices. The very nature of religion consists in worship and sacrifice.” 5
Said the Buddha: “Greater than the immolation of bullocks is the sacrifice of self. He who offers to the gods his evil desires will see the uselessness of slaughtering animals at the altar. Blood has no cleansing power, but the eradication of lust will make the heart pure. Better than worshiping gods is obedience to the laws of righteousness.” 6
Kūtadanta, being of a religious disposition and anxious about his fate after death, had sacrificed countless victims. Now he saw the folly of atonement by blood. Not yet satisfied, however, with the teachings of the Tathāgata, Kūtadanta continued: “Thou believest, O Master, that beings are reborn; that they migrate in the evolution of life; and that subject to the law of karma we must reap what we sow. Yet thou teachest the non-existence of the soul! Thy disciples praise utter self-extinction as the highest bliss of Nirvāna. If I am merely a combination of the sankhāras, my existence will cease when I die. If I am merely a compound of sensations and ideas and desires, wither can I go at the dissolution of the body?” 7
Said the Blessed One: “O Brahman, thou art religious and earnest. Thou art seriously concerned about thy soul. Yet is thy work in vain because thou art lacking in the one thing that is needful. 8
“There is rebirth of character, but no transmigration of a self. Thy thought-forms reappear, but there is no ego-entity transferred. The stanza uttered by a teacher is reborn in the scholar who repeats the words. 9
“Only through ignorance and delusion do men indulge in the dream that their souls are separate and self-existent entities. 10
“Thy heart, O Brahman, is cleaving still to self; thou art anxious about heaven but thou seekest the pleasures of self in heaven, and thus thou canst not see the bliss of truth and the immortality of truth. 11
“Verily I say unto thee: The Blessed One has not come to teach death, but to teach life, and thou discernest not the nature of living and dying. 12
“This body will be dissolved and no amount of sacrifice will save it. Therefore, seek thou the life that is of the mind. Where self is, truth cannot be; yet when truth comes, self will disappear. Therefore, let thy mind rest in the truth; propagate the truth, put thy whole will in it, and let it spread. In the truth thou shalt live forever. 13
“Self is death and truth is life. The cleaving to self is a perpetual dying, while moving in the truth is partaking of Nirvāna which is life everlasting.” 14
Kūtadanta said: “Where, O venerable Master, is Nirvāna?” 15
“Nirvāna is wherever the precepts are obeyed,” replied the Blessed One. 16
“Do I understand thee aright,” rejoined the Brahman, “that Nirvāna is not a place, and being nowhere it is without reality?” 17
“Thou dost not understand me aright,” said the Blessed One, “Now listen and answer these questions: Where does the wind dwell?” 18
“Nowhere,” was the reply. 19
Buddha retorted: “Then, sir, there is no such thing as wind.” 20
Kūtadanta made no reply; and the Blessed One asked again: “Answer me, O Brahman, where does wisdom dwell? Is wisdom a locality?” 21
“Wisdom has no allotted dwelling-place,” replied Kūtadanta. 22
Said the Blessed One: “Meanest thou that there is no wisdom, no enlightenment, no righteousness, and no salvation, because Nirvāna is not a locality? As a great and mighty wind which passeth over the world in the heat of the day, so the Tathāgata comes to blow over the minds of mankind with the breath of his love, so cool, so sweet, so calm, so delicate; and those tormented by fever assuage their suffering and rejoice at the refreshing breeze.” 23
Said Kūtadanta: “I feel, O Lord, that thou proclaimest a great doctrine, but I cannot grasp it. Forbear with me that I ask again: Tell me, O Lord, if there be no ātman, how can there be immortality? The activity of the mind passeth, and our thoughts are gone when we have done thinking.” 24
Buddha replied: “Our thinking is gone, but our thoughts continue. Reasoning ceases, but knowledge remains.” 25
Said Kūtadanta: “How is that? Is not reasoning and knowledge the same?” 26
The Blessed One explained the distinction by an illustration: “It is as when a man wants, during the night, to send a letter, and, after having his clerk called, has a lamp lit, and gets the letter written. Then, when that has been done, he extinguishes the lamp. But though the writing has been finished and the light has been put out the letter is still there. Thus does reasoning cease and knowledge remain; and in the same way mental activity ceases, but experience, wisdom, and all the fruits of our acts endure.” 27
Kūtadanta continued: “Tell me, O Lord, pray tell me, where, if the sankhāras are dissolved, is the identity of my self. If my thoughts are propagated, and if my soul migrates, my thoughts cease to be my thoughts and my soul ceases to be my soul. Give me an illustration, but pray, O Lord, tell me, where is the identity of my self?” 28
Said the Blessed One: “Suppose a man were to light a lamp; would it burn the night through?” 29
“Yes, it might do so,” was the reply. 30
“Now, is it the same flame that burns in the first watch of the night as in the second?” 31
Kūtadanta hesitated. He thought “Yes, it is the same flame,” but fearing the complications of a hidden meaning, and trying to be exact, he said: “No, it is not.” 32
“Then,” continued the Blessed One, “there are flames, one in the first watch and the other in the second watch.” 33
“No, sir,” said Kūtadanta. “In one sense it is not the same flame, but in another sense it is the same flame. It burns the same kind of oil, it emits the same kind of light, and it serves the same purpose.” 34
“Very well,” said the Buddha, “and would you call those flames the same that have burned yesterday and are burning now in the same lamp, filled with the same kind of oil, illuminating the same room?” 35
“They may have been extinguished during the day,” suggested Kūtadanta. 36
Said the Blessed One: “Suppose the flame of the first watch had been extinguished during the second watch, would you call it the same if it burns again in the third watch?” 37
Replied Kūtadanta: “In one sense it is a different flame, in another it is not.” 38
The Tathāgata asked again: “Has the time that elapsed during the extinction of the flame anything to do with its identity or non-identity?” 39
“No, sir,” said the Brahman, “it has not. There is a difference and an identity, whether many years elapsed or only one second, and also whether the lamp has been extinguished in the meantime or not.” 40
“Well, then, we agree that the flame of to-day is in a certain sense the same as the flame of yesterday, and in another sense it is different at every moment. Moreover, the flames of the same kind, illuminating with equal power the same kind of rooms, are in a certain sense the same.” 41
“Yes, sir,” replied Kūtadanta. 42
The Blessed One continued: “Now, suppose there is a man who feels like thyself, thinks like thyself, and acts like thyself, is he not the same man as thou?” 43
“No, sir,” interrupted Kūtadanta. 44
Said the Buddha: “Dost thou deny that the same logic holds good for thyself that holds good for the things of the world?” 45
Kūtadanta bethought himself and rejoined slowly: “No, I do not. The same logic holds good universally; but there is a peculiarity about my self which renders it altogether different from everything else and also from other selves. There may be another man who feels exactly like me, thinks like me, and acts like me; suppose even he had the same name and the same kind of possessions, he would not be myself.” 46
“True, Kūtadanta,” answered Buddha, “he would not be thyself. Now, tell me, is the person who goes to school one, and that same person when he has finished his schooling another? Is it one who commits a crime, another who is punished by having his hands and feet cut off?” 47
“They are the same,” was the reply. 48
“Then sameness is constituted by continuity only?” asked the Tathāgata. 49
“Not only by continuity,” said Kūtadanta, “but also and mainly by identity of character.” 50
“Very well,” concluded the Buddha, “then thou agreest that persons can be the same, in the same sense as two flames of the same kind are called the same; and thou must recognize that in this sense another man of the same character and product of the same karma is the same as thou.” 51
“Well, I do,” said the Brahman. 52
The Buddha continued: “And in this same sense alone art thou the same to-day as yesterday. Thy nature is not constituted by the matter of which thy body consists, but by thy sankhāras, the forms of the body, of sensations, of thoughts. Thy person is the combination of the sankhāras. Wherever they are, thou art. Whithersoever they go, thou goest. Thus thou wilt recognize in a certain sense an identity of thy self, and in another sense a difference. But he who does not recognize the identity should deny all identity, and should say that the questioner is no longer the same person as he who a minute after receives the answer. Now consider the continuation of thy personality, which is preserved in thy karma. Dost thou call it death and annihilation, or life and continued life?” 53
“I call it life and continued life,” rejoined Kūtadanta, “for it is the continuation of my existence, but I do not care for that kind of continuation. All I care for is the continuation of self in the other sense, which makes of every man, whether identical with me or not, an altogether different person.” 54
“Very well,” said Buddha. “This is what thou desirest and this is the cleaving to self. This is thy error. All compound things are transitory: they grow and they decay. All compound things are subject to pain: they will be separated from what they love and be joined to what they abhor. All compound things lack a self, an ātman, an ego.” 55
“How is that?” asked Kūtadanta. 56
“Where is thy self?” asked the Buddha. And when Kūtadanta made no reply, he continued: “Thy self to which thou cleavest is a constant change. Years ago thou wast a small babe; then, thou wast a boy; then a youth, and now, thou art a man. Is there any identity of the babe and the man? There is an identity in a certain sense only. Indeed there is more identity between the flames of the first and the third watch, even though the lamp might have been extinguished during the second watch. Now which is thy true self, that of yesterday, that of to-day, or that of to-morrow, for the preservation of which thou clamorest?” 57
Kūtadanta was bewildered. “Lord of the world,” he said, “I see my error, but I am still confused.” 58
The Tathāgata continued: “It is by a process of evolution that sankhāras come to be. There is no sankhāra which has sprung into being without a gradual becoming. Thy sankhāras are the product of thy deeds in former existences. The combination of thy sankhāras is thy self. Wheresoever they are impressed thither thy self migrates. In thy sankhāras thou wilt continue to live and thou wilt reap in future existences the harvest sown now and in the past.” 59
“Verily, O Lord,” rejoined Kūtadanta, “this is not a fair retribution. I cannot recognize the justice that others after me will reap what I am sowing now.” 60
The Blessed One waited a moment and then replied: “Is all teaching in vain? Dost thou not understand that those others are thou thyself? Thou thyself wilt reap what thou sowest, not others. 61
“Think of a man who is ill-bred and destitute, suffering from the wretchedness of his condition. As a boy he was slothful and indolent, and when he grew up he had not learned a craft to earn a living. Wouldst thou say his misery is not the product of his own action, because the adult is no longer the same person as was the boy? 62
“Verily, I say unto thee: Not in the heavens, not in the midst of the sea, not if thou hidest thyself away in the clefts of the mountains, wilt thou find a place where thou canst escape the fruit of thine evil actions. 63
“At the same time thou art sure to receive the blessings of thy good actions. 64
“The man who has long been traveling and who returns home in safety, the welcome of kinsfolk, friends, and acquaintances awaits. So, the fruits of his good works bid him welcome who has walked in the path of righteousness, when he passes over from the present life into the hereafter.” 65
Kūtadanta said: “I have faith in the glory and excellency of thy doctrines. My eye cannot as yet endure the light; but I now understand that there is no self, and the truth dawns upon me. Sacrifices cannot save, and invocations are idle talk. But how shall I find the path to life ever-lasting? I know all the Vedas by heart and have not found the truth.” 66
Said the Buddha: “Learning is a good thing; but it availeth not. True wisdom can be acquired by practice only. Practise the truth that thy brother is the same as thou. Walk in the noble path of righteousness and thou wilt understand that while there is death in self, there is immortality in truth.” 67
Said Kūtadanta: “Let me take my refuge in the Blessed One, in the Dharma, and in the brotherhood. Accept me as thy disciple and let me partake of the bliss of immortality.” 68
LIV.
THE BUDDHA OMNIPRESENT.
And the Blessed One thus addressed the brethren: 1
“Those only who do not believe, call me Gotama, but you call me the Buddha, the Blessed One, the Teacher. And this is right, for I have in this life entered Nirvāna, while the life of Gotama has been extinguished. 2
“Self has disappeared and the truth has taken its abode in me. This body of mine is Gotama’s body and it will be dissolved in due time, and after its dissolution no one, neither God nor man, will see Gotama again. But the truth remains. The Buddha will not die; the Buddha will continue to live in the holy body of the law. 3
“The extinction of the Blessed One will be by that passing away in which nothing remains that could tend to the formation of another self. Nor will it be possible to point out the Blessed One as being here or there. But it will be like a flame in a great body of blazing fire. That flame has ceased; it has vanished and it cannot be said that it is here or there. In the body of the Dharma, however, the Blessed One can be pointed out; for the Dharma has been preached by the Blessed One. 4
“Ye are my children, I am your father; through me have ye been released from your sufferings. 5
“I myself having reached the other shore, help others to cross the stream; I myself having attained salvation, am a saviour of others; being comforted, I comfort others and lead them to the place of refuge. 6
“I shall fill with joy all the beings whose limbs languish; I shall give happiness to those who are dying from distress; I shall extend to them succor and deliverance. 7
“I was born into the world as the king of truth for the salvation of the world. 8
“The subject on which I meditate is truth. The practice to which I devote myself is truth. The topic of my conversation is truth. My thoughts are always in the truth. For lo! my self has become the truth. 9
“Whosoever comprehendeth the truth will see the Blessed One, for the truth has been preached by the Blessed One.” 10
LV.
ONE ESSENCE, ONE LAW, ONE AIM.
And the Tathāgata addressed the venerable Kassapa, to dispel the uncertainty and doubt of his mind, and he said: 1
“All things are made of one essence, yet things are different according to the forms which they assume under different impressions. As they form themselves so they act, and as they act so they are. 2
“It is, Kassapa, as if a potter made different vessels out of the same clay. Some of these pots are to contain sugar, others rice, others curds and milk; others still are vessels of impurity. There is no diversity in the clay used; the diversity of the pots is only due to the moulding hands of the potter who shapes them for the various uses that circumstances may require. 3
“And as all things originate from one essence, so they are developing according to one law and they are destined to one aim which is Nirvāna. 4
“Nirvāna comes to thee, Kassapa, when thou understandest thoroughly, and when thou livest according to thy understanding, that all things are of one essence and that there is but one law. Hence, there is but one Nirvāna as there is but one truth, not two or three. 5
“And the Tathāgata is the same unto all beings, differing in his attitude only in so far as all beings are different. 6
“The Tathāgata recreates the whole world like a cloud shedding its waters without distinction. He has the same sentiments for the high as for the low, for the wise as for the ignorant, for the noble-minded as for the immoral. 7
“The great cloud full of rain comes up in this wide universe covering all countries and oceans to pour down its rain everywhere, over all grasses, shrubs, herbs, trees of various species, families of plants of different names growing on the earth, on the hills, on the mountains, or in the valleys. 8
“Then, Kassapa, the grasses, shrubs, herbs, and wild trees suck the water emitted from that great cloud which is all of one essence and has been abundantly poured down; and they will, according to their nature, acquire a proportionate development, shooting up and producing blossoms and their fruits in season. 9
“Rooted in one and the same soil, all those families of plants and germs are quickened by water of the same essence. 10
“The Tathāgata, however, O Kassapa, knows the law whose essence is salvation, and whose end is the peace of Nirvāna. He is the same to all, and yet knowing the requirements of every single being, he does not reveal himself to all alike. He does not impart to them at once the fulness of omniscience, but pays attention to the disposition of various beings.” 11
LVI.
THE LESSON GIVEN TO RĀHULA.
Before Rāhula, the son of Gotama Siddhattha and Yasodharā, attained to the enlightenment of true wisdom, his conduct was not always marked by a love of truth, and the Blessed One sent him to a distant vihāra to govern his mind and to guard his tongue. 1
After some time the Blessed One repaired to the place, and Rāhula was filled with joy. 2
And the Blessed One ordered the boy to bring him a basin of water and to wash his feet, and Rāhula obeyed. 3
When Rāhula had washed the Tathāgata’s feet, the Blessed One asked: “Is the water now fit for drinking?” 4
“No, my Lord,” replied the boy, “the water is defiled.” 5
Then the Blessed One said: “Now consider thine own case. Although thou art my son, and the grandchild of a king, although thou art a samana who has voluntarily given up everything, thou art unable to guard thy tongue from untruth, and thus defilest thou thy mind.” 6
And when the water had been poured away, the Blessed One asked again: “Is this vessel now fit for holding water to drink?” 7
“No, my Lord,” replied Rāhula, “the vessel, too, has become unclean.” 8
And the Blessed One said: “Now consider thine own case. Although thou wearest the yellow robe, art thou fit for any high purpose when thou hast become unclean like this vessel?” 9
Then the Blessed One, lifting up the empty basin and whirling it round, asked: “Art thou not afraid lest it should fall and break?” 10
“No, my Lord,” replied Rāhula, “the vessel is but cheap, and its loss will not amount to much.” 11
“Now consider thine own case,” said the Blessed One. “Thou art whirled about in endless eddies of transmigration, and as thy body is made of the same substance as other material things that will crumble to dust, there is no loss if it be broken. He who is given to speaking untruths is an object of contempt to the wise.” 12
Rāhula was filled with shame, and the Blessed One addressed him once more: “Listen, and I will tell thee a parable: 13
“There was a king who had a very powerful elephant, able to cope with five hundred ordinary elephants. When going to war, the elephant was armed with sharp swords on his tusks, with scythes on his shoulders, spears on his feet, and an iron ball at his tail. The elephant-master rejoiced to see the noble creature so well equipped, and, knowing that a slight wound by an arrow in the trunk would be fatal, he had taught the elephant to keep his trunk well coiled up. But during the battle the elephant stretched forth his trunk to seize a sword. His master was frightened and consulted with the king, and they decided that the elephant was no longer fit to be used in battle. 14
“O Rāhula! if men would only guard their tongues all would be well! Be like the fighting elephant who guards his trunk against the arrow that strikes in the center. 15
“By love of truth the sincere escape iniquity. Like the elephant well subdued and quiet, who permits the king to mount on his trunk, thus the man that reveres righteousness will endure faithfully throughout his life.” 16
Rāhula hearing these words was filled with deep sorrow; he never again gave any occasion for complaint, and forthwith he sanctified his life by earnest exertions. 17
LVII.
THE SERMON ON ABUSE.
And the Blessed One observed the ways of society and noticed how much misery came from malignity and foolish offences done only to gratify vanity and self-seeking pride. 1
And the Buddha said: “If a man foolishly does me wrong, I will return to him the protection of my ungrudging love; the more evil comes from him, the more good shall go from me; the fragrance of goodness always comes to me, and the harmful air of evil goes to him.” 2
A foolish man learning that the Buddha observed the principle of great love which commends the return of good for evil, came and abused him. The Buddha was silent, pitying his folly. 3
When the man had finished his abuse, the Buddha asked him, saying: “Son, if a man declined to accept a present made to him, to whom would it belong?” And he answered: “In that case it would belong to the man who offered it.” 4
“My son,” said the Buddha, “thou hast railed at me, but I decline to accept thy abuse, and request thee to keep it thyself. Will it not be a source of misery to thee? As the echo belongs to the sound, and the shadow to the substance, so misery will overtake the evil-doer without fail.” 5
The abuser made no reply, and Buddha continued: 6
“A wicked man who reproaches a virtuous one is like one who looks up and spits at heaven; the spittle soils not the heaven, but comes back and defiles his own person. 7
“The slanderer is like one who flings dust at another when the wind is contrary; the dust does but return on him who threw it. The virtuous man cannot be hurt and the misery that the other would inflict comes back on himself.” 8
The abuser went away ashamed, but he came again and took refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha. 9
LVIII.
THE BUDDHA REPLIES TO THE DEVA.
On a certain day when the Blessed One dwelt at Jetavana, the garden of Anāthapindika, a celestial deva came to him in the shape of a Brahman whose countenance was bright and whose garments were white like snow. The deva asked questions which the Blessed One answered. 1
The deva said: “What is the sharpest sword? What is is the deadliest poison? What is the fiercest fire? What is the darkest night?” 2
The Blessed One replied: “A word spoken in wrath is the sharpest sword; covetousness is the deadliest poison; passion is the fiercest fire; ignorance is the darkest night.” 3
The deva said: “Who gains the greatest benefit? Who loses most? Which armor is invulnerable? What is the best weapon?” 4
The Blessed One replied: “He is the greatest gainer who gives to others, and he loses most who greedily receives without gratitude. Patience is an invulnerable armor; wisdom is the best weapon.” 5
The deva said: “Who is the most dangerous thief? What is the most precious treasure? Who is most successful in taking away by violence not only on earth, but also in heaven? What is the securest treasure-trove?” 6
The Blessed One replied: “Evil thought is the most dangerous thief; virtue is the most precious treasure. The mind takes possession of everything not only on earth, but also in heaven, and immortality is its securest treasure-trove.” 7
The deva said: “What is attractive? What is disgusting? What is the most horrible pain? What is the greatest enjoyment?” 8
The Blessed One replied: “Good is attractive; evil is disgusting. A bad conscience is the most tormenting pain; deliverance is the height of bliss.” 9
The deva asked: “What causes ruin in the world? What breaks off friendships? What is the most violent fever? Who is the best physician?” 10
The Blessed One replied: “Ignorance causes the ruin of the world. Envy and selfishness break off friendships. Hatred is the most violent fever, and the Buddha is the best physician.” 11
The deva then asked and said: “Now I have only one doubt to be solved; pray, clear it away: What is it fire can neither burn, nor moisture corrode, nor wind crush down, but is able to reform the whole world?” 12
The Blessed Once replied: “Blessing! Neither fire, nor moisture, nor wind can destroy the blessing of a good deed, and blessings reform the whole world.” 13
The deva, having heard the words of the Blessed One, was full of exceeding joy. Clasping his hands, he bowed down before him in reverence, and disappeared suddenly from the presence of the Buddha. 14
LIX.
WORDS OF INSTRUCTION.
The bhikkhus came to the Blessed One, and having saluted him with clasped hands they said: 1
“O Master, thou all-seeing one, we all wish to learn; our ears are ready to hear, thou art our teacher, thou art incomparable. Cut off our doubt, inform us of the blessed Dharma, O thou of great understanding; speak in the midst of us, O thou who art all-seeing, as is the thousand-eyed Lord of the gods. 2
“We will ask the muni of great understanding, who has crossed the stream, gone to the other shore, is blessed and of a firm mind: How does a bhikkhu wander rightly in the world, after having gone out from his house and driven away desire?” 3
The Buddha said: 4
“Let the bhikkhu subdue his passion for human and celestial pleasures, then, having conquered existence, he will command the Dharma. Such a one will wander rightly in the world. 5
“He whose lusts have been destroyed, who is free from pride, who has overcome all the ways of passion, is subdued, perfectly happy, and of a firm mind. Such a one will wander rightly in the world. 6
“Faithful is he who is possessed of knowledge, seeing the way that leads to Nirvāna; he who is not a partisan; he who is pure and virtuous, and has removed the veil from his eyes. Such a one will wander rightly in the world.” 7
Said the bhikkhus: “Certainly, O Bhagavat, it is so: whichever bhikkhu lives in this way, subdued and having overcome all bonds, such a one will wander rightly in the world.” 8
The Blessed One said: 9
“Whatever is to be done by him who aspires to attain the tranquillity of Nirvāna let him be able and upright, conscientious and gentle, and not proud. 10
“Let a man’s pleasure be the Dharma, let him delight in the Dharma, let him stand fast in the Dharma, let him know how to inquire into the Dharma, let him not raise any dispute that pollutes the Dharma, and let him spend his time in pondering on the well-spoken truths of the Dharma. 11
“A treasure that is laid up in a deep pit profits nothing and may easily be lost. The real treasure that is laid up through charity and piety, temperance, self-control, or deeds of merit, is hid secure and cannot pass away. It is never gained by despoiling or wronging others, and no thief can steal it. A man, when he dies, must leave the fleeting wealth of the world, but this treasure of virtuous acts he takes with him. Let the wise do good deeds; they are a treasure that can never be lost.” 12
And the bhikkhus praised the wisdom of the Tathāgata: 13
“Thou hast passed beyond pain; thou art holy, O Enlightened One, we consider thee one that has destroyed his passions. Thou art glorious, thoughtful, and of great understanding. O thou who puttest an end to pain, thou hast carried us across our doubt. 14
“Because thou sawst our longing and carriedst us across our doubt, adoration be to thee, O muni, who hast attained the highest good in the ways of wisdom. 15
“The doubt we had before, thou hast cleared away, O thou clearly-seeing one; surely thou art a great thinker, perfectly enlightened, there is no obstacle for thee. 16
“And all thy troubles are scattered and cut off; thou art calm, subdued, firm, truthful. 17
“Adoration be to thee, O noble sage, adoration be to thee, O thou best of beings; in the world of men and gods there is none equal to thee. 18
“Thou art the Buddha, thou art the Master, thou art the muni that conquers Māra; after having cut off desire thou hast crossed over and carriest this generation to the other shore.” 19
LX.
AMITĀBHA.
One of the disciples came to the Blessed One with a trembling heart and his mind full of doubt. And he asked the Blessed One: “O Buddha, our Lord and Master, why do we give up the pleasures of the world, if thou forbiddest us to work miracles and to attain the supernatural? Is not Amitābha, the infinite light of revelation, the source of innumerable miracles?” 1
And the Blessed One, seeing the anxiety of a truth-seeking mind, said: “O sāvaka, thou art a novice among the novices, and thou art swimming on the surface of samsāra. How long will it take thee to grasp the truth? Thou hast not understood the words of the Tathāgata. The law of karma is irrefragable, and supplications have no effect, for they are empty words.” 2
Said the disciple: “So sayest thou there are no miraculous and wonderful things?” 3
And the Blessed One replied: 4
“Is it not a wonderful thing, mysterious and miraculous to the worldling, that a man who commits wrong can become a saint, that he who attains to true enlightenment will find the path of truth and abandon the evil ways of selfisness? 5
“The bhikkhu who renounces the transient pleasures of the world for the eternal bliss of holiness, performs the only miracle that can truly be called a miracle. 6
“A holy man changes the curses of karma into blessings. The desire to perform miracles arises either from covetousness or from vanity. 7
“That mendicant does right who does not think: ‘People should salute me’; who, though despised by the world, yet cherishes no ill-will towards it. 8
“That mendicant does right to whom omens, meteors, dreams, and signs are things abolished; he is free from all their evils. 9
“Amitābha, the unbounded light, is the source of wisdom, of virtue, of Buddhahood. The deeds of sorcerers and miracle-mongers are frauds, but what is more wondrous, more mysterious, more miraculous than Amitābha?” 10
“But, Master,” continued the sāvaka, “is the promise of the happy region vain talk and a myth?” 11
“What is this promise?” asked the Buddha; and the disciple replied: 12
“There is in the west a paradise called the Pure Land, exquisitely adorned with gold and silver and precious gems. There are pure waters with golden sands, surrounded by pleasant walks and covered with large lotus flowers. Joyous music is heard, and flowers rain down three times a day. There are singing birds whose harmonious notes proclaim the praises of religion, and in the minds of those who listen to their sweet sounds, remembrance arises of the Buddha, the law, and the brotherhood. No evil birth is possible there, and even the name of hell is unknown. He who fervently and with a pious mind repeats the words ‘Amitābha Buddha’ will be transported to the happy region of this pure land, and when death draws nigh, the Buddha, with a company of saintly followers, will stand before him, and there will be perfect tranquillity.” 13
“In truth,” said the Buddha, “there is such a happy paradise. But the country is spiritual and it is accessible only to those that are spiritual. Thou sayest it lies in the west. This means, look for it where he who enlightens the world resides. The sun sinks down and leaves us in utter darkness, the shades of night steal over us, and Māra, the evil one, buries our bodies in the grave. Sunset is nevertheless no extinction, and where we imagine we see extinction, there is boundless light and inexhaustible life.” 14
“I understand,” said the sāvaka, “that the story of the Western Paradise is not literally true.” 15
“Thy description of paradise,” the Buddha continued, “is beautiful; yet it is insufficient and does little justice to the glory of the pure land. The worldly can speak of it in a worldly way only; they use worldly similes and worldly words. But the pure land in which the pure live is more beautiful than thou canst say or imagine. 16
“However, the repetition of the name Amitābha Buddha is meritorious only if thou speak it with such a devout attitude of mind as will cleanse thy heart and attune thy will to do works of righteousness. He only can reach the happy land whose soul is filled with the infinite light of truth. He only can live and breathe in the spiritual atmosphere of the Western Paradise who has attained enlightenment. 17
“Verily I say unto thee, the Tathāgata lives in the pure land of eternal bliss even now while he is still in the body; and the Tathāgata preaches the law of religion unto thee and unto the whole world, so that thou and thy brethren may attain the same peace and the same happiness.” 18
Said the disciple: “Teach me, O Lord, the meditations to which I must devote myself in order to let my mind enter into the paradise of the pure land.” 19
Buddha said: “There are five meditations. 20
“The first meditation is the meditation of love in which thou must so adjust thy heart that thou longest for the weal and welfare of all beings, including the happiness of thine enemies. 21
“The second meditation is the meditation of pity, in which thou thinkest of all beings in distress, vividly representing in thine imagination their sorrows and anxieties so as to arouse a deep compassion for them in thy soul. 22
“The third meditation is the meditation of joy in which thou thinkest of the prosperity of others and rejoicest with their rejoicings. 23
“The fourth meditation is the meditation on impurity, in which thou considerest the evil consequences of corruption, the effects of wrongs and evils. How trivial is often the pleasure of the moment and how fatal are its consequences! 24
“The fifth meditation is the meditation on serenity, in which thou risest above love and hate, tyranny and thraldom, wealth and want, and regardest thine own fate with impartial calmness and perfect tranquillity. 25
“A true follower of the Tathāgata founds not his trust upon austerities or rituals but giving up the idea of self relies with his whole heart upon Amitābha, which is the unbounded light of truth.” 26
The Blessed One after having explained his doctrine of Amitābha, the immeasurable light which makes him who receives it a Buddha, looked into the heart of his disciple and saw still some doubts and anxieties. And the Blessed One said: “Ask me, my son, the questions which weigh upon thy soul.” 27
And the disciple said: “Can a humble monk, by sanctifying himself, acquire the talents of supernatural wisdom called Abhiññās and the supernatural powers called Iddhi? Show me the Iddhi-pāda, the path to the highest wisdom? Open to me the Jhānas which are the means of acquiring samādhi, the fixity of mind which enraptures the soul.” 28
And the Blessed One said: “Which are the Abhiññās?” 29
The disciple replied: “There are six Abhiññās: (1) The celestial eye; (2) the celestial ear; (3) the body at will or the power of transformation; (4) the knowledge of the destiny of former dwellings, so as to know former states of existence; (5) the faculty of reading the thoughts of others; and (6) the knowledge of comprehending the finality of the stream of life.” 30
And the Blessed One replied: “These are wondrous things; but verily, every man can attain them. Consider the abilities of thine own mind; thou wert born about two hundred leagues from here and canst thou not in thy thought, in an instant travel to thy native place and remember the details of thy father’s home? Seest thou not with thy mind’s eye the roots of the tree which is shaken by the wind without being overthrown? Does not the collector of herbs see in his mental vision, whenever he pleases, any plant with its roots, its stem, its fruits, leaves, and even the uses to which it can be applied? Cannot the man who understands languages recall to his mind any word whenever he pleases, knowing its exact meaning and import? How much more does the Tathāgata understand the nature of things; he looks into the hearts of men and reads their thoughts. He knows the evolution of beings and foresees their ends.” 31
Said the disciple: “Then the Tathāgata teaches that man can attain through the Jhānas the bliss of Abhiññā.” 32
And the Blessed One asked in reply: “Which are the Jhānas through which man reaches Abhiñña?” 33
The disciple replied: “There are four Jhānas. The first Jhāna is seclusion in which one must free his mind from sensuality; the second Jhāna is a tranquillity of mind full of joy and gladness; the third Jhāna is a taking delight in things spiritual; the fourth Jhāna is a state of perfect purity and peace in which the mind is above all gladness and grief.” 34
“Good, my son,” enjoined the Blessed One. “Be sober and abandon wrong practices which serve only to stultify the mind.” 35
Said the disciple: “Forbear with me, O Blessed One, for I have faith without understanding and I am seeking the truth. O Blessed One, O Tathāgata, my Lord and Master, teach me the Iddhipāda.” 36
The Blessed One said: “There are four means by which Iddhi is acquired; (1) Prevent bad qualities from arising. (2) Put away bad qualities which have arisen. (3) Produce goodness that does not yet exist. (4) Increase goodness which already exists.—Search with sincerity, and persevere in the search. In the end thou wilt find the truth.” 37
LXI.
THE TEACHER UNKNOWN.
And the Blessed One said to Ānanda: 1
“There are various knds of assemblies, O Ānanda; assemblies of nobles, of Brahmans, of householders, of bhikkhus, and of other beings. When I used to enter an assembly, I always became, before I seated myself, in color like unto the color of my audience, and in voice like unto their voice. I spoke to them in their language and then with religious discourse, I instructed, quickened, and gladdened them. 2
“My doctrine is like the ocean, having the same eight wonderful qualities. 3
“Both the ocean and my doctrine become gradually deeper. Both preserve their identity under all changes. Both cast out dead bodies upon the dry land. As the great rivers, when falling into the main, lose their names and are thenceforth reckoned as the great ocean, so all the castes, having renounced their lineage and entered the Sangha, become brethren and are reckoned the sons of Sakyamuni. The ocean is the goal of all streams and of the rain from the clouds, yet is it never overflowing and never emptied: so the Dharma is embraced by many millions of people, yet it neither increases nor decreases. As the great ocean has only one taste, the taste of salt, so my doctrine has only one flavor, the flavor of emancipation. Both the ocean and the Dharma are full of gems and pearls and jewels, and both afford a dwelling-place for mighty beings. 4
“These are the eight wonderful qualities in which my doctrine resembles the ocean. 5
“My doctrine is pure and it makes no discrimination between noble and ignoble, rich and poor. 6
“My doctrine is like unto water which cleanses all without distinction. 7
“My doctrine is like unto fire which consumes all things that exist between heaven and earth, great and small. 8
“My doctrine is like unto the heavens, for there is room in it, ample room for the reception of all, for men and women, boys and girls, the powerful and the lowly. 9
“But when I spoke, they knew me not and would say, ‘Who may this be who thus speaks, a man or a god?’ Then having instructed, quickened, and gladdened them with religious discourse, I would vanish away. But they knew me not, even when I vanished away.” 10
PARABLES AND STORIES.
LXII.
PARABLES.
AND the Blessed One thought: “I have taught the truth which is excellent in the beginning, excellent in the middle, and excellent in the end; it is glorious in its spirit and glorious in its letter. But simple as it is, the people cannot understand it. I must speak to them in their own language. I must adapt my thoughts to their thoughts. They are like unto children, and love to hear tales. Therefore, I will tell them stories to explain the glory of the Dharma. If they cannot grasp the truth in the abstract arguments by which I have reached it, they may nevertheless come to understand it, if it is illustrated in parables. 1
LXIII.
THE WIDOW’S TWO MITES AND THE PARABLE OF THE THREE MERCHANTS.
There was once a lone widow who was very destitute, and having gone to the mountain she beheld hermits holding a religious assembly. Then the woman was filled with joy, and uttering praises, said, “It is well, holy priests! but while others give precious things such as the ocean caves produce, I have nothing to offer.” Having spoken thus and having searched herself in vain for something to give, she recollected that some time before she had found in a dungheap two coppers, so taking these she offered them forthwith as a gift to the priesthood in charity. 1
The superior of the priests, a saint who could read the hearts of men, disregarding the rich gifts of others and beholding the deep faith dwelling in the heart of this poor widow, and wishing the priesthood to esteem rightly her religious merit, burst forth with full voice in a canto. He raised his right hand and said, “Reverend priests attend!” and then he proceeded: 2
- “The coppers of this poor widow
- To all purpose are more worth
- Than all the treasures of the oceans
- And the wealth of the broad earth. 3
- “As an act of pure devotion
- She has done a pious deed;
- She has attained salvation,
- Being free from selfish greed.” 4
The woman was mightily strengthened in her mind by this thought, and said, “It is even as the Teacher says: what I have done is as much as if a rich man were to give up all his wealth.” 5
And the Teacher said: “Doing good deeds is like hoarding up treasures,” and he expounded this truth in a parable: 6
“Three merchants set out on their travels, each with his capital; one of them gained much, the second returned with his capital, and the third one came home after having lost his capital. What is true in common life applies also to religion. 7
“The capital is the state a man has reached, the gain is heaven; the loss of his capital means that a man will be born in a lower state, as a denizen of hell or as an animal. These are the courses that are open to the sinner. 8
“He who brings back his capital, is like unto one who is born again as a man. Those who through the exercise of various virtues become pious householders will be born again as men, for all beings will reap the fruit of their actions. But he who increases his capital is like unto one who practises eminent virtues. The virtuous, excellent man attains in heaven to the glorious state of the gods.” 9
LXIV.
THE MAN BORN BLIND.
There was a man born blind, and he said: “I do not believe in the world of light and appearance. There are no colors, bright or sombre. There is no sun, no moon, no stars. No one has witnessed these things.” 1
His friends remonstrated with him, but he clung to his opinion: “What you say that you see,” he objected, “are illusions. If colors existed I should be able to touch them. They have no substance and are not real. Everything real has weight, but I feel no weight where you see colors.” 2
In those days there was a physician who was called to see the blind man. He mixed four simples, and when he applied them to the cataract of the blind man the gray film melted, and his eyes acquired the faculty of sight. 3
The Tathāgata is the physician, the cataract is the illusion of the thought “I am,” and the four simples are the four noble truths. 4
LXV.
THE LOST SON.
There was a householder’s son who went away into a distant country, and while the father accumulated immeasurable riches, the son became miserably poor. And the son while searching for food and clothing happened to come to the country in which his father lived. And the father saw him in his wretchedness, for he was ragged and brutalized by poverty, and ordered some of his servants to call him. 1
When the son saw the place to which he was conducted, he thought, “I must have evoked the suspicion of a powerful man, and he will throw me into prison.” Full of apprehension he made his escape before he had seen his father. 2
Then the father sent messengers out after his son, who was caught and brought back in spite of his cries and lamentations. Thereupon the father ordered his servants to deal tenderly with his son, and he appointed a laborer of his son’s rank and education to employ the lad as a helpmate on the estate. And the son was pleased with his new situation. 3
From the window of his palace the father watched the boy, and when he saw that he was honest and industrious, he promoted him higher and higher. 4
After some time, he summoned his son and called together all his servants, and made the secret known to them. Then the poor man was exceedingly glad and he was full of joy at meeting his father. 5
Little by little must the minds of men be trained for higher truths. 6
LXVI.
THE GIDDY FISH.
There was a bhikkhu who had great difficulty in keeping his senses and passions under control; so, resolving to leave the Order, he came to the Blessed One to ask him for a release from the vows. And the Blessed One said to the bhikkhu: 1
“Take heed, my son, lest thou fall a prey to the passions of thy misguided heart. For I see that in former existences, thou hast suffered much from the evil consequences of lust, and unless thou learnest to conquer thy sensual desire, thou wilt in this life be ruined through thy folly. 2
“Listen to a story of another existence of thine, as a fish. 3
“The fish could be seen swimming lustily in the river, playing with his mate. She, moving in front, suddenly perceived the meshes of a net, and slipping around escaped the danger; but he, blinded by love, shot eagerly after her and fell straight into the mouth of the net. The fisherman pulled the net up, and the fish, who complained bitterly of his sad fate, saying, ‘this indeed is the bitter fruit of my folly,’ would surely have died if the Bodhisatta had not chanced to come by, and, understanding the language of the fish, took pity on him. He bought the poor creature and said to him: ‘My good fish, had I not caught sight of thee this day, thou wouldst have lost thy life. I shall save thee, but henceforth avoid the evil of lust.’ With these words he threw the fish into the water. 4
“Make the best of the time of grace that is offered to thee in thy present existence, and fear the dart of passion which, if thou guard not thy senses, will lead thee to destruction.” 5
LXVII.
THE CRUEL CRANE OUTWITTED.
A tailor who used to make robes for the brotherhood was wont to cheat his customers, and thus prided himself on being smarter than other men. But once, on entering upon an important business transaction with a stranger, he found his master in fraudulent practices, and suffered a heavy loss. 1
And the Blessed One said: “This is not an isolated incident in the greedy tailor’s fate; in other incarnations he suffered similar losses, and by trying to dupe others ultimately ruined himself. 2
“This same greedy character lived many generations ago as a crane near a pond, and when the dry season set in he said to the fishes with a bland voice: ‘Are you not anxious for your future welfare? There is at present very little water and still less food in this pond. What will you do should the whole pond become dry, in this drought?’ 3
‘Yes, indeed’ said the fishes, ‘what should we do?’ 4
“Replied the crane: ‘I know a fine, large lake, which never becomes dry. Would you not like me to carry you there in my beak?’ When the fishes began to distrust the honesty of the crane, he proposed to have one of them sent over to the lake to see it; and a big carp at last decided to take the risk for the sake of the others, and the crane carried him to a beautiful lake and brought him back in safety. Then all doubt vanished, and the fishes gained confidence in the crane, and now the crane took them one by one out of the pond and devoured them on a big varanatree. 5
“There was also a lobster in the pond, and when it listed the crane to eat him too, he said: ‘I have taken all the fishes away and put them in a fine, large lake. Come along. I shall take thee, too!’ 6
‘But how wilt thou hold me to carry me along?’ asked the lobster. 7
‘I shall take hold of thee with my beak,’ said the crane. 8
‘Thou wilt let me fall if thou carry me like that. I will not go with thee!’ replied the lobster. 9
‘Thou needst not fear,’ rejoined the crane; ‘I shall hold thee quite tight all the way.’ 10
“Then said the lobster to himself: ‘If this crane once gets hold of a fish, he will certainly never let him go in a lake! Now if he should really put me into the lake it would be splendid; but if he does not, then I will cut his throat and kill him!’ So he said to the crane: ‘Look here, friend, thou wilt not be able to hold me tight enough; but we lobsters have a famous grip. If thou wilt let me catch hold of thee round the neck with my claws, I shall be glad to go with thee.’ 11
“The crane did not see that the lobster was trying to outwit him, and agreed. So the lobster caught hold of his neck with his claws as securely as with a pair of blacksmith’s pincers, and called out: ‘Ready, ready, go!’ 12
“The crane took him and showed him the lake, and then turned off toward the varana-tree. ‘My dear uncle!’ cried the lobster, ‘The lake lies that way, but thou art taking me this other way.’ 13
“Answered the crane: ‘Thinkest thou so? Am I thy dear uncle? Thou meanest me to understand, I suppose, that I am thy slave, who has to lift thee up and carry thee about with him, where thou pleasest! Now cast thine eye upon that heap of fish-bones at the root of yonder varana-tree. Just as I have eaten those fish, every one of them, just so will I devour thee also!’ 14
‘Ah! those fishes got eaten through their own stupidity,’ answered the lobster, ‘but I am not going to let thee kill me. On the contrary, it is thou that I am going to destroy. For thou, in thy folly, hast not seen that I have outwitted thee. If we die, we both die together; for I will cut off this head of thine and cast it to the ground!’ So saying, he gave the crane’s neck a pinch with his claws as with a vise. 15
“Then gasping, and with tears trickling from his eyes, and trembling with the fear of death, the crane besought the lobster, saying: ‘O, my Lord! Indeed I did not intend to eat thee. Grant me my life!’ 16
‘Very well! fly down and put me into the lake,’ replied the lobster. 17
“And the crane turned round and stepped down into the lake, to place the lobster on the mud at its edge. Then the lobster cut the crane’s neck through as clean as one would cut a lotus-stalk with a hunting-knife, and then entered the water!” 18
When the Teacher had finished this discoruse, he added: “Not now only was this man outwitted in this way, but in other existences, too, by his own intrigues.” 19
LXVIII.
FOUR KINDS OF MERIT.
There was a rich man who used to invite all the Brahmans of the neighborhood to his house, and, giving them rich gifts, offered great sacrifices to the gods. 1
And the Blessed One said: “If a man each month repeat a thousand sacrifices and give offerings without ceasing, he is not equal to him who but for one moment fixes his mind upon righteousness.” 2
The world-honored Buddha continued: “There are four kinds of offering: first, when the gifts are large and the merit small; secondly, when the gifts are small and the merit small; thirdly, when the gifts are small and the merit large; and fourthly, when the gifts are large and the merit is also large. 3
“The first is the case of the deluded man who takes away life for the purpose of sacrificing to the gods, accompanied by carousing and feasting. Here the gifts are great, but the merit is small indeed. 4
“The gifts are small and the merit is also small, when from covetousness and an evil heart a man keeps to himself a part of that which he intends to offer. 5
“The merit is great, however, while the gift is small, when a man makes his offering from love and with a desire to grow in wisdom and in kindness. 6
“Lastly, the gift is large and the merit is large, when a wealthy man, in an unselfish spirit and with the wisdom of a Buddha, gives donations and founds institutions for the best of mankind to enlighten the minds of his fellow-men and to administer unto their needs.” 7
LXIX.
THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD.
There was a certain Brahman in Kosambī, a wrangler and well versed in the Vedas. As he found no one whom he regarded his equal in debate he used to carry a lighted torch in his hand, and when asked for the reason of his strange conduct, he replied: “The world is so dark that I carry this torch to light it up, as far as I can.” 1
A samana sitting in the market-place heard these words and said: “My friend, if thine eyes are blind to the sight of the omnipresent light of the day, do not call the world dark. Thy torch adds nothing to the glory of the sun and thy intention to illumine the minds of others is as futile as it is arrogant.” 2
Whereupon the Brahman asked: “Where is the sun of which thou speakest?” And the samana replied: “The wisdom of the Tathāgata is the sun of the mind. His radiancy is glorious by day and night, and he whose faith is strong will not lack light on the path to Nirvāna where he will inherit bliss everlasting.” 3
LXX.
LUXURIOUS LIVING.
While the Buddha was preaching his doctrine for the conversion of the world in the neighborhood of Sāvatthi, a man of great wealth who suffered from many ailmemts came to him with clasped hands and said: “World-honored Buddha, pardon me for my want of respect in not saluting thee as I ought, but I suffer greatly from obesity, excessive drowsiness, and other complaints, so that I cannot move without pain.” 1
The Tathāgata, seeing the luxuries with which the man was sourrounded asked him: “Hast thou a desire to know the cause of thy ailments?” And when the wealthy man expressed his willingness to learn, the Blessed One said: “There are five things which produce the condition of which thou complainest: opulent dinners, love of sleep, hankering after pleasure, thoughtlessness, and lack of occupation. Exercise self-control at thy meals, and take upon thyself some duties that will exercise thy abilities and make thee useful to thy fellow-men. In following this advice thou wilt prolong thy life.” 2
The rich man remembered the words of the Buddha and after some time having recovered his lightness of body and youthful buoyancy returned to the Worldhonored One and, coming afoot without horses and attendants, said to him: “Master, thou hast cured my bodily ailments; I come now to seek enlightenment of my mind.” 3
And the Blessed One said: “The worldling nourishes his body, but the wise man nourishes his mind. He who indulges in the satisfaction of his appetites works his own destruction; but he who walks in the path will have both the salvation from evil and a prolongation of life.” 4
LXXI.
THE COMMUNICATION OF BLISS.
Annabhāra, the slave of Sumana, having just cut the grass on the meadow, saw a samana with his bowl begging for food. Throwing down his bundle of grass he ran into the house and returned with the rice that had been provided for his own food. 1
The samana ate the rice and gladdened him with words of religious comfort. 2
The daughter of Sumana having observed the scene from a window called out: “Good! Annabhāra, good! Very good!” 3
Sumana hearing these words inquired what she meant, and on being informed about Annabhāra’s devotion and the words of comfort he had received from the samana, went to his slave and offered him money to divide the bliss of his offering. 4
“My lord,” said Annabhāra, “let me first ask the venerable man.” And approaching the samana, he said: “My master has asked me to share with him the bliss of the offering I made thee of my allowance of rice. Is it right that I should divide it with him?” 5
The samana replied in a parable. He said: “In a village of one hundred houses a single light was burning. Then a neighbor came with his lamp and lit it; and in this same way the light was communicated from house to house and the brightness in the village was increased. Thus the light of religion may be diffused without stinting him who communicates it. Let the bliss of thy offering also be diffused. Divide it.” 6
Annabhāra returned to his master’s house and said to him: “I present thee, my lord, with a share of the bliss of my offering. Deign to accept it.” 7
Sumana accepted it and offered his slave a sum of money, but Annabhāra replied: “Not so, my lord; if I accept thy money it would appear as if I sold thee my share. Bliss cannot be sold; I beg thou wilt accept it as a gift.” 8
The master replied: “Brother Annabhāra, from this day forth thou shalt be free. Live with me as my friend and accept this present as a token of my respect.” 9
LXXII.
THE LISTLESS FOOL.
There was a rich Brahman, well advanced in years, who, unmindful of the impermanence of earthly things and anticipating a long life, had built himself a large house. 1
The Buddha wondered why a man so near to death had built a mansion with so many apartments, and he sent Ānanda to the rich Brahman to preach to him the four noble truths and the eightfold path of salvation. 2
The Brahman showed Ānanda his house and explained to him the purpose of its numerous chambers, but to the instruction of the Buddha’s teachings he gave no heed. 3
Ānanda said: “It is the habit of fools to say, ‘I have children and wealth.’ He who says so is not even master of himself; how can he claim possession of children, riches, and servants? Many are the anxieties of the worldly, but they know nothing of the changes of the future.” 4
Scarcely had Ānanda left, when the old man was stricken with apoplexy and fell dead. The Buddha said, for the instruction of those who were ready to learn: “A fool, though he live in the company of the wise, understands nothing of the true doctrine, as a spoon tastes not the flavor of the soup. He thinks of himself only, and unmindful of the advice of good counsellors is unable to deliver himself.” 5
LXXIII.
RESCUE IN THE DESERT.
There was a disciple of the Blessed One, full of energy and zeal for the truth, who, living under a vow to complete a meditation in solitude, flagged in a moment of weakness. He said to himself: “The Teacher said there are several kinds of men; I must belong to the lowest class and fear that in this birth there will be neither path nor fruit for me. What is the use of a forest life if I cannot by my constant endeavor attain the insight of meditation to which I have devoted myself?” And he left the solitude and returned to the Jetavana. 1
When the brethren saw him they said to him: “Thou hast done wrong, O brother, after taking a vow, to give up the attempt of carrying it out;” and they took him to the Master. 2
When the Blessed One saw them he said: “I see, O mendicants, that you have brought this brother here against his will. What has he done?” 3
“Lord, this brother, having taken the vows of so sanctifying a faith, has abandoned the endeavor to accomplish the aim of a member of the order, and has come back to us.” 4
Then the Teacher said to him: “Is it true that thou hast given up trying?” 5
“It is true, O Blessed One!” was the reply. 6
The Master said: “This present life of thine is a time of grace. If thou fail now to reach the happy state thou wilt have to suffer remorse in future existences. How is it, brother, that thou hast proved so irresolute? Why, in former states of existence thou wert full of determination. By thy energy alone the men and bullocks of five hundred wagons obtained water in the sandy desert, and were saved. How is it that thou now givest up?” 7
By these few words that brother was re-established in his resolution. But the others besought the Blessed One, saying: “Lord! Tell us how this was.” 8
“Listen, then, O mendicants!” said the Blessed One; and having thus excited their attention, he made manifest a thing concealed by change of birth. 9
Once upon a time, when Brahmadatta was reigning in Kāsi, the Bodhisatta was born in a merchant’s family; and when he grew up, he went about trafficking with five hundred carts: 10
One day he arrived at a sandy desert many leagues across. The sand in that desert was so fine that when taken in the closed fist it could not be kept in the hand. After the sun had risen it became as hot as a mass of burning embers, so that no man could walk on it. Those, therefore, who had to travel over it took wood, and water, and oil, and rice in their carts, and traveled during the night. And at daybreak they formed an encampment and spread an awning over it, and, taking their meals early, they passed the day lying in the shade. At sunset they supped, and when the ground had become cool they yoked their oxen and went on. The traveling was like a voyage over the sea: a desert-pilot had to be chosen, and he brought the caravan safe to the other side by his knowledge of the stars. 11
Thus the merchant of our story traversed the desert. And when he had passed over fifty-nine leagues he thought, “Now, in one more night we shall get out of the sand,” and after supper he directed the wagons to be yoked, and so set out. The pilot had cushions arranged on the foremost cart and lay down, looking at the stars and directing the men where to drive. But worn out by want of rest during the long march, he fell asleep, and did not perceive that the oxen had turned round and taken the same road by which they had come. 12
The oxen went on the whole night through. Towards dawn the pilot woke up, and, observing the stars, called out: “Stop the wagons, stop the wagons!” The day broke just as they stopped and were drawing up the carts in a line. Then the men cried out: “Why this is the very encampment we left yesterday! We have but little wood left and our water is all gone! We are lost!” And unyoking the oxen and spreading the canopy over their heads, they lay down in despondency, each one under his wagon. But the Bodhisatta said to himself, “If I lose heart, all these will perish,” and walked about while the morning was yet cool. On seeing a tuft of kusa-grass, he thought: “This could have grown only by soaking up some water which must be beneath it.” 13
And he made them bring a spade and dig in that spot. And they dug sixty cubits deep. And when they had got thus far, the spade of the diggers struck on a rock; and as soon as it struck, they all gave up in despair. But the Bodhisatta thought, “There must be water under that rock,” and descending into the well he got upon the stone, and stooping down applied his ear to it and tested the sound of it. He heard the sound of water gurgling beneath, and when he got out he called his page. “My lad, if thou givest up now, we shall all be lost. Do not lose heart. Take this iron hammer, and go down into the pit, and give the rock a good blow.” 14
The lad obeyed, and though they all stood by in despair, he went down full of determination and struck at the stone. The rock split in two and fell below, so that it no longer blocked the stream, and water rose till its depth from the bottom to the brim of the well was equal to the height of a palm-tree. And they all drank of the water, and bathed in it. Then they cooked rice and ate it, and fed their oxen with it. And when the sun set, they put a flag in the well, and went to the place appointed. There they sold their merchandise at a good profit and returned to their home, and when they died they passed away according to their deeds. And the Bodhisatta gave gifts and did other virtuous acts, and he also passed away according to his deeds. 15
After the Teacher had told the story he formed the connection by saying in conclusion, “The caravanleader was the Bodhisatta, the future Buddha; the page who at that time despaired not, but broke the stone, and gave water to the multitude, was this brother without perseverance; and the other men were attendants on the Buddha.” 16
LXXIV.
THE SOWER.
Bhāradvāja, a wealthy Brahman farmer, was celebrating his harvest-thanksgiving when the Blessed One came with his alms-bowl, begging for food. 1
Some of the people paid him reverence, but the Brahman was angry and said: “O samana, it would be more fitting for thee to go to work than to beg. I plough and sow, and having ploughed and sown, I eat. If thou didst likewise, thou, too, wouldst have something to eat.” 2
The Tathāgata answered him and said: “O Brahman, I, too, plough and sow, and having ploughed and sown, I cat.” 3
“Dost thou profess to be a husbandman?” replied the Brahman. “Where, then, are thy bullocks? Where is the seed and the plough?” 4
The Blessed One said: “Faith is the seed I sow: good works are the rain that fertilizes it; wisdom and modesty are the plough; my mind is the guiding-rein; I lay hold of the handle of the law; earnestness is the goad I use, and exertion is my draught-ox. This ploughing is ploughed to destroy the weeds of illusion. The harvest it yields is the immortal fruit of Nirvāna, and thus all sorrow ends.” 5
Then the Brahman poured rice-milk into a golden bowl and offered it to the Blessed One, saying: “Let the Teacher of mankind partake of the rice-milk, for the venerable Gotama ploughs a ploughing that bears the fruit of immortality.” 6
LXXV.
THE OUTCAST.
When Bhagavat dwelt at Sāvatthi in the Jetavana, he went out with his alms-bowl to beg for food and approached the house of a Brahman priest while the fire of an offering was blazing upon the altar. And the priest said: “Stay there, O shaveling; stay there, O wretched samana; thou art an outcast.” 1
The Blessed One replied: “Who is an outcast? 2
“An outcast is the man who is angry and bears hatred; the man who is wicked and hypocritical, he who embraces error and is full of deceit. 3
“Whosoever is a provoker and is avaricious, has evil desires, is envious, wicked, shameless, and without fear to commit wrong, let him be known as an outcast. 4
“Not by birth does one become an outcast, not by birth does one become a Brahman; by deeds one becomes an outcast, by deeds one becomes a Brahman.” 5
LXXVI.
THE WOMAN AT THE WELL.
Ānanda, the favorite disciple of the Buddha, having been sent by the Lord on a mission, passed by a well near a village, and seeing Pakati, a girl of the Mātanga caste, he asked her for water to drink. 1
Pakati said: “O Brahman, I am too humble and mean to give thee water to drink, do not ask any service of me lest thy holiness be contaminated, for I am of low caste.” 2
And Ānanda replied: “I ask not for caste but for water;” and the Mātanga girl’s heart leaped joyfully and she gave Ānanda to drink. 3
Ānanda thanked her and went away; but she followed him at a distance. 4
Having heard that Ānanda was a disciple of Gotama Sakyamuni, the girl repaired to the Blessed One and cried: “O Lord help me, and let me live in the place where Ānanda thy disciple dwells, so that I may see him and minister unto him, for I love Ānanda.” 5
And the Blessed One understood the emotions of her heart and he said: “Pakati, thy heart is full of love, but thou understandest not thine own sentiments. It is not Ānanda that thou lovest, but his kindness. Accept, then, the kindness thou hast seen him practise unto thee, and in the humility of thy station practise it unto others. 6
“Verily there is great merit in the generosity of a king when he is kind to a slave; but there is a greater merit in the slave when he ignores the wrongs which he suffers and cherishes kindness and good-will to all mankind. He will cease to hate his oppressors, and even when powerless to resist their usurpation will with compassion pity their arrogance and supercilious demeanor. 7
“Blessed art thou, Pakati, for though thou art a Mātanga thou wilt be a model for noblemen and noblewomen. Thou art of low caste, but Brahmans may learn a lesson from thee. Swerve not from the path of justice and righteousness and thou wilt outshine the royal glory of queens on the throne.” 8
LXXVII.
THE PEACEMAKER.
It is reported that two kingdoms were on the verge of war for the possession of a certain embankment which was disputed by them. 1
And the Buddha seeing the kings and their armies ready to fight, requested them to tell him the cause of their quarrels. Having heard the complaints on both sides. he said: 2
“I understand that the embankment has value for some of your people; has it any intrinsic value aside from its service to your men?” 3
“It has no intrinsic value whatever,” was the reply. The Tathāgata continued: “Now when you go to battle is it not sure that many of your men will be slain and that you yourselves, O kings, are liable to lose your lives?” 4
And they said: “Verily, it is sure that many will be slain and our own lives be jeopardized.” 5
“The blood of men, however,” said Buddha, “has it less intrinsic value than a mound of earth?” 6
“No,” the kings said, “the lives of men and above all the lives of kings, are priceless.” 7
Then the Tathāgata concluded: “Are you going to stake that which is priceless against that which has no intrinsic value whatever?” 8
The wrath of the two monarchs abated, and they came to a peaceable agreement. 9
LXXVIII.
THE HUNGRY DOG.
There was a great king who oppressed his people and was hated by his subjects; yet when the Tathāgata came into his kingdom, the king desired much to see him. So he went to the place where the Blessed One stayed and asked: “O Sakyamuni, canst thou teach a lesson to the king that will divert his mind and benefit him at the same time?” 1
And the Blessed One said: “I shall tell thee the parable of the hungry dog: 2
“There was a wicked tyrant; and the god Indra, assuming the shape of a hunter, came down upon earth with the demon Mātali, the latter appearing as a dog of enormous size. Hunter and dog entered the palace, and the dog howled so wofully that the royal buildings shook by the sound to their very foundations. The tyrant had the aweinspiring hunter brought before his throne and inquired after the cause of the terrible bark. The hunter said, “The dog is hungry,” whereupon the frightened king ordered food for him. All the food prepared at the royal banquet disappeared rapidly in the dog’s jaws, and still he howled with portentous significance. More food was sent for, and all the royal store-houses were emptied, but in vain. Then the tyrant grew desperate and asked: ‘Will nothing satisfy the cravings of that woful beast?’ ‘Nothing,’ replied the hunter, ‘nothing except perhaps the flesh of all his enemies.’ ‘And who are his enemies?’ anxiously asked the tyrant. The hunter replied: ‘The dog will howl as long as there are people hungry in the kingdom, and his enemies are those who practise injustice and oppress the poor.’ The oppressor of the people, remembering his evil deeds, was seized with remorse, and for the first time in his life he began to listen to the teachings of righteousness.” 3
Having ended his story, the Blessed One addressed the king, who had turned pale, and said to him: 4
“The Tathāgata can quicken the spiritual ears of the powerful, and when thou, great king, hearest the dog bark, think of the teachings of the Buddha, and thou mayst still learn to pacify the monster.” 5
LXXIX.
THE DESPOT.
King Brahmadatta happened to see a beautiful woman, the wife of a Brahman merchant, and, conceiving a passion for her ordered a precious jewel secretly to be dropped into the merchant’s carriage. The jewel was missed, searched for, and found. The merchant was arrested on the charge of stealing, and the king pretended to listen with great attention to the defence, and with seeming regret ordered the merchant to be executed, while his wife was consigned to the royal harem. 1
Brahmadatta attended the execution in person, for such sights were wont to give him pleasure, but when the doomed man looked with deep compassion at his infamous judge, a flash of the Buddha’s wisdom lit up the king’s passion-beclouded mind; and while the executioner raised the sword for the fatal stroke, Brahmadatta felt the effect in his own mind, and he imagined he saw himself on the block. “Hold, executioner!” shouted Brahmadatta, “it is the king whom thou slayest!” But it was too late! The executioner had done the bloody deed. 2
The king fell back in a swoon, and when he awoke a change had come over him. He had ceased to be the cruel despot and henceforth led a life of holiness and rectitude. The people said that the character of the Brahman had been impressed into his mind. 3
O ye who commit murders and robberies! The veil of self-delusion covers your eyes. If ye could see things as they are, not as they appear, ye would no longer inflict injuries and pain on your own selves. Ye see not that ye will have to atone for your evil deeds, for what ye sow that will ye reap. 4
LXXX.
VĀSAVADATTĀ.
There was a courtesan in Mathurā named Vāsavadattā. She happened to see Upagutta, one of Buddha’s disciples, a tall and beautiful youth, and fell desperately in love with him. Vāsavadattā sent an invitation to the young man, but he replied: “The time has not yet arrived when Upagutta will visit Vāsavadattā.” 1
The courtesan was astonished at the reply, and she sent again for him, saying: “Vāsavadattā desires love, not gold, from Upagutta.” But Upagutta made the same enigmatic reply and did not come. 2
A few months later Vāsavadattā had a love-intrigue with the chief of the artisans, and at that time a wealthy merchant came to Mathurā, who fell in love with Vāsavadattā. Seeing his wealth, and fearing the jealousy of her other lover, she contrived the death of the chief of the artisans, and concealed his body under a dunghill. 3
When the chief of the artisans had disappeared, his relatives and friends searched for him and found his body. Vāsavadattā, however, was tried by a judge, and condemned to have her ears and nose, her hands and feet cut off, and flung into a graveyard. 4
Vāsavadattā had been a passionate girl, but kind to her servants, and one of her maids followed her, and out of love for her former mistress ministered unto her in her agonies, and chased away the crows. 5
Now the time had arrived when Upagutta decided to visit Vāsavadattā. 6
When he came, the poor woman ordered her maid to collect and hide under a cloth her severed limbs; and he greeted her kindly, but she said with petulance: “Once this body was fragrant like the lotus, and I offered thee my love. In those days I was covered with pearls and fine muslin. Now I am mangled by the executioner and covered with filth and blood.” 7
“Sister,” said the young man, “it is not for my pleasure that I approach thee. It is to restore to thee a nobler beauty than the charms which thou hast lost. 8
“I have seen with mine eyes the Tathāgata walking upon earth and teaching men his wonderful doctrine. But thou wouldst not have listened to the words of righteousness while surrounded with temptations, while under the spell of passion and yearning for worldly pleasures. Thou wouldst not have listened to the teachings of the Tathāgata, for thy heart was wayward, and thou didst set thy trust on the sham of thy transient charms. 9
“The charms of a lovely form are treacherous, and quickly lead into temptations, which have proved too strong for thee. But there is a beauty which will not fade, and if thou wilt but listen to the doctrine of our Lord, the Buddha, thou wilt find that peace which thou wouldst have found in the restless world of sinful pleasures.” 10
Vāsavadattā became calm and a spiritual happiness soothed the tortures of her bodily pain; for where there is much suffering there is also great bliss. 11
Having taken refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha, she died in pious submission to the punishment of her crime. 12
LXXXI.
THE MARRIAGE-FEAST IN JAMBŪNADA.
There was a man in Jambūnada who was to be married the next day, and he thought, “Would that the Buddha, the Blessed One, might be present at the wedding.” 1
And the Blessed One passed by his house and met him, and when he read the silent wish in the heart of the bridegroom, he consented to enter. 2
When the Holy One appeared with the retinue of his many bhikkhus, the host whose means were limited received them as best he could, saying: “Eat, my Lord, and all thy congregation, according to your desire.” 3
While the holy men ate, the meats and drinks remained undiminished, and the host thought to himself: “How wondrous is this! I should have had plenty for all my relatives and friends. Would that I had invited them all.” 4
When this thought was in the host’s mind, all his relatives and friends entered the house; and although the hall in the house was small there was room in it for all of them. They sat down at the table and ate, and there was more than enough for all of them. 5
The Blessed One was pleased to see so many guests full of good cheer and he quickened them and gladdened them with words of truth, proclaiming the bliss of righteousness: 6
“The greatest happiness which a mortal man can imagine is the bond of marriage that ties together two loving hearts. But there is a greater happiness still: it is the embrace of truth. Death will separate husband and wife, but death will never affect him who has espoused the truth. 7
“Therefore be married unto the truth and live with the truth in holy wedlock. The husband who loves his wife and desires for a union that shall be everlasting must be faithful to her so as to be like truth itself, and she will rely upon him and revere him and minister unto him. And the wife who loves her husband and desires a union that shall be everlasting must be faithful to him so as to be like truth itself; and he will place his trust in her, he will provide for her. Verily, I say unto you, their children will become like unto their parents and will bear witness to their happiness. 8
“Let no man be single, let every one be wedded in holy love to the truth. And when Māra, the destroyer, comes to separate the visible forms of your being, you will continue to live in the truth, and you will partake of the life everlasting, for the truth is immortal.” 9
There was no one among the guests but was strengthened in his spiritual life, and recognized the sweetness of a life of righteousness; and they took refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha. 10
LXXXII.
A PARTY IN SEARCH OF A THIEF.
Having sent out his disciples, the Blessed One himself wandered from place to place until he reached Uruvelā. 1
On his way he sat down in a grove to rest, and it happened that in that same grove there was a party of thirty friends who were enjoying themselves with their wives; and while they were sporting, some of their goods were stolen. 2
Then the whole party went in search of the thief and, meeting the Blessed One sitting under a tree, saluted him and said: “Pray, Lord, didst thou see the thief pass by with our goods?” 3
And the Blessed One said: “Which is better for you, that you go in search for the thief or for yourselves?” And the youths cried: “In search for ourselves!” 4
“Well, then,” said the Blessed One, “sit down and I will preach the truth to you.” 5
And the whole party sat down and they listened eagerly to the words of the Blessed One. Having grasped the truth, they praised the doctrine and took refuge in the Buddha. 6
LXXXIII.
IN THE REALM OF YAMARĀJA.
There was a Brahman, a religious man and fond in his affections but without deep wisdom. He had a son of great promise, who, when seven years old, was struck with a fatal disease and died. The unfortunate father was unable to control himself; he threw himself upon the corpse and lay there as one dead. 1
The relatives came and buried the dead child and when the father came to himself, he was so immoderate in his grief that he behaved like an insane person. He no longer gave way to tears but wandered about asking for the residence of Yamarāja, the king of death, humbly to beg of him that his child might be allowed to return to life. 2
Having arrived at a great Brahman temple the sad father went through certain religious rites and fell asleep. While wandering on in his dream he came to a deep mountain pass where he met a number of samanas who had acquired supreme wisdom. “Kind sirs,” he said, “can you not tell me where the residence of Yamarāja is?” And they asked him, “Good friend, why wouldst thou know?” Whereupon he told them his sad story and explained his intentions. Pitying his self-delusion, the samanas said: “No mortal man can reach the place where Yama reigns, but some four hundred miles westward lies a great city in which many good spirits live; every eighth day of the month Yama visits the place, and there mayst thou see him who is the King of Death and ask him for a boon.” 3
The Brahman rejoicing at the news went to the city and found it as the samanas had told him. He was admitted to the dread presence of Yama, the King of Death, who, on hearing his request, said: “Thy son now lives in the eastern garden where he is disporting himself; go there and ask him to follow thee.” 4
Said the happy father: “How does it happen that my son, without having performed one good work, is now living in paradise?” Yamarāja replied: “He has obtained celestial happiness not for performing good deeds, but because he died in faith and in love to the Lord and Master, the most glorious Buddha. The Buddha says: ‘The heart of love and faith spreads as it were a beneficent shade from the world of men to the world of gods.’ This glorious utterance is like the stamp of a king’s seal upon a royal edict.” 5
The happy father hastened to the place and saw his beloved child playing with other children, all transfigured by the peace of the blissful existence of a heavenly life. He ran up to his boy and cried with tears running down his cheeks: “My son, my son, dost thou not remember me, thy father who watched over thee with loving care and tended thee in thy sickness? Return home with me to the land of the living.” But the boy, while struggling to go back to his playmates, upbraided him for using such strange expressions as father and son. “In my present state,” he said, “I know no such words, for I am free from delusion.” 6
On this, the Brahman departed, and when he woke from his dream he bethought himself of the Blessed Master of mankind, the great Buddha, and resolved to go to him, lay bare his grief, and seek consolation. 7
Having arrived at the Jetavana, the Brahman told his story and how his boy had refused to recognize him and to go home with him. 8
And the World-honored One said: “Truly thou art deluded. When man dies the body is dissolved into its elements, but the spirit is not entombed. It leads a higher mode of life in which all the relative terms of father, son, wife, mother, are at an end, just as a guest who leaves his lodging has done with it, as though it were a thing of the past. Men concern themselves most about that which passes away; but the end of life quickly comes as a burning torrent sweeping away the transient in a moment. They are like a blind man set to look after a burning lamp. A wise man, understanding the transiency of worldly relations, destroys the cause of grief, and escapes from the seething whirlpool of sorrow. Religious wisdom lifts a man above the pleasures and pains of the world and gives him peace everlasting.” 9
The Brahman asked the permission of the Blessed One to enter the community of his bhikkhus, so as to acquire that heavenly wisdom which alone can give comfort to an afflicted heart. 10
LXXXIV.
THE MUSTARD SEED.
There was a rich man who found his gold suddenly transformed into ashes; and he took to his bed and refused all food. A friend, hearing of his sickness, visited the rich man and learned the cause of his grief. And the friend said: “Thou didst not make good use of thy wealth. When thou didst hoard it up it was not better than ashes. Now heed my advice. Spread mats in the bazaar; pile up these ashes, and pretend to trade with them.” 1
The rich man did as his friend had told him, and when his neighbors asked him, “Why sellest thou ashes?” he said: “I offer my goods for sale.” 2
After some time a young girl, named Kisā Gotamī, an orphan and very poor, passed by, and seeing the rich man in the bazaar, said: “My lord, why pilest thou thus up gold and silver for sale.” 3
And the rich man said: “Wilt thou please hand me that gold and silver?” And Kisā Gotamī took up a handful of ashes, and lo! they changed back into gold. 4
Considering that Kisā Gotamī had the mental eye of spiritual knowledge and saw the real worth of things, the rich man gave her in marriage to his son, and he said: “With many, gold is no better than ashes, but with Kisā Gotamī ashes become pure gold.” 5
And Kisā Gotamī had an only son, and he died. In her grief she carried the dead child to all her neighbors, asking them for medicine, and the people said: “She has lost her senses. The boy is dead.” 6
At length Kisā Gotamī met a man who replied to her request: “I cannot give thee medicine for thy child, but I know a physician who can.” 7
And the girl said: “Pray tell me, sir; who is it?” And the man replied: “Go to Sakyamuni, the Buddha.” 8
Kisā Gotamī repaired to the Buddha and cried: “Lord and Master, give me the medicine that will cure my boy.” 9
The Buddha answered: “I want a handful of mustard-seed.” And when the girl in her joy promised to procure it, the Buddha added: “The mustard-seed must be taken from a house where no one has lost a child, husband, parent, or friend.” 10
Poor Kisā Gotamī now went from house to house, and the people pitied her and said: “Here is mustard-seed; take it!” But when she asked, “Did a son or daughter, a father or mother, die in your family?” They answered her: “Alas! the living are few, but the dead are many. Do not remind us of our deepest grief.” And there was no house but some beloved one had died in it. 11
Kisā Gotamī became weary and hopeless, and sat down at the wayside, watching the lights of the city, as they flickered up and were extinguished again. At last the darkness of the night reigned everywhere. And she considered the fate of men, that their lives flicker up and are extinguished. And she thought to herself: “How selfish am I in my grief! Death is common to all; yet in this valley of desolation there is a path that leads him to immortality who has surrendered all selfishness.” 12
Putting away the selfishness of her affection for her child, Kisā Gotamī had the dead body buried in the forest. Returning to the Buddha, she took refuge in him and found comfort in the Dharma, which is a balm that will soothe all the pains of our troubled hearts. 13
The Buddha said: 14
“The life of mortals in this world is troubled and brief and combined with pain. For there is not any means by which those that have been born can avoid dying; after reaching old age there is death; of such a nature are living beings. 15
“As ripe fruits are early in danger of falling, so mortals when born are always in danger of death. 16
“As all earthen vessels made by the potter end in being broken, so is the life of mortals. 17
“Both young and adult, both those who are fools and those who are wise, all fall into the power of death; all are subject to death. 18
“Of those who, overcome by death, depart from life, a father cannot save his son, nor kinsmen their relations. 19
“Mark! while relatives are looking on and lamenting deeply, one by one mortals are carried off, like an ox that is led to the slaughter. 20
“So the world is afflicted with death and decay, therefore the wise do not grieve, knowing the terms of the world. 21
“In whatever manner people think a thing will come to pass, it is often different when it happens, and great is the disappointment; see, such are the terms of the world. 22
“Not from weeping nor from grieving will any one obtain peace of mind; on the contrary, his pain will be the greater and his body will suffer. He will make himself sick and pale, yet the dead are not saved by his lamentation. 23
“People pass away, and their fate after death will be according to their deeds. 24
“If a man live a hundred years, or even more, he will at last be separated from the company of his relatives, and leave the life of this world. 25
“He who seeks peace should draw out the arrow of lamentation, and complaint, and grief. 26
“He who has drawn out the arrow and has become composed will obtain peace of mind; he who has overcome all sorrow will become free from sorrow, and be blessed.” 27
LXXXV.
FOLLOWING THE MASTER OVER THE STREAM.
South of Sāvatthi is a great river, on the banks of which lay a hamlet of five hundred houses. Thinking of the salvation of the people, the World-honored One resolved to go to the village and preach the doctrine. Having come to the riverside he sat down beneath a tree, and the villagers seeing the glory of his appearance approached him with reverence; but when he began to preach, they believed him not. 1
When the world-honored Buddha had left Sāvatthi Sāriputta felt a desire to see the Lord and to hear him preach. Coming to the river where the water was deep and the current strong, he said to himself: “This stream shall not prevent me. I shall go and see the Blessed One,” and he stepped upon the water which was as firm under his feet as a slab of granite. 2
When he arrived at a place in the middle of the stream where the waves were high, Sāriputta’s heart gave way, and he began to sink. But rousing his faith and renewing his mental effort, he preceeded as before and reached the other bank. 3
The people of the village were astonished to see Sāriputta, and they asked how he could cross the stream where there was neither a bridge nor a ferry. 4
And Sāriputta replied: “I lived in ignorance until I heard the voice of the Buddha. As I was anxious to hear the doctrine of salvation, I crossed the river and I walked over its troubled waters because I had faith. Faith, nothing else, enabled me to do so, and now I am here in the bliss of the Master’s presency.” 5
The World-honored One added: “Sāriputta, thou hast spoken well. Faith like thine alone can save the world from the yawning gulf of migration and enable men to walk dryshod to the other shore.” 6
And the Blessed One urged to the villagers the necessity of ever advancing in the conquest of sorrow and of casting off all shackles so as to cross the river of worldliness and attain deliverance from death. 7
Hearing the words of the Tathāgata, the villagers were filled with joy and believing in the doctrines of the Blessed One embraced the five rules and took refuge in his name. 8
LXXXVI.
THE SICK BHIKKHU.
An old bhikkhu of a surly disposition was afflicted with a loathsome disease the sight and smell of which was so nauseating that no one would come near him or help him in his distress. And it happened that the World-honored One came to the vihāra in which the unfortunate man lay; hearing of the case he ordered warm water to be prepared and went to the sick-room to administer unto the sores of the patient with his own hand, saying to his disciples: 1
“The Tathāgata has come into the world to befriend the poor, to succor the unprotected, to nourish those in bodily affliction, both the followers of the Dharma and unbelievers, to give sight to the blind and enlighten the minds of the deluded, to stand up for the rights of orphans as well as the aged, and in so doing to set an example to others. This is the consummation of his work, and thus he attains the great goal of life as the rivers that lose themselves in the ocean.” 2
The World-honored One administered unto the sick bhikkhu daily so long as he stayed in that place. And the governor of the city came to the Buddha to do him reverence, and having heard of the service which the Lord did in the vihāra asked the Blessed One about the previous existence of the sick monk, and the Buddha said: 3
“In days gone by there was a wicked king who used to extort from his subjects all he could get; and he ordered one of his officers to lay the lash on a man of eminence. The officer little thinking of the pain he inflicted upon others, obeyed; but when the victim of the king’s wrath begged for mercy, he felt compassion and laid the whip lightly upon him. Now the king was reborn as Devadatta, who was abandoned by all his followers, because they were no longer willing to stand his severity and he died miserable and full of penitence. The officer is the sick bhikkhu, who having often given offence to his brethren in the vihāra was left without assistance in his distress. The eminent man, however, who was unjustly beaten and begged for mercy was the Bodhisatta; he has been reborn as the Tathāgata. It is now the lot of the Tathāgata to help the wretched officer as he had mercy on him.” 4
And the World-honored One repeated these lines: “He who inflicts pain on the gentle, or falsely accuses the innocent, will inherit one of the ten great calamities. But he who has learned to suffer with patience will be purified and will be the chosen instrument for the alleviation of suffering.” 5
The diseased bhikkhu on hearing these words turned to the Buddha, confessed his ill-natured temper and repented, and with a heart cleansed from error did reverence unto the Lord. 6
LXXXVII.
THE PATIENT ELEPHANT.
While the Blessed One was residing in the Jetavana, there was a householder living in Sāvatthi known to all his neighbors as patient and kind, but his relatives were wicked and contrived a plot to rob him. One day they came to the householder and often worrying him with all kinds of threats took away a goodly portion of his property. He did not go to court, nor did he complain, but tolerated with great forbearance the wrongs he suffered. 1
The neighbors wondered and began to talk about it, and rumors of the affair reached the ears of the brethren in Jetavana. While the brethren discussed the occurrence in the assembly hall, the Blessed One entered and asked “What was the topic of your conversation?” And they told him. 2
Said the Blessed One: “The time will come when the wicked relatives will find their punishment. O brethren, this is not the first time that this occurrence took place; it has happened before”, and he told them a world-old tale. 3
Once upon a time, when Brahmadatta was king of Benares, the Bodhisatta was born in the Himālaya region as an elephant. He grew up strong und big, and ranged the hills and mountains, the peaks and caves of the tortuous woods in the valleys. Once as he went he saw a pleasant tree, and took his food, standing under it. 4
Then some impertinent monkeys came down out of the tree, and jumping on the elephant’s back, insulted and tormented him greatly; they took hold of his tusks, pulled his tail and disported themselves, thereby causing him much annoyance. The Bodhisatta, being full of patience, kindliness and mercy, took no notice at all of their misconduct which the monkeys repeated again and again. 5
One day the spirit that lived in the tree, standing upon the tree-trunk, addressed the elephant saying, “My lord elephant, why dost thou put up with the impudence of these bad monkeys?” And he asked the question in a couplet as follows: 6
- “Why dost thou patiently endure each freak
- These mischievous and selfish monkeys wreak?” 7
The Bodhisatta, on hearing this, replied, “If, Tree-sprite, I cannot endure these monkeys’ ill treatment without abusing their birth, lineage and persons, how can I walk in the eightfold noble path? But these monkeys will do the same to others thinking them to be like me. If they do it to any rogue elephant, he will punish them indeed, and I shall be delivered both from their annoyance and the guilt of having done harm to others.” 8
Saying this he repeated another stanza: 9
- “If they will treat another one like me,
- He will destroy them; and I shall be free.” 10
A few days after, the Bodhisatta went elsewhither, and another elephant, a savage beast, came and stood in his place. The wicked monkeys thinking him to be like the old one, climbed upon his back and did as before. The rogue elephant seized the monkeys with his trunk, threw them upon the ground, gored them with his tusk and trampled them to mincemeat under his feet. 11
When the Master had ended this teaching, he declared the truths, and identified the births, saying: “At that time the mischievous monkeys were the wicked relatives of the good man, the rogue elephant was the one who will punish them, but the virtuous noble elephant was the Tathāgata himself in a former incarnation.” 12
After this discourse one of the brethren rose and asked leave to propose a question and when permission was granted he said: “I have heard the doctrine that wrong should be met with wrong and the evil doer should be checked by being made to suffer, for if this were not done evil would increase and good would disappear. What shall we do?” 13
Said the Blessed One: “Nay, I will tell you: Ye who have left the world and have adopted this glorious faith of putting aside selfishness, ye shall not do evil for evil nor return hate for hate. Nor do ye think that ye can destroy wrong by retaliating evil for evil and thus increasing wrong. Leave the wicked to their fate and their evil deeds will sooner or later in one way or another bring on their own punishment.” And the Tathāgata repeated these stanzas: 14
- “Who harmeth him that doth no harm
- And striketh him that striketh not,
- Shall gravest punishment incur
- The which his wickedness begot,— 15
- “Some of the greatest ills in life
- Either a loathsome dread disease,
- Or dread old age, or loss of mind,
- Or wretched pain without surcease, 16
- “Or conflagration, loss of wealth;
- Or of his nearest kin he shall
- See some one die that’s dear to him,
- And then he’ll be reborn in hell.” 17
THE LAST DAYS.
LXXXVIII.
THE CONDITIONS OF WELFARE.
WHEN the Blessed One was residing on the mount called Vulture’s Peak, near Rājagaha, Ajātasattu the king of Magadha, who reigned in the place of Bimbisāra, planned an attack on the Vajjis, and he said to Vassakāra, his prime minister: “I will root out the Vajjis, mighty though they be. I will destroy the Vajjis; I will bring them to utter ruin! Come now, O Brahman, and go to the Blessed One; inquire in my name for his health, and tell him my purpose. Bear carefully in mind what the Blessed One may say, and repeat it to me, for the Buddhas speak nothing untrue.” 1
When Vassakara, the prime minister, had greeted the Blessed One and delivered his message, the venerable Ānanda stood behind the Blessed One and fanned him, and the Blessed One said to him: “Hast thou heard, Ānanda, that the Vajjis hold full and frequent public assemblies?” 2
“Lord, so I have heard,” replied he. 3
“So long, Ānanda,” said the Blessed One, “as the Vajjis hold these full and frequent public assemblies, they may be expected not to decline, but to prosper. So long as they meet together in concord, so long as they honor their elders, so long as they respect womanhood, so long as they remain religious, performing all proper rites, so long as they extend the rightful protection, defence and support to the holy ones, the Vajjis may be expected not to decline, but to prosper.” 4
Then the Blessed One addressed Vassakāra and said: “When I stayed, O Brahman, at Vesālī, I taught the Vajjis these conditions of welfare, that so long as they should remain well instructed, so long as they will continue in the right path, so long as they live up to the precepts of righteousness, we could expect them not to decline, but to prosper.” 5
As soon as the king’s messenger had gone, the Blessed One had the brethren, that were in the neighborhood of Rājagaha, assembled in the service-hall, and addressed them, saying: 6
“I will teach you, O bhikkhus, the conditions of the welfare of a community. Listen well, and I will speak. 7
“So long, O bhikkhus, as the brethren hold full and frequent assemblies, meeting in concord, rising in concord, and attending in concord to the affairs of the Sangha; so long as they, O bhikkhus, do not abrogate that which experience has proved to be good, and introduce nothing except such things as have been carefully tested; so long as their elders practise justice; so long as the brethren esteem, revere, and support their elders, and hearken unto their words; so long as the brethren are not under the influence of craving, but delight in the blessings of religion, so that good and holy men shall come to them and dwell among them in quiet; so long as the brethren shall not be addicted to sloth and idleness; so long as the brethren shall exercise themselves in the sevenfold higher wisdom of mental activity, search after truth, energy, joy, modesty, self-control, earnest contemplation, and equanimity of mind, — so long the Sangha may be expected not to decline, but to prosper. 8
“Therefore, O bhikkhus, be full of faith, modest in heart, afraid of sin, anxious to learn, strong in energy, active in mind, and full of wisdom.” 9
LXXXIX.
SĀRIPUTTA’S FAITH.
The Blessed One proceeded with a great company of the brethren to Nālandā; and there he stayed in a mango grove. 1
Now the venerable Sāriputta came to the place where the Blessed One was, and having saluted him, took his seat respectfully at his side, and said: “Lord! such faith have I in the Blessed One, that methinks there never has been, nor will there be, nor is there now any other, who is greater or wiser than the Blessed One, that is to say, as regards the higher wisdom.” 2
Replied the Blessed One: “Grand and bold are the words of thy mouth, Sāriputta: verily, thou hast burst forth into a song of ecstasy! Surely then thou hast known all the Blessed Ones who in the long ages of the past have been holy Buddhas?” 3
“Not so, O Lord!” said Sāriputta. 4
And the Lord continued: “Then thou hast perceived all the Blessed Ones who in the long ages of the future shall be holy Buddhas?” 5
“Not so, O Lord!” 6
“But at least then, O Sāriputta, thou knowest me as the holy Buddha now alive, and hast penetrated my mind.” 7
“Not even that, O Lord!” 8
“Thou seest then, Sāriputta, that thou knowest not the hearts of the holy Buddhas of the past nor the hearts of those of the future. Why, therefore, are thy words so grand and bold? Why burstest thou forth into such a song of ecstasy?” 9
“O Lord! I have not the knowledge of the hearts of all the Buddhas that have been and are to come, and now are. I only know the lineage of the faith. Just as a king, Lord, might have a border city, strong in its foundations, strong in its ramparts and with one gate only; and the king might have a watchman there, clever, expert, and wise, to stop all strangers and admit only friends. And on going over the approaches all about the city, he might not be able so to observe all the joints and crevices in the ramparts of that city as to know where such a small creature as a cat could get out. That might well be. Yet all living beings of larger size that entered or left the city, would have to pass through that gate. Thus only is it, Lord, that I know the lineage of the faith. I know that the holy Buddhas of the past, putting away all lust, ill-will, sloth, pride, and doubt, knowing all those mental faults which make men weak, training their minds in the four kinds of mental activity, thoroughly exercising themselves in the sevenfold higher wisdom, received the full fruition of Enlightenment. And I know that the holy Buddhas of the times to come will do the same. And I know that the Blessed One, the holy Buddha of to-day, has done so now.” 10
“Great is thy faith, O Sāriputta,” replied the Blessed One, “but take heed that it be well grounded.” 11
XC.
PĀTALIPUTTA.
When the Blessed One had stayed as long as convenient at Nālanda, he went to Pataliputta, the frontier town of Magadha; and when the disciples at Pātaliputta heard of his arrival, they invited him to their village rest-house. And the Blessed One robed himself, took his bowl and went with the brethren to the rest-house. There he washed his feet, entered the hall, and seated himself against the center pillar, with his face towards the east. The brethren, also, having washed their feet, entered the hall, and took their seats round the Blessed One, against the western wall, facing the east. And the lay devotees of Pātaliputta, having also washed their feet, entered the hall, and took their seats opposite the Blessed One against the eastern wall, facing towards the west. 1
Then the Blessed One addressed the lay-disciples of Pātaliputta, and he said: 2
“Fivefold, O householders, is the loss of the wrong-doer through his want of rectitude. In the first place, the wrongdoer, devoid of rectitude, falls into great poverty through sloth; in the next place, his evil repute gets noised abroad; thirdly, whatever society he enters, whether of Brahmans, nobles, heads of houses, or samanas, he enters shyly and confusedly; fourthly, he is full of anxiety when he dies; and lastly, on the dissolution of the body after death, his mind remains in an unhappy state. Wherever his karma continues, there will be suffering and woe. This, O householders, is the fivefold loss of the evil-doer! 3
“Fivefold, O householders, is the gain of the well-doer through his practice of rectitude. In the first place the well-doer, strong in rectitude, acquires property through his industry; in the next place, good reports of him are spread abroad; thirdly, whatever society he enters, whether of nobles, Brahmans, heads of houses, or members of the order, he enters with confidence and self-possession; fourthly, he dies without anxiety; and, lastly, on the dissolution of the body after death, his mind remains in a happy state. Wherever his karma continues, there will be heavenly bliss and peace. This, O householders, is the fivefold gain of the well-doer.” 4
When the Blessed One had taught the disciples, and incited them, and roused them, and gladdened them far into the night with religious edification, he dismissed them, saying, “The night is far spent, O householders. It is time for you to do what ye deem most fit.” 5
“Be it so, Lord!” answered the disciples of Pātaliputta, and rising from their seats, they bowed to the Blessed One, and keeping him on their right hand as they passed him, they departed thence. 6
While the Blessed One stayed at Pātaliputta, the king of Magadha sent a messenger to the governor of Pātaliputta to raise fortifications for the security of the town. 7
And the Blessed One seeing the laborers at work predicted the future greatness of the place, saying: “The men who build the fortress act as if they had consulted higher powers. For this city of Pātaliputta will be a dwelling-place of busy men and a center for the exchange of all kinds of goods. But three dangers hang over Pātaliputta, that of fire, that of water, that of dissension.” 8
When the governor heard of the prophecy of Pātaliputta’s future, he greatly rejoiced and named the city-gate through which the Buddha had gone towards the river Ganges, “The Gotama Gate.” 9
Meanwhile the people living on the banks of the Ganges arrived in great numbers to pay reverence to the Lord of the world; and many persons asked him to do them the honor to cross over in their boats. But the Blessed One considering the number of the boats and their beauty did not want to show any partiality, and by accepting the invitation of one to offend all the others. He therefore crossed the river without any boat, signifying thereby that the rafts of asceticism and the gaudy gondolas of religious ceremonies were not staunch enough to weather the storms of Samsāra, while the Tathāgata can walk dry-shod over the ocean of worldliness. 10
And as the city gate was called after the name of the Tathāgata so the people called this passage of the river “Gotama Ford.” 11
XCI.
THE MIRROR OF TRUTH.
The Blessed One proceeded to the village Nādikā with a great company of brethren and there he stayed at the Brick Hall. And the venerable Ānanda went to the Blessed One and mentioning to him the names of the brethren and sisters that had died, anxiously inquired about their fate after death, whether they had been reborn in animals or in hell, or as ghosts, or in any place of woe. 1
And the Blessed One replied to Ānanda and said: 2
“Those who have died after the complete destruction of the three bonds of lust, of covetousness and of the egotistical cleaving to existence, need not fear the state after death. They will not be reborn in a state of suffering; their minds will not continue as a karma of evil deeds or sin, but are assured of final salvation. 3
“When they die, nothing will remain of them but their good thoughts, their righteous acts, and the bliss that proceeds from truth and righteousness. As rivers must at last reach the distant main, so their minds will be reborn in higher states of existence and continue to be pressing on to their ultimate goal which is the ocean of truth, the eternal peace of Nirvāna. 4
“Men are anxious about death and their fate after death; but consider, it is not at all strange, Ānanda, that a human being should die. However, that thou shouldst inquire about them, and having heard the truth still be anxious about the dead, this is wearisome to the Blessed One. I will, therefore, teach thee the mirror of truth and let the faithful disciple repeat it: 5
“ ‘Hell is destroyed for me, and rebirth as an animal, or a ghost, or in any place of woe. I am converted; I am no longer liable to be reborn in a state of suffering, and am assured of final salvation.’ 6
“What, then, Ānanda, is this mirror of truth? It is the consciousness that the elect disciple is in this world possessed of faith in the Buddha, believing the Blessed One to be the Holy One, the Fully-englightened One, wise, upright, happy, world-knowing, supreme, the Bridler of men’s wayward hearts, the Teacher of gods and men, the blessed Buddha. 7
“It is further the consciousness that the disciple is possessed of faith in the truth, believing the truth to have been proclaimed by the Blessed One, for the benefit of the world, passing not away, welcoming all, leading to salvation, to which through truth the wise will attain, each one by his own efforts. 8
“And, finally, it is the consciousness that the disciple is possessed of faith in the order, believing in the efficacy of a union among those men and women who are anxious to walk in the noble eightfold path; believing this church of the Buddha, of the righteous, the upright, the just, the law-abiding, to be worthy of honor, of hospitality, of gifts, and of reverence; to be the supreme sowing-ground of merit for the world; to be possessed of the virtues beloved by the good, virtues unbroken, intact, unspotted, unblemished, virtues which make men truly free, virtues which are praised by the wise, are untarnished by the desire of selfish aims, either now or in a future life, or by the belief in the efficacy of outward acts, and are conducive to high and holy thought. 9
“This is the mirror of truth which teaches the straightest way to enlightenment which is the common goal of all living creatures. He who possesses the mirror of truth is free from fear; he will find comfort in the tribulations of life, and his life will be a blessing to all his fellow-creatures.” 10
XCII.
AMBAPĀLĪ.
Then the Blessed One proceeded with a great number of brethren to Vesālī, and he stayed at the grove of the courtesan Ambapālī. And he said to the brethren: “Let a brother, O bhikkhus, be mindful and thoughtful. Let a brother, whilst in the world, overcome the grief which arises from bodily craving, from the lust of sensations, and from the errors of wrong reasoning. Whatever you do, act always in full presence of mind. Be thoughtful in eating and drinking, in walking or standing, in sleeping or waking, while talking or being silent.” 1
When the courtesan Ambapālī heard that the Blessed One was staying in her mango grove, she was exceedingly glad and went in a carriage as far as the ground was passable for carriages. There she alighted and thence proceeding to the place where the Blessed One was, she took her seat respectfully at his feet on one side. As a prudent woman goes forth to perform her religious duties, so she appeared in a simple dress without any ornaments, yet beautiful to look upon. 2
And the Blessed One thought to himself: “This woman moves in worldly circles and is a favorite of kings and princes; yet is her heart calm and composed. Young in years, rich, surrounded by pleasures, she is thoughtful and steadfast. This, indeed, is rare in the world. Women, as a rule, are scant in wisdom and deeply immersed in vanity; but she, although living in luxury, has acquired the wisdom of a master, taking delight in piety, and able to receive the truth in its completeness.” 3
When she was seated, the Blessed One instructed, aroused, and gladdened her with religious discourse. 4
As she listened to the law, her face brightened with delight. Then she rose and said to the Blessed One: “Will the Blessed One do me the honor of taking his meal, together with the brethren, at my house to-morrow?” And the Blessed One gave, by silence, his consent. 5
Now, the Licchavi, a wealthy family of princely rank, hearing that the Blessed One had arrived at Vesālī and was staying at Ambapālī’s grove, mounted their magnificent carriages, and proceeded with their retinue to the place where the Blessed One was. And the Licchavi were gorgeously dressed in bright colors and decorated with costly jewels. 6
And Ambapālī drove up against the young Licchavi, axle to axle, wheel to wheel, and yoke to yoke, and the Licchavi said to Ambapālī, the courtesan: “How is it, Ambapālī, that you drive up against us thus?” 7
“My lords,” said she, “I have just invited the Blessed One and his brethren for their to-morrow’s meal.” 8
And the princes replied: “Ambapālī! give up this meal to us for a hundred thousand.” 9
“My lords, were you to offer all Vesālī with its subject territory, I would not give up so great an honor!” 10
Then the Licchavi went on to Ambapālī’s grove. 11
When the Blessed One saw the Licchavi approaching in the distance, he addressed the brethren, and said: “O brethren, let those of the brethren who have never seen the gods gaze upon this company of the Licchavi, for they are dressed gorgeously, like immortals.” 12
And when they had driven as far as the ground was passable for carriages, the Licchavi alighted and went on foot to the place where the Blessed One was, taking their seats respectfully by his side. And when they were thus seated, the Blessed One instructed, aroused, and gladdened them with religious discourse. 13
Then they addressed the Blessed One and said: “Will the Blessed One do us the honor of taking his meal, together with the brethren, at our palace to-morrow?” 14
“O Licchavi,” said the Blessed One, “I have promised to dine to-morrow with Ambapālī, the courtesan.” 15
Then the Licchavi, expressing their approval of the words of the Blessed One, arose from their seats and bowed down before the Blessed One, and, keeping him on their right hand as they passed him, they departed thence; but when they came home, they cast up their hands, saying: “A worldly woman has outdone us; we have been left behind by a frivolous girl!” 16
And at the end of the night Ambapālī, the courtesan, made ready in her mansion sweet rice and cakes, and on the next day announced through a messenger the time to the Blessed One, saying, “The hour, Lord, has come, and the meal is ready!” 17
And the Blessed One robed himself early in the morning, took his bowl, and went with the brethren to the place where Ambapālī’s dwelling-house was; and when they had come there they seated themselves on the seats prepared for them. And Ambapālī, the courtesan, set the sweet rice and cakes before the order, with the Buddha at their head, and waited upon them till they refused to take more. 18
And when the Blessed One had finished his meal, the courtesan had a low stool brought, and sat down at his side, and addressed the Blessed One, and said: “Lord, I present this mansion to the order of bhikkhus, of which the Buddha is the chief.” 19
And the Blessed One accepted the gift; and after instructing, arousing, and gladdening her with religious edification, he rose from his seat and departed thence. 20
XCIII.
THE BUDDHA’S FAREWELL ADDRESS.
When the Blessed One had remained as long as he wished at Ambapālī’s grove, he went to Beluva, near Vesālī. There the Blessed One addressed the brethren, and said: “O mendicants, take up your abode for the rainy season round about Vesālī, each one according to the place where his friends and near companions may live. I shall enter upon the rainy season here at Beluva.” 1
When the Blessed One had thus entered upon the rainy season there fell upon him a dire sickness, and sharp pains came upon him even unto death. But the Blessed One, mindful and self-possessed, bore his ailments without complaint. 2
Then this thought occurred to the Blessed One, “It would not be right for me to pass away from life without addressing the disciples, without taking leave of the order. Let me now, by a strong effort of the will, subdue this sickness, and keep my hold on life till the allotted time have come.” 3
And the Blessed One, by a strong effort of the will subdued the sickness, and kept his hold on life till the time he fixed upon should come. And the sickness abated. 4
Thus the Blessed One began to recover; and when he had quite got rid of the sickness, he went out from the monastery, and sat down on a seat spread out in the open air. And the venerable Ānanda, accompanied by many other disciples, approached where the Blessed One was, saluted him, and taking a seat respectfully on one side, said: “I have beheld, Lord, how the Blessed One was in health, and I have beheld how the Blessed One had to suffer. And though at the sight of the sickness of the Blessed One my body became weak as a creeper, and the horizon became dim to me, and my faculties were no longer clear, yet notwithstanding I took some little comfort from the thought that the Blessed One would not pass away from existence until at least he had left instructions as touching the order.” 5
And the Blessed One addressed Ānanda in behalf of the order, saying: 6
“What, then, Ānanda, does the order expect of me? I have preached the truth without making any distinction between exoteric and esoteric doctrine; for in respect of the truth, Ānanda, the Tathāgata has no such thing as the closed fist of a teacher, who keeps some things back. 7
“Surely, Ānanda, should there be any one who harbors the thought, ‘It is I who will lead the brotherhood,’ or, ‘The order is dependent upon me,’ he should lay down instructions in any matter concerning the order. Now the Tathāgata, Ānanda, thinks not that it is he who should lead the brotherhood, or that the order is dependent upon him. 8
“Why, then, should the Tathāgata leave instructions in any matter concerning the order? 9
“I am now grown old, O Ānanda, and full of years; my journey is drawing to its close, I have reached the sum of my days, I am turning eighty years of age. 10
“Just as a worn-out cart can not be made to move along without much difficulty, so the body of the Tathāgata can only be kept going with much additional care. 11
“It is only, Ānanda, when the Tathāgata, ceasing to attend to any outward thing, becomes plunged in that devout meditation of heart which is concerned with no bodily object, it is only then that the body of the Tathāgata is at ease. 12
“Therefore, O Ānanda, be ye lamps unto yourselves. Rely on yourselves, and do not rely on external help. 13
“Hold fast to the truth as a lamp. Seek salvation alone in the truth. Look not for assistance to any one besides yourselves. 14
“And how, Ānanda, can a brother be a lamp unto himself, rely on himself only and not on any external help, holding fast to the truth as his lamp and seeking salvation in the truth alone, looking not for assistance to any one besides himself? 15
“Herein, O Ānanda, let a brother, as he dwells in the body, so regard the body that he, being strenuous, thoughtful, and mindful, may, whilst in the world, overcome the grief which arises from the body’s cravings. 16
“While subject to sensations let him continue so to regard the sensations that he, being strenuous, thoughtful, and mindful, may, whilst in the world, overcome the grief which arises from the sensations. 17
“And so, also, when he thinks or reasons, or feels, let him so regard his thoughts that being strenuous, thoughtful, and mindful he may, whilst in the world, overcome the grief which arises from the craving due to ideas, or to reasoning, or to feeling. 18
“Those who, either now or after I am dead, shall be lamps unto themselves, relying upon themselves only and not relying upon any external help, but holding fast to the truth as their lamp, and seeking their salvation in the truth alone, and shall not look for assistance to any one besides themselves, it is they, Ānanda, among my bhikkhus, who shall reach the very topmost height! But they must be anxious to learn.” 19
XCIV.
THE BUDDHA ANNOUNCES HIS DEATH.
Said the Tathāgata to Ānanda: “In former years, Ānanda, Māra, the Evil One, approached the holy Buddha three times to tempt him. 1
“And now, Ānanda, Māra, the Evil One, came again today to the place where I was, and, standing beside me, addressed me in the same words as he did when I was resting under the shepherd’s Nigrodha tree on the bank of the Nerañjarā river: ‘Be greeted, thou Holy One. Thou hast attained the highest bliss and it is time for thee to enter into the final Nirvāna.’ 2
“And when Māra had thus spoken, Ānanda, I answered him and said: ‘Make thyself happy, O wicked one; the final extinction of the Tathāgata shall take place before long.’ ” 3
And the venerable Ānanda addressed the Blessed One and said: “Vouchsafe, Lord, to remain with us, O Blessed One! for the good and the happiness of the great multitudes, out of pity for the world, for the good and the gain of makind!” 4
Said the Blessed One: “Enough now, Ānanda, beseech not the Tathāgata!” 5
And again, a second time, the venerable Ānanda besought the Blessed One in the same words. And he received from the Blessed One the same reply. 6
And again, the third time, the venerable Ānanda besought the Blessed One to live longer; and the Blessed One said: “Hast thou faith, Ānanda?” 7
Said Ānanda: “I have, my Lord!” 8
And the Blessed One, seeing the quivering eyelids of Ānanda, read the deep grief in the heart of his beloved disciple, and he asked again: “Hast thou, indeed, faith, Ānanda?” 9
And Ānanda said: “I have faith, my Lord.” 10
Than the Blessed One continued: “If thou hast faith, Ānanda, in the wisdom of the Tathāgata, why, then, Ānanda, dost thou trouble the Tathāgata even until the third time? Have I not formerly declared to you that it is in the very nature of all compound things that they must be dissolved again. We must separate ourselves from all things near and dear to us, and must leave them. How then, Ānanda, can it be possible for me to remain, since everything that is born, or brought into being, and organized, contains within itself the inherent necessity of dissolution? How, then, can it be possible that this body of mine should not be dissolved? No such condition can exist! And this mortal existence, O Ānanda, has been relinquished, cast away, renounced, rejected, and abandoned by the Tathāgata.” 11
And the Blessed One said to Ānanda: “Go now, Ānanda, and assemble in the Service Hall such of the brethren as reside in the neighborhood of Vesālī.” 12
Then the Blessed One proceeded to the Service Hall, and sat down there on the mat spread out for him. And when he was seated, the Blessed One addressed the brethren, and said: 13
“O brethren, ye to whom the truth has been made known, having thoroughly made yourselves masters of it, practise it, meditate upon it, and spread it abroad, in order that pure religion may last long and be perpetuated, in order that pure religion may last long and be perpetuated, in order that it may continue for the good and happiness of the great multitudes, out of pity for the world, and to the good and gain of all living beings! 14
“Star-gazing and astrology, forecasting lucky or unfortunate events by signs, prognosticating good or evil, all these are things forbidden. 15
“He who lets his heart go loose without restraint shall not attain Nirvāna; therefore, must we hold the heart in check, and retire from worldly excitements and seek tranquillity of mind. 16
“Eat your food to satisfy your hunger, and drink to satisfy you thirst. Satisfy the necessities of life like the butterfly that sips the flower, without destroying its fragrance or its texture. 17
“It is through not understanding and grasping the four truths, O brethren, that we have gone astray so long, and wandered in this weary path of transmigrations, both you and I, until we have found the truth. 18
“Practise the earnest meditations I have taught you. Continue in the great struggle against sin. Walk steadily in the roads of saintship. Be strong in moral powers. Let the organs of your spiritual sense be quick. When the seven kinds of wisdom enlighten your mind, you will find the noble, eightfold path that leads to Nirvāna. 19
“Behold, O brethren, the final extinction of the Tathāgata will take place before long. I now exhort you, saying: ‘All component things must grow old and be dissolved again. Seek ye for that which is permanent, and work out your salvation with diligence.’ ” 20
XCV.
CHUNDA, THE SMITH.
And the Blessed One went to Pāvā. 1
When Chunda, the worker in metals, heard that the Blessed One had come to Pāvā and was staying in his mango grove, he came to the Buddha and respectfully invited him and the brethren to take their meal at his house. And Chunda prepared rice-cakes and a dish of dried boar’s meat. 2
When the Blessed One had eaten the food prepared by Chunda, the worker in metals, there fell upon him a dire sickness, and sharp pain came upon him even unto death. But the Blessed One, mindful and self-possessed, bore it without complaint. 3
And the Blessed One addressed the venerable Ānanda, and said: “Come, Ānanda, let us go on to Kusinārā.” 4
On his way the Blessed One grew tired, and he went aside from the road to rest at the foot of a tree, and said: “Fold the robe, I pray thee, Ānanda, and spread it out for me. I am weary, Ānanda, and must rest awhile!” 5
“Be it so, Lord!” said the venerable Ānanda; and he spread out the robe folded fourfold. 6
The Blessed One seated himself, and when he was seated he addressed the venerable Ānanda, and said: “Fetch me some water, I pray thee, Ānanda. I am thirsty, Ānanda, and would drink.” 7
When he had thus spoken, the venerable Ānanda said to the Blessed One: “But just now, Lord, five hundred carts have gone across the brook and have stirred the water; but a river, O Lord, is not far off. Its water is clear and pleasant, cool and transparent, and it is easy to get down to it. There the Blessed One may both drink water and cool his limbs.” 8
A second time the Blessed One addressed the venerable Ānanda, saying: “Fetch me some water, I pray thee Ānanda, I am thirsty, Ānanda, and would drink.” 9
And a second time the venerable Ānanda said: “Let us go to the river.” 10
Then the third time the Blessed One addressed the venerable Ānanda, and said: “Fetch me some water, I pray thee, Ānanda, I am thirsty, Ānanda, and would drink.” 11
“Be it so, Lord!” said the venerable Ānanda in assent to the Blessed One; and, taking a bowl, he went down to the streamlet. And lo! the streamlet, which, stirred up by wheels, had become muddy, when the venerable Ānanda came up to it, flowed clear and bright and free from all turbidity. And he thought: “How wonderful, how marvelous is the great might and power of the Tathāgata!” 12
Ānanda brought the water in the bowl to the Lord, saying: “Let the Blessed One take the bowl. Let the Happy One drink the water. Let the Teacher of men and gods quench his thirst.” 13
Then the Blessed One drank of the water. 14
Now, at that time a man of low caste, named Pukkusa, a young Malla, a disciple of Alāra Kālāma, was passing along the high road from Kusinārā to Pāvā. 15
And Pukkusa, the young Malla, saw the Blessed One seated at the foot of a tree. On seeing him, he went up to the place where the Blessed One was, and when he had come there, he saluted the Blessed One and took his seat respectfully on one side. Then the Blessed One instructed, edified, and gladdened Pukkusa, the young Malla, with religious discourse. 16
Aroused and gladdened by the words of the Blessed One, Pukkusa, the young Malla, addressed a certain man who happened to pass by, and said: “Fetch me, I pray thee, my good man, two robes of cloth of gold, burnished and ready for wear.” 17
“Be it so, sir!” said that man in assent to Pukkusa, the young Malla; and he brought two robes of cloth of gold, burnished and ready for wear. 18
And the Malla Pukkusa presented the two robes of cloth of gold, burnished and ready for wear, to the Blessed One, saing: “Lord, these two robes of burnished cloth of gold are ready for wear. May the Blessed One show me favor and accept them at my hands!” 19
The Blessed One said: “Pukkusa, robe me in one, and Ānanda in the other.” 20
And the Tathāgata’s body appeared shining like a flame, and he was beautiful above all expression. 21
And the venerable Ānanda said to the Blessed One: “How wonderful a thing is it, Lord, and how marvellous, that the color of the skin of the Blessed One should be so clear, so exceedingly bright! When I placed this robe of burnished cloth of gold on the body of the Blessed One, lo! it seemed as if it had lost its splendor!” 22
The Blessed One said: “There are two occasions on which a Tathāgata’s appearance becomes clear and exceeding bright. In the night, Ānanda, in which a Tathāgata attains to the supreme and perfect insight, and in the night in which he passes finally away in that utter passing away which leaves nothing whatever of his earthly existence to remain.” 23
And the Blessed One addressed the venerable Ānanda, and said: “Now it may happen, Ānanda, that some one should stir up remorse in Chunda, the smith, by saying: ‘It is evil to thee, Chunda, and loss to thee, that the Tathāgata died, having eaten his last meal from thy provision.’ Any such remorse, Ānanda, in Chunda, the smith, should be checked by saying: ‘It is good to thee, Chunda, and gain to thee, that the Tathāgata died, having eaten his last meal from thy provision. From the very mouth of the Blessed One, O Chunda, have I heard, from his own mouth have I received this saying, “These two offerings of food are of equal fruit and of much greater profit than any other: the offerings of food which a Tathāgata accepts when he has attained perfect enlightenment and when he passes away by the utter passing away in which nothing whatever of his earthly existence remains behind—these two offerings of food are of equal fruit and of equal profit, and of much greater fruit and much greater profit than any other. There has been laid up by Chunda, the smith, a karma redounding to length of life, redounding to good birth, redounding to good fortune, redounding to good fame, redounding to the inheritance of heaven and of great power.” In this way, Ānanda, should be checked any remorse in Chunda, the smith.” 24
Then the Blessed One, perceiving that death was near, uttered these words: “He who gives away shall have real gain. He who subdues himself shall be free, he shall cease to be a slave of passions. The righteous man casts off evil; and by rooting out lust, bitterness, and illusion, do we reach Nirvāna.” 25
XCVI.
METTEYYA.
The Blessed One proceeded with a great company of the brethren to the sāla grove of the Mallas, the Upavattana of Kusinārā on the further side of the river Hiraññavatī, and when he had arrived he addressed the venerable Ānanda, and said: “Make ready for me, I pray you, Ānanda, the couch with its head to the north, between the twin sāla trees. I am weary, Ānanda, and wish to lie down.” 1
“Be it so, Lord!” said the venerable Ānanda, and he spread a couch with its head to the north, between the twin sāla trees. And the Blessed One laid himself down, and he was mindful and self-possessed. 2
Now, at that time the twin sāla trees were full of bloom with flowers out of season; and heavenly songs came wafted from the skies, out of reverence for the successor of the Buddhas of old. And Ānanda was filled with wonder that the Blessed One was thus honored. But the Blessed One said: “Not by such events, Ānanda, is the Tathāgata rightly honored, held sacred, or revered. But the brother or the sister, the devout man or the devout woman, who continually fulfils all the greater and the lesser duties, walking according to the precepts, it is they who rightly honor, hold sacred, and revere the Tathagata with the worthiest homage. Therefore, O Ānanda, be ye constant in the fulfilment of the greater and of the lesser duties, and walk according to the precepts; thus, Ānanda, will ye honor the Master.” 3
Then the venerable Ānanda went into the vihāra, and stood leaning against the doorpost, weeping at the thought: “Alas! I remain still but a learner, one who has yet to work out his own perfection. And the Master is about to pass away from me—he who is so kind!” 4
Now, the Blessed One called the brethren, and said: “Where, O brethren, is Ānanda?” 5
And one of the brethren went and called Ānanda. And Ānanda came and said to the Blessed One: “Deep darkness reigned for want of wisdom; the world of sentient creatures was groping for want of light; then the Tathāgata lit up the lamp of wisdom, and now it will be extinguished again, ere he has brought it out.” 6
And the Blessed One said to the venerable Ānanda, as he sat there by his side: 7
“Enough, Ānanda! Let not thy self be troubled; do not weep! Have I not already, on former occasions, told you that it is in the very nature of all things most near and dear unto us that we must separate from them and leave them? 8
“The foolish man conceives the idea of ‘self,’ the wise man sees there is no ground on which to build the idea of ‘self,’ thus he has a right conception of the world and well concludes that all compounds amassed by sorrow will be dissolved again, but the truth will remain. 9
“Why should I preserve this body of flesh, when the body of the excellent law will endure? I am resolved; having accomplished my purpose and attended to the work set me, I look for rest! 10
“For a long time, Ānanda, thou hast been very near to me by thoughts and acts of such love as never varies and is beyond all measure. Thou hast done well, Ānanda! Be earnest in effort and thou too shalt soon be free from the great evils, from sensuality, from selfishness, from delusion, and from ignorance!” 11
And Ānanda, suppressing his tears, said to the Blessed One: “Who shall teach us when thou art gone?” 12
And the Blessed One replied: “I am not the first Buddha who came upon earth, nor shall I be the last. In due time another Buddha will arise in the world, a Holy One, a supremely enlightened One, endowed with wisdom in conduct, auspicious, knowing the universe, an incomparable leader of men, a master of angels and mortals. He will reveal to you the same eternal truths which I have taught you. He will preach his religion, glorious in its origin, glorious at the climax, and glorious at the goal, in the spirit and in the letter. He will proclaim a religious life, wholly perfect and pure; such as I now proclaim.” 13
Ānanda said: “How shall we know him?” 14
The Blessed One said: “He will be known as Metteyya, which means ‘he whose name is kindness.’ ” 15
XCVII.
THE BUDDHA’S FINAL ENTERING INTO NIRVĀNA.
Then the Mallas, with their young men and maidens and their wives, being grieved, and sad, and afflicted at heart, went to the Upavattana, the sāla grove of the Mallas, and wanted to see the Blessed One, in order to partake of the bliss that devolves upon those who are in the presence of the Holy One. 1
And the Blessed One addressed them and said: 2
“Seeking the way, ye must exert yourselves and strive with diligence. It is not enough to have seen me! Walk as I have commanded you; free yourselves from the tangled net of sorrow. Walk in the path with steadfast aim. 3
“A sick man may be cured by the healing power of medicine and will be rid of all his ailments without beholding the physician. 4
“He who does not do what I command sees me in vain. This brings no profit. Whilst he who lives far off from where I am and yet walks righteously is ever near me. 5
“A man may dwell beside me, and yet, being disobedient, be far away from me. Yet he who obeys the Dharma will always enjoy the bliss of the Tathāgata’s presence.” 6
Then the mendicant Subhadda went to the sāla grove of the Mallas and said to the venerable Ānanda: “I have heard from fellow mendicants of mine, who were deep stricken in years and teachers of great experience: ‘Sometimes and full seldom to Tathāgatas appear in the world, the holy Buddhas.’ Now it is said that to-day in the last watch of the night, the final passing away of the samana Gotama will take place. My mind is full of uncertainty, yet have I faith in the samana Gotama and trust he will be able so to present the truth that I may become rid of my doubts. O that I might be allowed to see the samana Gotama!” 7
When he had thus spoken the venerable Ānanda said to the mendicant Subhadda: “Enough! friend Subhadda. Trouble not the Tathāgata. The Blessed One is weary.” 8
Now the Blessed One overheard this conversation of the venerable Ānanda with the mendicant Subhadda. And the Blessed One called the venerable Ānanda, and said: “Ānanda! Do not keep out Subhadda. Subhadda may be allowed to see the Tathāgata. Whatever Subhadda will ask of me, he will ask from a desire for knowledge, and not to annoy me, and whatever I may say in answer to his questions, that he will quickly understand.” 9
Then the venerable Ānanda said to Subhadda the mendicant: “Step in, friend Subhadda; for the Blessed One gives thee leave.” 10
When the Blessed One had instructed Subhadda, and aroused and gladdened him with words of wisdom and comfort, Subhadda said to the Blessed One: 11
“Glorious Lord, glorious Lord! Most excellent are the words of thy mouth, most excellent! They set up that which has been overturned, they reveal that which has been hidden. They point out the right road to the wanderer who has gone astray. They bring a lamp into the darkness so that those who have eyes to see can see. Thus, Lord, the truth has been made known to me by the Blessed One and I take my refuge in the Blessed One, in the Truth, and in the Order. May the Blessed One accept me as a disciple and true believer, from this day forth as long as life endures.” 12
And Subhadda, the mendicant, said to the venerable Ānanda: “Great is thy gain, friend Ānanda, great is thy good fortune, that for so many years thou hast been sprinkled with the sprinkling of discipleship in this brotherhood at the hands of the Master himself!” 13
Now the Blessed One addressed the venerable Ānanda, and said: “It may be, Ānanda, that in some of you the thought may arise, ‘The word of the Master is ended, we have no teacher more!’ But it is not thus, Ānanda, that you should regard it. It is true that no more shall I receive a body, for all future sorrow has now forever passed away. But though this body will be dissolved, the Tathāgata remains. The truth and the rules of the order which I have set forth and laid down for you all, let them, after I am gone, be a teacher unto you. When I am gone, Ānanda, let the order, if it should so wish, abolish all the lesser and minor precepts.” 14
Then the Blessed One addressed the brethren, and said: “There may be some doubt or misgiving in the mind of a brother as to the Buddha, or the truth, or the path. Do not have to reproach yourselves afterwards with the thought, ‘We did not inquire of the Blessed One when we were face to face with him.’ Therefore inquire now, O brethren, inquire freely.” 15
And the brethren remained silent. 16
Then the venerable Ānanda said to the Blessed One: “Verily, I believe that in this whole assembly of the brethren there is not one brother who has any doubt or misgiving as to the Buddha, or the truth, or the path!” 17
Said the Blessed One: “It is out of the fullness of faith that thou hast spoken, Ānanda! But, Ānanda, the Tathāgata knows for certain that in this whole assembly of the brethren there is not one brother who has any doubt or misgiving as to the Buddha, or the truth, or the path! For even the most backward, Ānanda, of all these brethren has become converted, and is assured of final salvation.” 18
Then the Blessed One addressed the brethren and said: “If ye now know the Dharma, the cause of all suffering, and the path of salvation, O disciples, will ye then say: ‘We respect the Master, and out of reverence for the Master do we thus speak?’ ” 19
The brethren replied: “That we shall not, O Lord.” 20
And the Holy One continued: 21
“Of those beings who live in ignorance, shut up and confined, as it were, in an egg, I have first broken the egg-shell of ignorance and alone in the universe obtained the most exalted, universal Buddhahood. Thus, O disciples, I am the eldest, the noblest of beings. 22
“But what ye speak, O disciples, is it not even that which ye have yourselves known, yourselves seen, yourselves realised?” 23
Ānanda and the brethren said: “It is, O Lord.” 24
Once more the Blessed One began to speak: “Behold now, brethren,” said he, “I exhort you, saying, ‘Decay is inherent in all component things, but the truth will remain forever!’ Work out your salvation with diligence!” This was the last word of the Tathāgata. Then the Tathāgata fell into a deep meditation, and having passed through the four jhānas, entered Nirvāna. 25
When the Blessed One entered Nirvāna there arose, at his passing out of existence, a mighty earthquake, terrible and awe-inspiring: and the thunders of heaven burst forth, and of those of the brethren who were not yet free from passions some stretched out their arms and wept, and some fell headlong on the ground, in anguish at the thought: “Too soon has the Blessed One died! Too soon has the Happy One passed away from existence! Too soon has the Light of the world gone out!” 26
Then the venerable Anuruddha exhorted the brethren and said: “Enough, my brethren! Weep not, neither lament! Has not the Blessed One formerly declared this to us, that it is in the very nature of all things near and dear unto us, that we must separate from them and leave them, since everything that is born, brought into being, and organized, contains within itself the inherent necessity of dissolution? How then can it be possible that the body of the Tathāgata should not be dissolved? No such condition can exist! Those who are free from passion will bear the loss, calm and self-possessed, mindful of the truth he has taught us.” 27
And the venerable Anuruddha and the venerable Ānanda spent the rest of the night in religious discourse. 28
Then the venerable Anuruddha said to the venerable Ānanda: “Go now, brother Ānanda, and inform the Mallas of Kusinārā saying, ‘The Blessed One has passed away: do, then, whatsoever seemeth to you fit!’ ” 29
And when the Mallas had heard this saying they were grieved, and sad, and afflicted at heart. 30
Then the Mallas of Kusinārā gave orders to their attendants, saying, “Gather together perfumes and garlands, and all the music in Kusinārā!” And the Mallas of Kusinārā took the perfumes and garlands, and all the musical instruments, and five hundreds garments, and went to the sāla grove where the body of the Blessed One lay. There they passed the day in paying honor and reverence to the remains of the Blessed One, with hymns, and music, and with garlands and perfumes, and in making canopies of their garments, and preparing decorative wreaths to hang thereon. And they burned the remains of the Blessed One as they would do to the body of a king of kings. 31
When the funeral pyre was lit, the sun and moon withdrew their shining, the peaceful streams on every side were torrent-swollen, the earth quaked, and the sturdy forests shook like aspen leaves, whilst flowers and leaves fell untimely to the ground, like scattered rain, so that all Kusinārā became strewn knee-deep with mandāra flowers raining down from heaven. 32
When the burning ceremonies were over, Devaputta said to the multitudes that were assembled round the pyre: 33
“Behold, O brethren, the earthly remains of the Blessed One have been dissolved, but the truth which he has taught us lives in our minds and cleanses us from all error. 34
“Let us, then, go out into the world, as compassionate and merciful as our great master, and preach to all living beings the four noble truths and the eightfold path of righteousness, so that all mankind may attain to a final salvation, taking refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha.” 35
And when the Blessed One had entered into Nirvāna, and the Mallas had burned the body with such ceremonies as would indicate that he was the great king of kings, ambassadors came from all the empires that at the time had embraced his doctrine, to claim a share of the relics; and the relics were divided into eight parts and eight dāgobas were erected for their preservation. One dāgoba was erected by the Mallas and seven others by the seven kings of those countries, whose people had taken refuge in the Buddha. 36
CONCLUSION.
XCVIII.
THE THREE PERSONALITIES OF THE BUDDHA.
WHEN the Blessed One had passed away into Nirvāna, the disciples came together and consulted what to do in order to keep the Dharma pure and uncorrupted by heresies. 1
And Upāli rose, saying: 2
“Our great Master used to say to the brethren: ‘O bhikkhus! after my final entrance into Nirvāna you must reverence and obey the law. Regard the law as your master. The law is like unto a light that shines in the darkness, pointing out the way; it is also like unto a precious jewel to gain which you must shun no trouble, and be ready to bring any sacrifice, even, should it be needed, your own lives. Obey the Dharma which I have revealed to you; follow it carefully and regard it in no way different from myself.’ 3
“Such were the words of the Blessed One. 4
“The law, accordingly, which the Buddha has left us as a precious inheritance has now become the visible body of the Tathāgata. Let us, therefore, revere it and keep it sacred. For what is the use of erecting dāgobas for relics, if we neglect the spirit of the Master’s teachings?” 5
And Anuruddha arose and said: 6
“Let us bear in mind, O brethren, that Gotama Siddhattha has revealed the truth to us. He was the Holy One and the Perfect One and the Blessed One, because the eternal truth had taken abode in him. 7
“The Tathāgata taught us that the truth existed before he was born into this world, and will exist after he has entered into the bliss of Nirvāna. 8
“The Tathāgata said: 9
“ ‘The truth is omnipresent and eternal, endowed with excellencies innumerable, above all human nature, and ineffable in its holiness.’ 10
“Now, let us bear in mind that not this or that law which is revealed to us in the Dharma is the Buddha, but the entire truth, the truth which is eternal, omnipresent, immutable, and most excellent. 11
“Many regulations of the Sangha are temporary; they were prescribed because they suited the occasion and were needed for some transient emergency. The truth, however, is not temporary. 12
“The truth is not arbitrary nor a matter of opinion, but can be investigated, and he who earnestly searches for the truth will find it. 13
“The truth is hidden to the blind, but he who has the mental eye sees the truth. The truth is Buddha’s essence, and the truth will remain the ultimate standard by which we can discern false and true doctrines. 14
“Let us, then, revere the truth; let us inquire into the truth and state it, and let us obey the truth. For the truth is Buddha our Master, our Teacher, our Lord.” 15
And Kassapa rose and said: 16
“Truly thou hast spoken well, O brother Anuruddha. Neither is there any conflict of opinion on the meaning of our religion. For the Blessed One possesses three personalities, and every one of them is of equal importance to us. 17
“There is the Dharma Kāya. There is the Nirmāna Kāya. There is the Sambhoga Kāya. 18
“Buddha is the all-excellent truth, eternal, omnipresent, and immutable. This is the Sambhoga Kāya which is in a state of perfect bliss. 19
“Buddha is the all-loving teacher assuming the shape of the beings whom he teaches. This is the Nirmāna Kāya, his apparitional body. 20
“Buddha is the all-blessed dispensation of religion. He is the spirit of the Sangha and the meaning of the commands which he has left us in his sacred word, the Dharma. This is the Dharma Kāya, the body of the most excellent law. 21
“If Buddha had not appeared to us as Gotama Sakyamuni, how could we have the sacred traditions of his doctrine? And if the generations to come did not have the sacred traditions preserved in the Sangha, how could they know anything of the great Sakyamuni? And neither we nor others would know anything about the most excellent truth which is eternal, omnipresent, and immutable. 22
“Let us then keep sacred and revere the traditions; let us keep sacred the memory of Gotama Sakyamuni, so that people may find the truth; for he whose spiritual eye is open will discover it, and it is the same to every one who possesses the comprehension of a Buddha to recognize it and to expound it.” 23
Then the brethren decided to convene a synod in Rājagaha in order to lay down the pure doctrines of the Blessed One, to collect and collate the sacred writings, and to establish a canon which should serve as a source of instruction for future generations. 24
XCIX.
THE PURPOSE OF BEING.
Eternal verities dominate the formation of worlds and constitute the cosmic order of natural laws. But when, through the conflicting motion of masses, the universe was illumined with blazing fire, there was no eye to see the light, no ear to listen to reason’s teachings, no mind to perceive the significance of being; and in the immeasurable spaces of existence no place was found where the truth could abide in all its glory. 1
In the due course of evolution sentiency appeared and sense-perception arose. There was a new realm of being, the realm of soul-life, full of yearning, with powerful passions and of unconquerable energy. And the world split in twain: there were pleasures and pains, self and notself, friends and foes, hatred and love. The truth vibrated through the world of sentiency, but in all its infinite potentialities no place could be found where the truth could abide in all its glory. 2
And reason came forth in the struggle for life. Reason began to guide the instinct of self, and reason took the sceptre of the creation and overcame the strength of the brutes and the power of the elements. Yet reason seemed to add new fuel to the flame of hatred, increasing the turmoil of conflicting passions; and brothers slew their brothers for the sake of satisfying the lust of a fleeting moment. And the truth repaired to the domains of reason, but in all its recesses no place was found where the truth could abide in all its glory. 3
Now reason, as the helpmate of self, implicated all living beings more and more in the meshes of lust, hatred, and envy, and from lust, hatred, and envy the evils of wrong-doing originated. Men broke down under the burdens of life, until the saviour appeared, the great Buddha, the Holy Teacher of men and gods. 4
And the Buddha taught men the right use of sentiency, and the right application of reason; and he taught men to see things as they are, without illusions, and they learned to act according to truth. He taught righteousness and thus changed rational creatures into humane beings, just, kind-hearted, and faithful. And now at last a place was found where the truth might abide in all its glory, and this place is the heart of mankind. 5
Buddha, O Blessed One, O Holy One, O Perfect One, thou hast revealed the truth, and the truth has appeared upon earth and the kingdom of truth has been founded. 6
There is not room for truth in space, infinite though it be. 7
There is not room for truth in sentiency, neither in its pleasures nor in its pains; sentiency is the first footstep of truth, but there is not room in it for the truth, though sentiency may beam with the blazing glow of beauty and life. 8
Neither is there any room for truth in rationality. Rationality is a two-edged sword and serves the purpose of love equally as well as the purpose of hatred. Rationality is the platform on which the truth standeth. No truth is attainable without reason. Nevertheless, in mere rationality there is no room for truth, though it be the instrument that masters the things of the world. 9
The throne of truth is righteousness; and love and justice and good-will are its ornaments. 10
Righteousness is the place in which truth dwells, and here in the hearts of mankind aspiring after the realization of righteousness, there is ample space for a rich and ever richer revelation of the truth. 11
This is the Gospel of the Blessed One. This is the revelation of the Englightened One. This is the bequest of the Holy One. 12
Those who accept the truth and have faith in the truth, take refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha. 13
Receive us, O Buddha, as thy disciples from this day hence, so long as our life lasts. 14
Comfort, O holy Teacher, compassionate and all-loving, the afflicted and the sorrow-laden, illumine those who go astray, and let us all gain more and more in comprehension and in holiness. 15
The truth is the end and aim of all existence, and the worlds originate so that the truth may come and dwell therein. 16
Those who fail to aspire for the truth have missed the purpose of life. 17
Blessed is he who rests in the truth, for all things will pass away, but the truth abideth forever. 18
The world is built for the truth, but false combinations of thought misrepresent the true state of things and bring forth errors. 19
Errors can be fashioned as it pleases those who cherish them; therefore they are pleasant to look upon, but they are unstable and contain the seeds of dissolution. 20
Truth cannot be fashioned. Truth is one and the same; it is immutable. 21
Truth is above the power of death; it is omnipresent, eternal, and most glorious. 22
Illusions, errors, and lies are the daughters of Māra, and great power is given unto them to seduce the minds of men and lead them astray upon the path of evil. 23
The nature of delusions, errors, and lies is death; and wrong-doing is the way to perdition. 24
Delusions, errors, and lies are like huge, gaudy vessels, the rafters of which are rotten and wormeaten, and those who embark in them are fated to be shipwrecked. 25
There are many who say: “Come error, be thou my guide,” and when they are caught in the meshes of selfishness, lust, and evil desires, misery is begot. 26
Yet does all life yearn for the truth and the truth only can cure our diseases and give peace to our unrest. 27
Truth is the essence of life, for truth endureth beyond the death of the body. Truth is eternal and will still remain even though heaven and earth shall pass away. 28
There are not different truths in the world, for truth is one and the same at all times and in every place. 29
Truth teaches us the noble eightfold path of righteousness, and it is a straight path easily found by the truth-loving. Happy are those who walk in it. 30
C.
THE PRAISE OF ALL THE BUDDHAS.
- All the Buddhas are wonderful and glorious.
- There is not their equal upon earth.
- They reveal to us the path of life.
- And we hail their appearance with pious reverence. 1
- All the Buddhas teach the same truth.
- They point out the path to those who go astray.
- The Truth is our hope and comfort.
- We gratefully accept its illimitable light. 2
- All the Buddhas are one in essence,
- Which is omnipresent in all modes of being,
- Sanctifying the bonds that tie all souls together,
- And we rest in its bliss as our final refuge. 3
TABLE OF REFERENCE.
THE GOSPEL OF BUDDHA CHAPTER AND VERSE SOURCES PARALLELISMS I—III EA Descent from heaven omitted { LV } Klopstock’s Messias Gesang I. { rGya,III—V } IV Fo, vv. 1—147 IV, 6 BSt, p. 64 { Mark VII, 32, 37 { Matth. XI, 5 IV, 9 Fo, vv. 22—24 Matth. II, 1 IV, 12 Fo, vv. 39—40 Luke II, 36 IV, 17 RB 150; RHB 52 Pseudo Matth. 23 IV, 27 Fo, v. 147 Luke II, 52 Omitted RHB, pp. 103—108 Matth. II, 16 V HM, p. 156; RB, p. 83; rGya,XII Fo vv. 152—156 Luke II, 46—47 V, 9 Fo, v. 164 Matth. III, 16 VI Fo, vv. 191—322 VI, 19—20 { BSt, pp. 79—80 } Luke XI, 27—28 { RB, p. 23 } VII Fo, vv. 335—417 VII, 7 BSt, p. 5—6 VII, 18—19 BSt, p. 18 { Matth. XXIV, 35 { Luke XXI, 33 { Luke XVI, 17 VII, 23—24 BSt, p. 84 Luke IV, 5—8 [See also Matth. IV, 1—7 and Mark I, 13] VIII Fo, vv. 778—918 VIII, 15 DP, v. 178 IX Fo, vv. 919—1035 Cf. “Arāda and Udraka” in Rhys Davids’s Dialogue Compare the results of modern psychology IX, 6 MV.I, 6, §§ 36—38 [SB,XIII,p. 100] IX, 14 QKM, pp. 83—86 Evolution theory IX, 15 QKM, p. 133 IX, 16 QKM, p. 111 X Fo, vv. 1000—1023 X, 4, 5 { SN, vv. 425, 439 } { Luke IV, 2—4 { SN, v. 445 } { John III, 46 X, 11 { Fo, v. 1024 } { Luke VII, 19 { Fo, vv. 1222—1224 } { Matth. II, 3 XI [See LXXXIX, 1—6] Fo. vv. 1026—1110 { Luke IV, 2 { Matth. IV, 1—7 { Mark I, 13 XII Fo, vv. 1111—1199 XII, 8 { QKM, p. 79 { SDP,VII [SB,XXI,p. 172] XII, 11—15 { SDP,III [SB,XXI,p. 90] { MV,I, 6 §§ 19—28 { Cf. Old, G, pp. 227-228, Old, E, p. 211 { RhDB, pp. 106—107 XII, 16 { BSt, pp. 103—104 Cf. DP, pp. 153—154 { Dh, p. 12 XII, 20 rGya, 355 Matth. V, 3—11 XIII MV,I, 4 XIV MV,I, 5 XIV, 2 MV,I, 3, § 4 XIV, 14 MPN,III, 44, 45 Cf. W, p. 87 XV { Fo, vv. 1200—1217 { MV,I, 6, §§ 1—9 XVI { Fo, vv. 1217—1279 { MV,I, 6, §§ 10—47 XVI, 5 SN, v. 248 XVI, 6 RhDB p. 131 XVI, 7 SN, v. 241 Matth. XV, 10 XVII MV,I, 6, § 10—47 XVII, 10—12 Samyuttaka Nikāya, vol.III, fol. sâ, quoted by Old, G, 364; Old, E, p. 339 XVII, 13—18 { MV,I, 11 { Fo, vv. 1297—1300 { Luke IX, 1—6 { Luke X, 1—24 XVII, 15 { QKM, p. 264 Matth. V, 16 { QKM, p. 266 Matth. VII, 6 XVIII { MV,I, 7, 8, 9 } John III, 2 { Fo, vv. 1280—1296 } XVIII, 8 Fo, vv. 1289—1290 XVIII, 10 Fo, v. 1292 XIX { Fo, vv. 1300—1334 { MV,I, 20—21 XX { Fo, vv. 1335—1379 { MV,I, 22 XX, 19—20 { SN, v. 148 { Metta Sutta. [An often quoted sentence. RhDB, p. 109, Hardy, “Legends and Theories of the Buddhas,” p. 212 XX, 23 RhDB, p. 62 XX, 28 Fo, v. 1733 XXI { Fo, vv. 1380—1381 { Matth. XXI, 1—11 { MV,I, 22, §§ 15—18 { Mark XI, 1—10 { Luke XIX, 28—38 { John XII, 12—15 XXII { Fo, vv. 1382—1431 { MVI, 23—24, W, p. 89 XXII, 3—5 MV,I, 23, §§ 13—14 { Matth. XXI, 9 { Mark XI, 9 { John XII, 13 XXIII Fo, vv. 1432—1495 XXIII, 10—20 EA, XXIV Fo vv. 1496—1521 XXV, 4 Fo, vv. 1516—1517 Acts XX, 35 XXV Fo, vv. 1522—1533 1611—1671 XXVI, 1—7 AN,III, 134 Compare the results of modern psychology XXVI, 8—13 { US, p. 112 { W, p.XIV XXVII { Fo, vv. 1534—1610 { HM, p. 204 XXVIII { HM, p. 203 et seqq. { BSt, pp. 125—126 XXIX { MV,I, 54 { HM, 208—209 XXX MV,VIII, 23—36 [SB,XVII,pp. 193—194] XXXI Fo vv. 1672—1673 XXXII HM, pp. 353—354 XXXII, 4—6 W, pp. 443—444 XXXIII { S 42 S } Matth. v, 28 { Fo, vv. 1757—1766 } BP, p. 153 } XXXIII, 9—11 { Fo vv. 1762—1763 Eph. VI, 13—17 { Fo, vv. 1763 { Mark IX, 47 { Matth. V, 29 { Matth. XVIII, 9 XXXIV MV,VIII, 15. [SB,XVII,pp. 219—225.] XXXIV, 24 [Last part of the verse.] Bgt, p. 211 { Luke VIII, 2 { Matth. XIII, 24—27 XXXV MV,II XXXVI MV,X, 1, 2, § 1—2; § 20 C, vol. III, p. 139 XXXVII MV,X, 5—6, 2 § 3—20 XXXVIII MV,V, 4 XXXVIII, 3 BSt, p. 311 XXXVIII, 5 MV,V, 4, 2. [SB,XVII,p. 18.] Matth. V, 46—47 XXXIX { Fo, vv. 1713—1734 { HM, pp. 337—340 XXXIX, 4 BSt, p. 200 XXXIX, 7 DP, v. 227; SB,X,p. 58 (cf. ChD, p. 122) Matth. XI, 16, 19 XL { V,XVIII, XX { W, pp. 184—186 XLI MV,VI, 29. [SB,XVII,pp. 104—105.] XLI, 12—13 { Metta Sutta { SN, v. 148. [Cf. RhDB, p. 109.] XLII RB, pp. 68—69. [Cf. RhDB, p. 71 and Old, G, 376—378.] { Mark III, 14 { Luke IX, 2 Bgt, 212 { Matth. XIII, 3 et seq. { Mark IV, 3—20 XLIV TPN, p. 129 XLV TPN, pp. 22—23 and p. 25 XLVI S42S, 4 XLVII SDP,X, XIII, XXVII XLVII, 23 SDP,XXIV, 22. [SB,XXI,p. 416.] XLVIII DP in SB,X XLVIII, 36—37 DP, v. 5 Matth. V, 44 XLVIII, 46 SN, vv. 784—785, 885—888, 834. [SB,X, 149, 159, 169.] Matth. XI, 29—30 XLVIII, 47 DP, v. 275 II Cor. VII, 7 XLVIII, 55 DP, v. 387 XLIX SB,XI,pp. 157—203 XLIX, 17 SB,XI,pp. 173—174 Matth. XV, 14 L SSP, pp. 297—320. [Cf. RhDB, 143.] LI, 1—14 } MV,VI, 31. [SB,XVII,pp. 108—113.] LI, 31—35 } LI, 15—30 LII LIII Compiled from HM, pp. 280 et seq., Fo, v, 1682, 1683, W, p. 239, and QKM, pass. LIII, 18—23a QKM, p. 120 LIII, 23b QKM, p. 148 John III, 8 LIII, 26—27 QKM, p. 67 LIII, 29—32 QKM, pp. 73—74 LIII, 47—59 QKM, pp. 63, 83—86 LIII, 53 US and W, motto LIV, 1—2 Fo, vv. 1208, 1228 Matth. V, 3—11 LIV, 3 Brabmajāla Sutta, quoted by RhD, p. 99 { John XVI, 16 { Matth. XXIV, 23 LIV, 4 QKM, p. 114 LIV, 5 Fo, v. 1231 LIV, 6—8 rGya, p. 372 Matth. XI, 28 LIV, 9 S42S, 16 LIV, 10 QKM, p. 110 { John XIV, 6 { John XVIII, 37 LV SDP,V LVI Mabā Rābula Sutta LVII S42S LVIII Buddhist Catena LIX { SN, pp. 58—62; p. 25; p. 147; p. 54 { MV, 1, 3, § 4 [cf. Old, E, p. 118] { Nidhikanda Sutta, quoted by RhDB, p. 127 Matth. VI, 20 LX, 7—8 RhDB, p. 156 LX, 12 Beal, Buddhism of China, chap. XII LX, 18—23 RhDB, p. 170 LX, 27—28 EH LX, 29 QKM, p. 127 LX, 31 RhDB, pp. 175—176 LX, 33 RhDB, p. 173 LXI MPN,III, 22. [SB,XX,p. 48—49.] LXI, 3—5 ChullavaggaIX, 1—4. [SB,XX, 301—305] Matth. V, 13 LXI, 6—9 Matth. V, 1—2 LXII EA LXIII See O. C.XVII,pp. 353—354 LXIII, 7—9 UG,VII, 14 seq. Matth. XXV, 14 et seq. LXIV DDP,V LXV SDP,IV Luke XV, 11 et seq. LXVI BSt, pp. 211, 299. [See PT,II, 58.] LXVII BSt, pp. 315 et seq. LXVIII ChD, pp. 88—89 LXVIII, 6 ChD Mark XII, 42—44 LXIX ChD, p. 46 The Story of Diogenes and his Lantern LXX ChD, p. 134 LXXI BgP, pp. 107 et seq. LXXII ChD, p. 77 Luke XII, 20 LXXIII BSt, p. 147 LXXIII, 15 BSt Exodus XVII, 6 LXXIV SN, pp. 11—15 { Matth. XIII, 3 et seq. { Mark IV, 14 LXXV SN, pp. 20 et seq. LXXVI Bf, p. 205 John V, 5 et seq. LXXVII HM, pp. 317—319 LXXVIII } Jātaka Tales LXXIX } LXXX Bf, pp. 146 et seq. LXXXI Fu-Pen-Hing-tsi-King, tr. by S. Beal LXXXI, 7—10 EA John II, I et seq. LXXXII MV,I, 14 LXXXIII ChD, p. 130 et seq. LXXXIII, 5 BP, p. 16 LXXXIII, 5, 6, 9 ChD and SS Matth. XXII, 30 LXXXIV, 1—14 BP, pp. 98 et seqq Greek versions quoted by Jacob H. Thiesen, LKG. LXXXIV, 15—28 SB, x, p. 106 LXXXV ChD, pp. 50—51 Matth. V, 25, 29 LXXXV, 6 ChD, cf OC No. 470 Rom. III, 28 LXXXVI ChD, pp. 94—98 LXXXVII C,IIp. 262 LXXXVIII MPN,I [SB,XI,p.I et seqq.] LXXXIX { MPN,I, 19, 22 { MV,VI, 28 XC MPN,I, 16 XCI MPN,II, 9 XCI, 6 MPN I Cor. 15, 55 XCII { MPN,II, 12—24 { Fo, vv. 1749—1753; 1768—1782 XCIII MPN,II, 27—35 XCIV, 1 BSt, p. 84 See Matth. IV, 1 and Mark I, 13 XCIV, 2—13 MPN,III, 46—63 XCV MPN,IV, 14—57 XCV, 6 MPN,IV, 25 John XIX, 28 XCV, 14—22 MPN,IV, 47—52 { Matth. XXVII, 2 { Mark IX, 2 XCVI MPN,V, 1—14, concerning Metteyya see EH s. v. RhDB, pp. 180, 200; Old, G, p. 153, etc. John XIV, 26 XCVII MPN,V, 52—69, and VI;Fo, vv. 2303—2310 John VIII, 31 XCVII, 19—20 } Mahātanhāsamkbaya-Sutta, Majjbima Nikāya, vol. I,p. 263, quoted by Old, G, p. 349 E, p. 325 XCVII, 23—24 } XCVII, 22 Suttavibbanga, ParājikaI,pp. 1, 4 quoted by Old, G, p. 349, E, p. 325 I Cor. XV, 20 XCVIII EA, embodying later traditions see EH and almost any other work on Buddhism The Christian Trinity dogma XCIX EA C EA, in imitation of a formula at present in use among Northern Buddhists ABBREVIATIONS IN THE TABLE OF REFERENCE.
- AN.—Añguttara Nikāya in Warren’s Buddhism in Translations.
- Bf.—Burnouf, Introduction à l’histoire du Bouddhisme Indien, Paris 1844.
- Bgt.—The Life or Legend of Gautama, by the R. Rev. P. Bigandet.
- BL.—Buddhist Literature in China by Samuel Beal.
- BP.—Buddhaghosha’s Parables. Translated by T. Rogers, London, 1870.
- BSt.—Buddhist Birth Stories or Jâtaka Tales. Translated by Rhys Davids.
- C.—The Jātaka edited by Prof. E. B. Cowell, Cambridge.
- CBS.—A Catena of Buddhist Scriptures from the Chinese by Samuel Beal. London, 1871.
- ChD.—[Chinese Dhammapada.] Texts from the Buddhist Canon, commonly known as Dhammapada. Translated by S. Beal, London and Boston, 1878.
- Dh.—The Dharma, or The Religion of Enlightenment by Paul Carus. 5th ed. Chicago, 1907.
- DP.—The Dhammapada. Translated from Pāli by F. Max Müller, Vol. X, Part I, of the Sacred Books of the East. Oxford, 1881.
- EA.—Explanatory Addition.
- EH.—Handbook of Chinese Buddhism, by Ernest J. Eitel. London, 1888.
- Fo.—The Fo-Sho-Hing-Tsan-King. A Life of Buddha by Asvaghosha, translated from Sanskrit into Chinese by Dharmarakhsha, ad 420, and from Chinese into English by Samuel Beal. Vol. XIX of the Sacred Books of the East. Oxford, 1883.
- G.—Reden Gotamo’s by Karl Eugen Neumann.
- HF.—Hymns of the Faith (Dhammapada) transl. by Albert J. Edmunds.
- HM.—A Manual of Buddhism, by R. Spence Hardy.
- LKG.—Die Legende von Kisāgotamī, by Jakob H. Thiessen. Breslau, 1880.
- LV.—Lalita Vistara, translated into German by Dr. S. Lefmann. Berlin, 1874.
- MPN.—The Mahāparinibbāna Suttanta. The Book of the Great Decease. Vol. XI of the Sacred Books of the East. Oxford 1881.
- MV.—The Mahāvagga. I—IV in Vol. XIII; V—X in Vol. XVII of the Sacred Books of the East. Oxford, 1881—1882.
- MY.—Outlines of the Mahāyāna as Taught by Buddha, by S. Kuroda. Tokyo, Japan, 1893.
- OC.—The Open Court, a monthly magazine, published by the Open Court Publishing Company, Chicago.
- Old G.—German Edition, Buddha, sein Leben, seine Lehre und seine Gemeinde, by H. Oldenberg. Second Edition. Berlin, 1890.
- OldE.—English translation, Buddha, His Life, His Doctrine, and His Order by H. Oldenberg. London, 1882.
- PT.—Pantschatantra, translated into German by Theodor Benfey. Two vols. Leipsic, 1859.
- QKM.—The Questions of King Milinda, translated from Pâli by T. W. Rhys Davids, Vol. XXXV of the Sacred Books of the East. Oxford, 1890.
- RB.—The Life of the Buddha from Thibetan Works, transl. by W. W. Rockhill. London, 1884.
- rGya.—rGya Tchee Roll Pa, Histoire du Bouddha Sakya Mouni, by Foucaux. Paris, 1868.
- RHB.—The Romantic History of Buddha from the Chinese Sanskrit, by S. Beal. London, 1875.
- RhDB.—Buddhism, by T. W. Rhys Davids, in the Series of Non-Christian Religious Systems. London, 1890.
- S42S.—Sutra of Forty-two Sections. Kyoto, Japan.
- SB.—Sacred Books of the East.
- SN.—Sutta Nipāta, translated from the Pāli by V. Fausböll. Part II, Vol. X of the Sacred Books of the East. Oxford, 1881.
- SS.—A Brief Account of Shin-Shiu by R. Akamatsu. Kyoto, Japan, 1893.
- SSP.—Sept Suttas Pālis by M. P. Grimblot. Paris, 1876.
- TPN.—Buddhistische Anthologie. Texte aus dem Pâli-Kanon. By Dr. Karl Eugen Neumann. Leyden, 1892.
- Ug.—Uttarādhyayana, translated by H. Jacobi. Vol. XLV of the Sacred Books of the East.
- US.—The Udāna by Major General D. M. Strong.
- V.—Visuddhi-Magga in Warren’s Buddhism in Translations.
- W.—Buddhism in Translations by Henry Clarke Warren.
The original Pāli texts are published in the Journal of the Pāli Text Society, London, Henry Frowde.
GLOSSARY OF NAMES AND TERMS.
[In the text of the present booklet all unnecessary terms have been avoided. Whenever a good English equivalent could be found, the foreign expression has been dropped. Nevertheless, the introduction not only of many foreign-sounding names, but also of some of the original terms, was unavoidable.
Now we have to state that the Eastern people, at least those of Hindu culture during the golden age of Buddhism in India, adopted the habit of translating not only terms but also names. A German whose name is Schmied is not called Smith in English, but Buddhists, when translating from Pāli into Sanskrit, change Siddhattha into Siddhārtha. The reason of this strange custom lies in the fact that Buddhists originally employed the popular speech and did not adopt the use of Sanskrit until about five hundred years after Buddha. Since the most important names and terms, such as Nirvāna, Karma and Dharma, have become familiar to us in their Sanskrit form, while their Pāli equivalents, Nibbāna, Kamma and Dhamma, are little used, it appeared advisable to prefer for some terms the Sanskrit forms, but there are instances in which the Pāli, for some reason or other, has been preferred by English authors [e. g. Krishā Gautamī is always called Kisāgotamī], we present here in the Glossary both the Sanskrit and the Pāli forms.
Names which have been Anglicised, such as “Brahmā, Brahman, Benares, Jain, and karma,” have been preserved in their accepted form. If we adopt the rule of transferring Sanskrit and Pāli words in their stemform, as we do in most cases (e. g. Nirvāna, ātman), we ought to call Brahma “Brahman,” and karma “karman.” But usus est tyrannus. In a popular book it is not wise to swim against the stream.
Following the common English usage of saying “Christ,” not “the Christ,” we say in the title “Buddha,” not “the Buddha.”]
- Abhi′ññā, p., Abhi′jñā, skt., supernatural talent. There are six abhiññās which Buddha acquired when attaining perfect enlightenment:—(1) the celestial eye, or an intuitive insight of the nature of any object in any universe; (2) the celestial ear, or the ability to understand any sound produced in any universe; (3) the power of assuming any shape or form; (4) knowledge of all forms of pre-existence of one’s self and others; (5) intuitive knowledge of the minds of all beings; and (6) knowledge of the finality of the stream of life.—175, 176.
- Acira′vatī, p. and skt., a river.—96.
- Agni, p. and skt., a god of the Brahmans, the god of fire.—49.
- Ajātasa′ttu, p., Ajātaśa′tru, skt., the son of king Bimbisāra and his successor to the throne of Magadha.—110—112, 219.
- Alā′ra, p., Ārā′da, skt., a prominent Brahman philosopher. His full name is Ālāra Kālāma.—29, 239.
- Ambapā′lī, the courtesan, called “Lady Amra” in Fo-Sho-Hing-Tsan-King. It is difficult for us to form a proper conception of the social position of courtesans at Buddha’s time in India. This much is sure, that they were not common prostitutes, but ladies of wealth, possessing great influence. Their education was similar to the hetairæ in Greece, where Aspasia played so prominent a part. Their rank must sometimes have been like that of Madame Pompadour in France at the court of Louis XIV. They rose to prominence, not by birth, but by beauty, education, refinement, and other purely personal accomplishments, and many of them were installed by royal favor. The first paragraphs of Khandhaka VIII of the Mahāvagga [S. B., Vol. XVII, pp. 171—172] gives a fair idea of the important rôle of courtesans in those days. They were not necessarily venal daughters of lust, but, often women of distinction and repute, worldly, but not disrespectable.—227, 228, 231, 232.
- Amitā′bha, p. and skt., endowed with boundless light, from amita, infinite, immeasurable, and ābbā, ray of light, splendor, the bliss of enlightenment. It is a term of later Buddhism and has been personified as Amitābha Buddha, or Amita. The invocation of the all-saving name of Amitābha Buddha is a favorite tenet of the Lotus or Pure Land sect, so popular in China and Japan. Their poetical conception of a paradise in the West is referred to in Chapter LX. Southern Buddhism knows nothing of a personified Amitābha, and the Chinese travellers Fa-hien and Hiuen-tsang do not mention it. The oldest allusion to Amita is found in the Amitāyus Sūtra, translated ad 148—170. [See Eitel, Handbook, pp. 7—9.]—172, 173, 174, 175.
- Āna′nda, p. and skt., Buddha’s cousin and his favorite disciple. The Buddhistic St. John (Johannes).—86, 87, 90; 92, 93, 120, 177, 190, 191, 196, 197, 219, 220, 225, 226, 233, 234, 235, 236, 238, 239, 240, 241, 245, 246, 247, 248, 249.
- Anāthapi′ndika, p. and skt., (also called Anāthapi′ndada in skt.) literally “One who gives alms (pinda) to the unprotected or needy (anātha).” Eitel’s etymology “one who gives without keeping (anātha) a mouthful (pinda) for himself” is not tenable. A wealthy lay devotee famous for his liberality and donor of the Jetavana vihāra.—72, 75, 76, 77, 81, 168.
- Annabhā′ra, p. and skt., literally “he who brings food”; name of Sumana’s slave.—189, 190.
- Aññā′ta, p., Âjñā′ta, skt., literally “knowing”, a cognomen of Kondañña, the first disciple of Buddha.—56.
- Anuru′ddha, a prominent disciple of Buddha, known as the great master of Buddhist metaphysics. He was a cousin of Buddha, being the second son of Amritodana, a brother of Suddhodana.—86, 249, 253, 254.
- A′rahat, p., Ar′hant, skt., a saint. (See also Saint in Index.)—97.
- Arati, dislike, hatred. The opposite of rati. The name of one of Māra’s daughters, q. v.—36.
- A′sita, p. and skt., a prophet.—9, 10.
- A′ssaji, p., Aśvajit, skt., one of Buddha’s disciples by whose dignified demeanor Sāriputta is converted.—70.
- Ā′tman, skt., Atta, p., breath as the principle of life, the soul, self, the ego. To some of the old Brahman schools the âtman constitutes a metaphysical being in man, which is the thinker of his thoughts, the perceiver of his sensations, and the doer of his doings. Buddha denies the existence of an ātman in this sense.—29, 30, 32, 33, 154, 158.
- Balā′ni, or pañca-balāni, p. and skt., (the singular is bala, power), the five moral powers (also called pañca-indriyāni), which are: Faith, energy, memory or recollection, meditation or contemplation, and wisdom or intuition.
- Beluva, a village near Vesālī.—232.
- Benares, the well-known city in India; Anglicised form of Vārānasī, skt., and Bārānasī, p. (See Kāsī.)—47, 48, 49, 58, 61, 104—106, 215.
- Bha′gavat, p., Bha′gavant, skt., the man of merit, worshipful, the Blessed One. A title of honor given to Buddha.—21, 170, 195.
- Bha′llika, p. and skt., a merchant.—42.
- Bhāradvā′ja, p. and skt., name of a Brahman.—139, 141, 194.
- Bhā′vanā, p. and skt., meditation. There are five principal meditations: metta-bhāvanā, on love; karunā-bhāvanā, on pity; muditā-bhāvanā, on joy; asubha-bhāvanā, on impurity; and upekhā-bhāvanā, on serenity. [See Rhys Davids’s Buddhism, pp. 170—171.]—174, 175.
- Bhi′kkhu, p., bhi′kshu, skt., mendicant, monk, friar; the five bhikkhus, 34, 35, 47, 49, 55, 56, 88, 90, 91, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 102, 103, 108, 120, 170, 171, 172, 177, 183, 209, 234; bhikkhus doffed their robes, 95; bhikkhus rebuked, 109; bhikkhus prospered, 221; the sick bhikkhu, 213.
- Bhi′kkhunī, p., bhi′kshunī, skt., nun.—93, 95, 96.
- Bimbisā′ra, p. and skt., the king of Magadha; often honored with the cognomen “Sai′nya,” skt., or “Se′niya,” p., i. e. “the warlike or military.”—25, 26, 65, 69, 90, 98, 110, 111, 219.
- Bo′dhi, p. and skt., knowledge, wisdom, enlightenment.—151.
- Bodhi-a′nga or Bojjha′nga, or Sa′tta Bojjha′nga, p., meditation on the seven kinds of wisdom, which are:—energy, recollection, contemplation, investigation of scripture, joy, repose, and serenity.—97.
- Bodhisa′tta, p., Bodhisa′ttva, skt., he whose essence (sattva) is becoming enlightenment (bodhi). The term denotes (1) one who is about to become a Buddha, but has not as yet attained Nirvāna; (2) a class of saints who have only once more to be born again to enter into Nirvāna; (3) in later Buddhism any preacher or religious teacher.—9, 21, 25, 86, 118, 192, 194, 214—216; appearance of, 25; Bodhisattas, 130.
- Bodhi-tree, the tree at Buddha-Gaya, species ficus religiosa.—36.
- Bra′hmā, Anglicised form of skt. stem-form Brahman (nom. s. Brahmā). The chief God of Brahmanism, the world-soul. See also Sahampati.—43, 44, 45, 87, 141; Brahmā, a union with, 139; Brahmā, face to face, 140; Brahmā’s mind, 141.
- Brahmada′tta, p. and skt., (etym. given by Brahma) name of a mythical king of Kâshî, skt., or Kāsī, p.—104—108, 192, 199, 200, 215.
- Bra′hman, the priestly caste of the Indians. Anglicised form of Brahmana (p. and skt.). Priests were selected from the Brahman caste, but Brahmans were not necessarily priests; they were farmers, merchants, and often high officials in the service of kings. Brahmans, the two—139.
- Buddha, p. and skt., the Awakened One, the Enlightened One—. Buddha is also called Sakyamuni (the Sakya sage), Sakyasimha (the Sakya Lion), Sugata (the Happy One), Satthar, nom. Satthâ, p.; Shāstar, skt., (the Teacher), Jina (the Conqueror), Bhagavat (the Blessed One), Lokanātha (the Lord of the World), Sarvajña (the Omniscient One), Dharmarāja (the King of Truth), Tathāgata, etc. [See Rh. Davids’s B. p. 28.] B., faith in the, 226; B., I am not the first, 245; B. not Gotama, 160; B., refuge in the, 42, 60, 61, 68, 71, 150, 160, 168, 202, 206, 211, 247, 257; B. remains, Gotama is gone, 247; B. replies to the deva, 168; B., the sower, 194; B., the teacher, 177; B., the three personalities of, 252; B., the truth, 2, 161, 254; B., truly thou art, 45, 150; B. will arise, another, 245; B.’s birth, 8; B.’s death, 249; B.’s farewall address, 249; consolidation of B.’s religion, 89; Buddhas, the praise of all the, 258; Buddhas, the religion of all the, 68; Buddhas, the words of immutable, 20, 22.
- Cha′nna, p. and skt., prince Siddhattha’s driver.—15, 25.
- Chu′nda, p. and skt., the smith of Pāvā.—237, 240, 241.
- Dāgo′ba, modernised form of skt. Dhātu-ga′rbha, “relic shrine,” (also called Stūpa in Northern Buddhism) a mausoleum, tower containing relics, a kenotaph.—250, 253.
- Dā′namatī, p. and skt., name of a village. The word means “having a mind to give.”—152.
- De′va, p. and skt., any celestial spirit, a god especially of intermediate rank, angel.—Deva, questions of the, 168; Buddha replies to the deva, 168; Devas, 29, 55, 69, 92.
- Devada′tta (etym. god-given) brother of Yasodharā and Buddha’s brother-in-law. He tried to found a sect of his own with severer rules than those prescribed by Buddha. He is described undoubtedly with great injustice in the Buddhist canon and treated as a traitor. [About his sect see Rh. Davids’s B. p. 181—182.]—86, 88, 110—112, 214.
- Devapu′tta, p., Devapu′tra, skt., (etym. Son of a God) one of Buddha’s disciples.—250.
- Dhammapa′da, p., Dharmapa′da, skt.—131.
- Dha′rma, skt., Dha′mma, p., originally the natural condition of things or beings, the law of their existence, truth, then religious truth, the law, the ethical code of righteousness, the whole body of religious doctrines as a system, religion.—40, 41, 42, 44, 57, 61, 64, 68, 71,, 74, 84, 98—101, 138, 145, 146, 147, 150, 160, 168, 170, 171, 178, 179, 214, 246, 248, 250, 252, 253; let a man take pleasure in the dharma, 171; the goodness of the dharma, 134.
- Dharmakā′ya, skt., the body of the law.—254.
- Dharmarā′ja, skt., Dhammarā′ja, p., the king of truth.—21, 78, 130.
- Dīghā′vu, p., Dīrghā′yu, skt., the etymology of the word is “livelong.” Name of a mythical prince, son of king Dīghīti.—104—108.
- Dīghī′ti, p., Dīrghe′ti, skt., literally “suffer-long,” Name of a mythical king, father of prince Dīghā′vu.—104—108.
- Ganges, the well known river of India.—14, 21, 224.
- Gava′mpati, p., Gavā′mpati, skt., literally “lord of cows,” a friend of Yasa.—61.
- Ga′yā Kassapa, brother of the great Kassapa of Uruvelā.—64.
- Go′tama, p., Gau′tama, skt., Buddha’s family name.—7, 48, 49, 62, 65, 71, 140, 141, 142, 144, 145, 151, 160, 195; Gotama denies the existence of the soul, 151; Gotama is gone, Buddha remains, 247; Buddha not Gotama, 160; Gotama the samana, 246; Gotama Siddhattha, 110, 165, 253.
- Gotamī, name of any woman belonging to the Gotama family. Kisā Gotamī, 16, 209, 210, 211.
- Hīnayā′na, skt., the small vehicle, viz., of salvation. A name invented by Northern Buddhists, in contradistinction of Mahāyāna, to designate the spirit of Southern Buddhism. The term is not used among Southern Buddhists.—Pp. ix-x.
- Hira′ññavatī, p., Hiran′yavatī, skt., a river.—241.
- I′ddhi, p., Ri′ddhi, skt., defined by Eitel as “the dominion of spirit over matter.” It is the adjusting power to one’s purpose and the adaptation to conditions. In popular belief it implies exemption from the law of gravitation and the power of assuming any shape at will. (See Iddhipāda.)
- Iddhipā′da, p., Riddhipā′da, skt., the mode of attaining the power of mind over matter, four steps being needed: (1) the will to acquire it, (2) the necessary exertion, (3) the indispensable preparation of the heart, and (4) a diligent investigation of the truth.—177.
- Indra, one of the principal Brahman gods.—141, 198.
- Indriyā′ni or panc’-indriyāni, the five organs of the spiritual sense. (See Balāni.)
- I′si, p., Ri′shi, skt., a prophet or seer, an inspired poet, a hermit having acquired wisdom in saintly retirement, a recluse or anchorite.
- Iś′vara, skt., Ī′ssara, p., (lit. independent existence) Lord, Creator, personal God, a title given to Shiva and other great deities. In Buddhistic scriptures as well as in Brahman the skt. Is′vara (not the p. Issara) means always a transcendent or extramundane God, a personal God, a deity distinct from, and independent of nature, who is supposed to have created the world out of nothing.—72, 73.
- Jain, modernised form of skt. Jaina; an adherent of the Jain-sect which reveres Vardhamāna (Nātaputta) as Buddha. (See Jainism.)—48.
- Jainism, a sect, founded by Vardhamāna, older than Buddhism and still extant in India. It is in many respects similar to Buddhism. Buddha’s main objection to the Jains was the habit of their ascetics of going naked. The Jains lay great stress upon ascetic exercises and self-mortification which the Buddhists declare to be injurious.
- Ja′mbu, p. and skt., a tree.—19, 35.
- Jambū′nada, p., Jāmbū′nada, skt., a town of unknown site. (Also the name of a mountain and of a lake.)—202.
- Ja′tila, p., “wearing matted hair.” The Jatilas were Brahman ascetics. Buddha converted a tribe of them, and Kassapa, their chief, became one of his most prominent disciples.—62, 63, 64, 65.
- Je′ta, the heir apparent to the kingdom of Sāvatthī.—76.
- Je′tavana, a vihāra.—76, 77, 81, 168, 191, 195, 208, 215.
- Jhā′na, p., Dhyā′na, skt., intuition, beatic vision, ecstasy, rapture, the result of samādhi. Buddha did not recommend trances as means of religious devotion, urging that deliverance can be obtained only by the recognition of the four noble truths and walking on the noble eightfold path, but he did not disturb those who took delight in ecstasies and beatific visions. Buddha’s interpretation of the Dhyāna is not losing consciousness but a self-possessed and purposive eradication of egotism. There are four Dhyānas, the first being a state of joy and gladness born of seclusion full of investigation and reflexion; the second one, born of deep tranquillity without reflexion or investigation, the third one brings the destruction of passion, while the fourth one consists in pure equanimity, making an end of sorrow. [See Rhys Davids’s B. pp. 175—176.] In the Fo-Sho-hing-tsang-king, the Dhyāna is mentioned twice only: first, III, 12, vv. 960—978, where Ārāda sets forth the doctrine of the four Dhyānas which is not approved of by Buddha, and secondly, at Buddha’s death; when his mind is said to have passed through all the Dhyānas.—176, 249.
- Ji′na, p. and skt., the Conqueror, an honorary title of Buddha. The Jains use the term with preference as an appellative of Vardhamāna whom they revere as their Buddha.—48.
- Jī′vaka, p. and skt., physician to king Bimbisāra. According to tradition he was the son of king Bimbisāra and the courtesan Salavatī. We read in Mahāvagga VIII that after his birth he was exposed but saved; then he became a most famous physician and cured Buddha of a troublesome disease contracted by wearing cast off rags. He was an ardent disciple of Buddha and prevailed upon him to allow the Bhikkhus to wear lay robes.—89, 90, 91.
- Jo′tikkha, p., name of a householder, son of Subhadda.—119.
- Kālā′ma, p. and skt., (see Alāra).
- Ka′nthaka, prince Siddhattha’s horse.—25.
- Kapilava′tthu, p., Kapilava′stu, skt., the capital of the Sakyas, the birthplace of Buddha.—7, 13, 77, 82, 86, 87.
- Ka′rma, anglicised form of skt. stem-form ka′rman (nom. s. karma), the p. of which is ka′mmam. Action, work, the law of action, retribution, results of deeds previously done and the destiny resulting therefrom. Eitel defines karma as “that moral kernel [of any being] which alone survives death and continues in transmigration.” Karma is a well-defined and scientifically exact term. Professor Huxley says, “In the theory of evolution, the tendency of a germ to develop according to a certain specific type, e. g., of the kidney bean seed to grow into a plant having all the characters of Phaseolus vulgaris is its ‘karma.’ It is ‘the last inheritor and the last result’ of all the conditions that have affected a line of ancestry which goes back for many millions of years to the time when life first appeared on earth.” We read in the Anguttara Nikāya, Pancaka Nipāta: “My action (karma) is my possession, my action is my inheritance, my action is the womb which bears me, my action is the race to which I am akin [as the kidney-bean to its species], my action is my refuge.” [See the article “Karma and Nirvāna” in Buddhism and Its Christian Critics, p. 131 ff.]—29, 31, 32, 33, 86, 110, 115, 117, 118, 157, 172, 223, 225, 240.
- Kā′sī, p., Kā′śī, skt., the old and holy name of Benares.—104 et seq., 192.
- Ka′ssapa, p., Kā′śyapa, skt. (the etymology “He who swallowed fire,” is now rejected), a name of three brothers, chiefs of the Jatilas, called after their residences, Uruvelā, Nadī, and Gayā. The name Kassapa applies mainly to Kāssapa of Uruvelā, one of the great pillars of the Buddhistic brotherhood, who took at once, after his conversion, a most prominent rank among Buddha’s disciples. [Kassapa of Uruvelā is frequently identified with Mahā-Kassapa, the same who was president of the council at Rājagaha, but H. Dharmapala states, on the authority of the Anguttara Nikāya, that the two were altogether different persons.]—62—65, 119, 120, 163, 164, 254.
- Kha′ndha, p., Ska′ndha, skt., elements; attributes of being, which are form, sensation, perception, discrimination, and consciousness.—30.
- Kile′sa, p., Kle′śa, skt., error.
- Ki′sā Go′tamĩ, p., Kri′shā Gau′tamĩ, skt., the slim or thin Gotamĩ. Name (1) of a cousin of Buddha, mentioned in Chap. VI, p. 16, (2) of the heroine in the parable of the mustard seed.—209, 210, 211.
- Ko′lī, a little kingdom in the neighborhood of Kapilavatthu, the home of Yasodharā.—13.
- Kond′añña, p., Kaundi′nya, skt., name of Buddha’s first disciple, afterwards called Ājñā′ta Kaundi′nya in skt. and Aññā′ta Konda′ñña in p.—55, 56.
- Ko′sala, p. and skt., name of a country.—75, 76, 77, 94, 104, 105, 139.
- Kosa′mbī, p., Kauśā′mbĩ, skt., a city.—100, 103, 187.
- Kusinā′rā, p., Kuśina′gara, skt., a town.—238, 239, 241, 249, 250.
- Kūtada′nta, p. and skt., a Brahman chief in the village Dānamatī, also called Khānumat; is mentioned in Sp. Hardy’s M. B., p. 289 and in S. B. E., Vol. XIX., p. 242 [Fo, v. 1682].—152—160. Cf. Rhys Davids’s dialogues, pp. 173—179.
- Li′cchavi, p. and skt., the name of a princely family.—228, 231.
- Lu′mbinī, skt., a grove named after a princess, its owner.—8.
- Ma′gadha, p. and skt., name of a country.—65, 68, 70, 71, 90, 98, 111, 219, 223, 224.
- Ma′gga, p., Mā′rga, skt., path; especially used in the Pāli phrase “Ariyo atthangiko maggo,” the noble eightfold path, which consists of: right views, high aims, right speech, upright conduct, a harmless livelihood, perseverance in well-doing, intellectual activity, and earnest thought. [See S. B. E., Vol. XI, pp. 63 and 147.]
- Mahārā′ja, the great king.—78.
- Mahāse′tu, the great bridge. A name invented by the author of the present book to designate the importance of Christianity compared to the Hīnayāna and Mahāyāna of Buddhism.—ix, x.
- Mahāyā′na, the great vehicle, viz., of salvation. Name of the Northern conception of Buddhism, comparing religion to a great ship in which men can cross the stream of Samsāra to reach the shore of Nirvāna.—ix, x.
- Ma′lla, p. and skt., name of a tribe.—239, 241, 245, 246, 249, 250, 251.
- Manasā′kata, p., Manasā′krita, skt., a village in Kosala.—139, 140, 142.
- Mandā′ra, p. and skt., a flower of great beauty.—9.
- Mā′ra, p. and skt., the Evil One, the tempter, the destroyer, the god of lust, sin, and death.—5, 9, 25, 34, 36, 39, 42, 43, 44, 79, 116, 117, 130, 131, 133, 172, 173, 205, 235.
- Māra′s daughters are always three in number but their names are variously given as Tanhā, Arati, Rati (Dh. 164), and Tanhā, Arati, Ragā (Ab. 44 etc.).—36, 258.
- Mā′tali, p. and skt., name of a demon in the retinue of Yama.—198.
- Māta′nga, p. and skt., literally, of low birth; the Mātanga caste comprises mongrels of the lowest with higher castes.—196, 197.
- Mā′thurā, p. and skt., name of a place.—200.
- Mā′yā, p. and skt., Buddha’s mother. (See Māyā-devī.) The term “veil of Māyā,” viz., the illusion of self, popularly known through Schopenhauer, does not refer to Buddha’s mother, but to the Vedāntic conception of māyā. The word means “charm, magic enhancement.”—7, 91. The similarity of sound in the names Māyā and Maria is curious.
- Māyā-de′vī, also called Mahā-Māyā, or simply Māyā, p. and skt., the wife of Suddhodana and mother of Buddha. She died in childbed, and Buddha ascends to heaven to preach to her the good law and the gospel of salvation.—7, 91.
- Mette′yya, p., Maitre′ya, skt., etymology, “full of kindness”; the name of the Buddha to come.—241, 245.
- Moggallā′na, p., Maudgalyā′yana, skt., one of the most prominent disciples of Buddha, a friend of Sāriputta.—70, 71, 85.
- Mu′ni, skt. and p., a thinker, a sage; especially a religious thinker. Sakyamu′ni, the sage of the Sakyas, is Buddha.—26, 62, 103, 170, 171, 172.
- Nadī′-Ka′ssapa, p., Nadī′-Kā′śyapa, skt., brother of the great Kassapa of Uruvelā.—64.
- Nā′dika, p. and skt., name of a village.—225.
- Nā′ga, p. and skt., literally serpent. The serpent being regarded as a superior being, the word denotes a special kind of spiritual beings; a sage, a man of spiritual insight; any superior personality. Nāga kings, 9.
- Nalagiri, name of an elephant.—111.
- Nāla′ndā, p. and skt., a village near Rājagaha.—221, 223.
- Nanda, p., Siddhattha’s halfbrother, son of Pajāpatī.—86, 88.
- Na′ndā, daughter of a chief of shepherds, also called Sujātā.—35.
- Nātapu′tta, Jain Prakrit, Jñātapu′tra, skt., the son of Jñāta. Patronym of Vardhamāna, the founder of Jainism.—145, 146.
- Nera′ñjarā, p., Naira′ñjanā, skt., name of a river identified by some with the Nilajan, by others with the Phalgu.—35, 43, 235.
- Nidā′na, p. and skt., cause. The twelve nidānas, forming the chain of causation which brings about the misery in the world. [See Oldenberg, Buddha, Engl. tr., pp. 224—252].—40.
- Nigga′ntha, p., Nirgra′ntha, skt., literally “liberated from bonds”; a name adopted by the adherents of the Jaina sect.—145, 146; Nigganthas, give also to the, 150.
- Nigro′dha, p., Nyagro′dha, skt., a tree, ficus indica well known for its air roots.—43, 235.
- Nirmā′na Kā′ya, skt., the body of transformation.—254.
- Nirvā′na, skt., Nibbā′na, p., extinction, viz., the extinction of self; according to the Hīnayāna it is defined as “extinction of illusion,” according to the Mayāyāna as “attainment of truth.” Nirvāna means, according to the latter, enlightenment, the state of mind in which upādāna, kilesa, and tanhā are extinct, the happy condition of enlightenment, peace of mind, bliss, the glory of righteousness in this life and beyond, the eternal rest of Buddha after death. Buddha himself has refused to decide the problem whether or not Nirvāna is a final extinction of personality. When questioned, he indicated by his silence that the solution is not one of those subjects a knowledge of which is indispensable for salvation.—2, 4, 6, 16, 20, 41, 43, 44, 48, 50, 51, 55, 64, 65, 67, 70, 71, 74, 76, 81, 83, 91, 97, 118, 122, 123, 130, 143, 153, 154, 160, 164, 170, 171, 188, 195, 235, 236, 237, 245, 249, 250, 252, 253; where is Nirvāna? 154; Nirvāna not a locality, 154; the city of Nirvāna, 130; the harvest, Nirvāna, 195; he one aim, Nirvāna, 164; Samsāra and Nirvāna, 2, 6, 225.
- Okkā′ka, p., Ikshvā′ku, skt., the name of a mythological family from which the chiefs of the Sakyas claim descent.—7.
- Pabba′jjā, p., pravra′jyā, skt., the act of leaving the world for receiving admittance to the Order. The first step of the Buddhist ordination. (See Upasa′mpadā.)
- Pajā′patī, p., Prajā′patī or Mahā-Prajā′patī, skt., the sister of Māyā-devī, second wife of Suddhodana, aunt and fostermother of Buddha. She is also called by her husband’s family name Gotamī (feminine form of Gotama).—10, 13, 86, 92, 93, 103.
- Pajjo′ta, p., Pradyo′ta, skt., name of a king of Ujjenī.—90, 91.
- (Pakati, p.) Pra′kriti, skt., name of a girl of low caste.—196, 197.
- Pāramitā′, p. and skt., perfection, or virtue. The six pāramitās are: almsgiving, morality, patience, zeal or energy, meditation, and wisdom.
- Paribbā′jaka, p., Parivrā′jaka, skt., a sect belonging to the Tîrthika school.—98.
- Pase′nadi, p., (Prase′najit, skt., also called Pasenit) king of Kosala, residing at Sāvatthī.—75, 77.
- Pātalipu′tra, skt., Pātalipu′tta, p., also called Pātaligāma, a city on the Ganges north of Rājagaha and belonging to the kingdom of Magadha, the frontier station against the Vriji (Vajji), the present Patna. Buddha is reported to have predicted the future greatness of the place, which is an important passage for determining the time in which the account of Buddha’s sojourn in Pātaliputra was written. It is still uncertain, however, when Patna became the important centre which it is now. It was the capital of the country when Megasthenes, the ambassador of Seleucus Nicator, at the end of the third century bc, visited India. He gave in his book a detailed description of the city.—223, 224; Pātaliputra, three dangers hang over, 224.
- Pātimo′kkha, p., Pratimo′ksha, skt., (usually spelt Prātimoksha in Buddhistic Sanskrit,) literally “disburdenment.” It is the Buddhist confession. Rhys Davids says “that it almost certainly dates from the fifth century bc Since that time—during a period that is of nearly two thousand and three hundred years—it has been regularly repeated, twice in each month, in formal meetings of the stricter members of the Order. It occupies, therefore, a unique position in the literary history of the world; and no rules for moral conduct have been for so long a time as these in constant practical use, except only those laid down in the Old Testament and in the works of Confucius” (p. 163).—98, 99.
- Pā′vā, p. and skt., a village where Buddha took his last meal.—237, 239.
- Pokkharasā′ti, p., Paushkarasā′ti, skt., a Brahman philosopher.—139.
- Pubbārā′ma, p., Pūrvārā′ma, skt., the Eastern garden.—94.
- Pu′kkusa, p., Pu′kkasha or Pu′kkasa, skt., name of a low caste.—239.
- Puññ′aji, p., Pu′nyajit, skt., a friend of Yasa.—61.
- Ragā, pleasure, desire or lust; a synonym of rati. The name of one of Māra’s daughters, q. v.—36.
- Rā′hula, p. and skt., the son of Buddha, was admitted to the fraternity while still a boy. Buddha gave him a lesson in truthfulness [see Chapter LVI]. He is always named among the prominent disciples of Buddha and is revered as the patron saint of novices.—14, 85, 86, 87, 88, 165, 166, 167.
- Rainy season (see Vassa).—58, 232.
- Rā′jā, p. and skt., nominative form of the stem rājan, a king (in composition rāja).
- Rājaga′ha, p., Rājagri′ha, skt., the capital of Magadha and residence of king Bimbisāra.—26, 65, 69, 71, 72, 80, 91, 98, 110, 119, 144, 219, 220, 255.
- Ra′tana, p., ra′tna, skt., “jewel.”
- Rati, love, liking; a synonym of ragā. The name of one of Māra’s daughters, q. v.—36.
- Saha′mpati, occurs only in the phrase “Brahmā Sahampati,” a name frequently used in Buddhist scriptures the meaning of which is obscure. Burnouf renders it Seigneur des êtres patients; Eitel, Lord of the inhabitable parts of all universes; H. Kern [in S. B., XXI, p. 5] maintains that it is synonymous with Sikhin, which is a common term for Agni.
- Sa′kka, p., Śa′kra, skt., Lord; a cognomen of Indra.—69.
- Sa′kya, p., Śā′kya, skt., the name of a royal race in the northern frontiers of Magadha.—7, 14, 26.
- Sakyamu′ni, p., Śākyamu′ni, skt., the Sākya sage; a cognomen of Buddha.—27, 28, 33, 34, 36, 62, 63, 64, 65, 71, 83, 120, 121, 142, 144, 178, 196, 198, 210, 254.
- Sā′la, p., Śā′la, skt., a tree, vatica robusta; sāla-grove, 241, 245; sāla-trees, 241.
- Samā′dhi, p. and skt., trance, abstraction, self-control. Rhys Davids says (B. p. 177): “Buddhism has not been able to escape from the natural results of the wonder with which abnormal nervous states have always been regarded during the infancy of science. . . . But it must be added, to its credit, that the most ancient Buddhism despises dreams and visions; and that the doctrine of Samādhi is of small practical importance compared with the doctrine of the noble eightfold Path.” Eitel says (Handbook, p. 140): “The term Samādhi is sometimes used ethically, when it designates moral self-deliverance from passion and vice.”
- Sa′mana, p., Śrā′mana, skt., an ascetic; one who lives under the vow, 26, 36, 42, 59, 70, 87, 93, 119, 152, 165, 188, 189, 194, 195, 207, 223; the Samana Gotama, 151, the vision of a samana, 20.
- Sambho′ga-Kā′ya, skt., the body of Bliss.—254.
- Sammappadhā′na, p., Samyakpradhā′na, skt., right effort, exertion, struggle. There are four great efforts to overcome sin, which are: (1) Mastery over the passions so as to prevent bad qualities from rising; (2) suppression of sinful thoughts to put away bad qualities which have arisen; (3) meditation on the seven kinds of wisdom (Bojjhañga) in order to produce goodness not previously existing, and (4) fixed attention or the exertion of preventing the mind from wandering, so as to increase the goodness which exists. [See the Mahāpadhāna-Sutta in the Dīgha-Nikāya. Compare B. B. St., p. 89, and Rh. Davids’s Buddhism, pp. 172—173.]
- Samsā′ra, p. and skt., the ocean of birth and death, transiency, worldliness, the restlessness of a worldly life, the agitation of selfishness, the vanity fair of life.—2, 5, 172, 225.
- Sa′ngha, p. and skt., the brotherhood of Buddha’s disciples, the Buddhist church. An assembly of at least four has the power to hear confession, to grant absolution, to admit persons to the priesthood, etc. The sangha forms the third constituent of the Tiratana or three jewels in which refuge is taken (the S. B. of the E. spell Samgha).—56, 61, 64, 68, 69, 71, 86, 92, 95, 96, 98, 99, 100, 102, 103, 104, 108, 145, 150, 168, 178, 250, 253, 254; sangha may be expected to prosper, 221.
- Sa′ñjaya, p. and skt., a wandering ascetic and chief of that sect to which Sāriputta and Moggallāna belonged before their conversion.—70.
- Sankhā′ra, p., Samskā′ra, skt., confection, conformation, disposition. It is the formative element in the karma as it has taken shape in bodily existence.—155, 157, 158.
- Sāripu′tta, p., Śāripu′tra, skt., one of the principal disciples of Buddha; the Buddhistic St. Peter.—70, 71, 76, 77, 85, 87, 103, 112, 120, 212, 213, 222; Sāriputta’s faith, 213, 221.
- Sā′vaka, p., Śrā′vaka, skt., he who has heard the voice (viz. of Buddha), a pupil, a beginner. The name is used to designate (1) all personal disciples of Buddha, the foremost among whom are called Mahā-sāvakas, and (2) an elementary degree of saintship. A sāvaka is he who is superficial yet in practice and comprehension, being compared to a hare crossing the stream of Samsāra by swimming on the surface. [See Eitel Handbook, p. 157.]—172, 173, 174.
- Sati-patthā′na, p., Smrityupasthā′na, skt., meditation; explained as “fixing the attention.” The four objects of earnest meditation are: (1) the impurity of the body, (2) the evils arising from sensation, (3) ideas or the impermanence of existence, and (4) reason and character, or the permanency of the dharma. (Rh. D. B., p. 172.) The term is different from “bhāvanā,” although translated by the same English word. (S. B. of the E. XI, p. 62.—211).
- Sāva′tthi, p., Śrāva′stī, skt., capital of Northern Kosala. It has been identified by General Cunningham with the ruins of Sāhet-Māhet in Oudh and was situated on the river Rapti, northwest of Magadha.—75, 77, 81, 94, 96, 97, 103, 188, 195, 212, 215.
- Se′niya, p., Sai′nya, skt., military, warlike, an honorary title given to Bimbisāra the king of Magadha.—65, 69, 90, 98.
- Siddha′ttha, p., Siddhā′rtha, skt., Buddha’s proper name. Etymology, “He who has reached his goal.”—10—26, 48, 82—86, 88, 110, 165.
- Sigā′la, p., Srigā′la, skt., literally, “jackal”; name of a Brahman converted by Buddha.—144, 145.
- Si′mha, skt., Sī′ha, p., literally, “lion.” Name of a general, an adherent of the Niggantha sect, converted by Buddha, 145—151; Simha, a soldier, 147; Simha’s question concerning annihilation, 146.
- So′ma, p. and skt., derived from the root su, to press in a winepress; not as, according to Eitel, Chinese scholars propose from “exhilarate (su) and mind (mana).” Name of a plant and of its juice, which is intoxicating and is used at Brahmanical festivals; the Soma drink is identified with the moon and personified as a deity.—141.
- Subā′hu, p. and skt., a friend of Yasa.—61.
- Subha′dda, p., Subha′dra, skt., name of a samana. Subha′dda, Buddha’s last convert, must not be confounded with another man of the same name who caused dissension soon after Buddha’s death.—119, 246, 247.
- Suddho′dana, p., Śuddho′dana, skt., Buddha’s father. The word means “possessing pure rice.” Buddhists always represent him as a king, but Oldenberg declares that this does not appear in the oldest records, and speaks of him as “a great and wealthy land-owner.” (See his Buddha, English version, pp. 99 and 416—417).—7, 8, 13, 14, 25, 82, 83, 85, 91.
- Su′mana, p. and skt., name of a householder.—189, 190.
- Suprabuddha, father of Devadatta.—110.
- Su′tta, p., Sū′tra, skt., literally “thread,” any essay, or guide of a religious character.
- Tanhā, p., Tr′ishnā, skt., thirst; the word denotes generally all intense desire, cleaving and clinging with passion. The name of one of Māra’s daughters, q. v.—36, 138.
- Tapu′ssa, p. and skt., a merchant.—42.
- Tāru′kkha, p., Tāru′kshya, skt., name of a Brahman philosopher.—139.
- Tathā′gata, p. and skt., generally explained as “the Perfect One.” The highest attribute of Buddha, 21, 32, 34, 44, 49, 50, 55, 58, 59, 63, 65, 68, 69, 71, 73, 74, 80, 82, 85, 86, 87, 90, 92, 93, 95, 96, 111, 121, 124, 127, 128, 129, 130, 138, 142, 143, 144, 147, 148, 150, 151, 152, 154, 156, 157, 158, 163, 164, 165, 171, 172, 174, 175, 176, 177, 181, 188, 195, 197, 198, 199, 201, 202, 213, 214, 217, 225, 233, 234, 235, 236, 237, 239, 240, 242, 246, 247, 248, 249, 253; robe of the Tathāgata, 127; soldiers of the Tathāgata, 130; the law the body of the Tathāgata, 253; Tathāgatas are only preachers, 131.
- Tiratana, p., Trira′tna, skt., the three jewels or the holy trinity of the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha, a doctrine peculiar to Northern Buddhism. (See Trikāya.)
- Ti′tthiya, p., Tī′rthika, skt., a religious school of India in Buddha’s time.—98.
- Trikā′ya, the three bodies or personalities of Buddha, the Dharmakāya, the Sambhoga-kāya, and the Nirmāna-kāya.—254.
- Uddaka, p., U′draka, skt., a Brahman philosopher.—29, 31.
- Ujje′nī, p., Ujja′yinī, skt., name of a city.—90.
- Upādā′na, p. and skt., desire, a grasping state of mind. One of the nidānas.
- (Upagutta, p.), Upagu′pta, skt., name of a Buddhist monk.—200, 201.
- U′paka, p. and skt., name of a man, a Jain, who met Buddha, but was not converted by him.—47, 48.
- Upā′li, p. and skt., a prominent disciple of Buddha. Before his conversion he was, according to the Buddhistic tradition, court-barber to the king of the Sakyas.—86, 104, 252.
- Upasa′mpadā, p. and skt., admittance to the Buddhist brotherhood, ordination. (See Pabbajjā.)
- Upava′ttana, p., Upava′rtana, skt., a grove in Kusinagara. The word means a rambling-place, a gymnasium.—241, 245.
- Upo′satha, p., Upava′satha, skt., the Buddhist sabbath. Rhys Davids says (pp. 140—141): “The Uposatha days are the four days in the lunar month when the moon is full, or new, or half way between the two. It is the fourteenth day from the new moon (in short months) and the fifteenth day from the full moon (in the long months), and the eighth day from each of these. The corresponding Sanskrit word is Upavasatha, the fast-day previous to the offering of the intoxicating sôma, connected with the worship of the moon. Instead of worshipping the moon, the Buddhists were to keep the fast-day by special observance of the moral precepts; one of many instances in which Gotama spiritualised existing words and customs.”—98, 99, 101, 102; observe the Uposatha or Sabbath, 99.
- Uruve′lā, p., Urubi′lvā, skt., a place south of Patna on the banks of the Neranjarā river, now Buddha Gayā. The residence of Kassapa, the chief of the Jatilas.—34, 62, 64, 65, 206.
- Va′jji, p., Vri′ji, skt., name of a people living in the neighborhood of Magadha, 120, 219, 220; assemblies of the Vajji, 220.
- Va′rana, p. and skt., a tree; Crataeva Roxburghii.—184, 185.
- Vardhamā′na, skt., Vaddhamā′na, Jaina Prākrit, proper name of the founder of Jainism. Also called Jñātapu′tra in skt. and Nātapu′tta in Jaina Prākrit.
- Va′runa, p. and skt., a Brahman deity, the god of heaven and regent of the sea; one of the guardians of the world.—141.
- Vāsavada′ttā, p. and skt., a courtesan of Mathurā.—200, 201, 202.
- Vāse′ttha, p., Vāsi′shtha, skt., name of a Brahman.—139, 142.
- Va′ssa, p., Va′rsha, skt., rain, rainy season. During the rainy season of Northern India, which falls in the months from June to October, the samanas could not wander about, but had to stay in one place. It was the time in which the disciples gathered round their master, listening to his instructions. Thus it became the festive time of the year. In Ceylon, where these same months are the fairest season of the year, Buddhists come together and live in temporary huts, holding religious meetings in the open air, reading the Pitakas and enjoying the Jātakas, legends, and parables of Buddhism. [See Rhys Davids’s B., p. 57.]
- Vassakāra, p., Varshakā′ra, skt., lit. “rain-maker.” Name of a Brahman, the prime minister of the king of Magadha.—219, 220.
- Ve′das, 50, 140, 141, 187; I know all the Vedas, 159.
- Veluva′na, p., Veṇuva′na, skt., a bamboo-grove at Rājagaha, 70, 80; Veluvana vihāra, 110.
- Vesā′lī, p., Vaiśā′līî, skt., a great city of India, north of Patna.—150, 220, 227, 228, 232, 236.
- Vihā′ra, p. and skt., residence of Buddhist monks or priests; a Buddhist convent or monastery; a Buddhist temple.—67, 75, 76, 95, 99, 110, 111, 165, 213, 214, 242.
- Vi′mala, p. and skt. (etym., the spotless), name of a friend of Yasa.—61.
- Vi′naya, 57.
- Visā′khā, p., Viśā′khā, skt., a wealthy matron of Sāvatthi, one of Buddha’s most distinguished woman lay-disciples. Says Oldenberg, Buddha, English translation, p. 167: “Every one invites Visākhā to sacrificial ceremonies and banquets, and has the dishes offered to her first; a guest like her brings luck to the house.”—94, 95, 96, 97; eight boons of Visākhā, 95; gladness of Visākhā, 97.
- Ya′ma, p. and skt., also called Yama-rā′ja, death, the god of death.—206, 207.
- Ya′sa, p., Ya′śas, skt., the noble youth of Benares, son of a wealthy man and one of Buddha’s earliest converts.—58—61.
- Yaso′dharā, p., Ya′śodharā, skt., wife of Prince Gotama Siddhattha before he became Buddha. She became one of the first of Buddhist nuns. [See Jātaka, 87—90; Commentary on Dhammapada, vv. 168, 169: Bigandet, 156—168; Spence Hardy’s Manual, 198—204; Beal, pp. 360—364: B. Birth Stories, 127.]—13, 84—87, 92, 110, 165.
REMARKS ON THE ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE GOSPEL OF BUDDHA.
UPON the task of illustrating The Gospel of Buddha, I have spent three years, the first of which was entirely devoted to preparation. By the kind assistance of Dr. Hans Schnorr von Carolsfeld, Director of the Royal Court and State Library at Munich, I was enabled to make very extensive use of the treasures of this institution, and I am under great obligations to him for the courtesies extended to me. Above all I endeavored to obtain a solid foundation for my work by acquiring a clear conception of the personality of the Buddha from religious, historical and artistic standpoints and by familiarizing myself with all the Buddhist dogmas, symbols and religious observances.
Detailed studies of Indian costume, armor, decoration, architecture and the arrangement of dwellings and gardens, as well as the fauna and flora of the country, were likewise indispensable. Not only modern documents, explorers’ reports and photographs of ancient ruins provided me with available material, but also some old Dutch works of the seventeenth century.
The two main sources of our knowledge of ancient Buddhist art will always remain the monuments of Gandhāra, and the cave dwellings of Buddhist monks in Ajantā and other places. The formernd other places. The former bear witness to the extraordinary influence of Greek art on Buddhism; and the latter are rich in wonderful fresco paintings of the classical period of Buddhist art. A description of all the caves as well as a selection of the best mural paintings in colored pictures are to be found in Griffith’s elegant work The Paintings in the Buddhist Cave Temples of Ajanta1 and some reproductions from it have been made further accessible in Dr. Carus’s Portfolio of Buddhist Art.2 The two great expositions in Munich, “Japan and Eastern Asia in Art” and “Expositions of the Masterpieces of Mohammedan Art,” 1910, were very instructive to me from the point of view of art history, containing invaluable material conveniently arranged from the great museums, royal treasures and private collections from London, Paris, Berlin, Vienna, St Petersburg, Moscow, and Cairo. In the former the great wave of the marvelous Buddhist faith which had been flowing towards China for two millenniums and which had brought new life from China to Japan was evidenced in many rare pieces. Yet almost more fruitful for my purpose was the exposition of Mohammedan art. It displayed wonderful Persian and Indian book-making and lacquer work, tapestries, ceramics, fabrics, armor and metal work. To be sure these were exclusively of Mohammedan manufacture, but many large museums and institutions (native and foreign), collectors and explorers had sent also chests of Buddhist works, which, not falling within its compass, had been excluded from the exhibition, but were placed at my disposal in the so-called Library Department reserved for students.
Indian art has been greatly neglected by archeologists and connoisseurs at the expense of the so-called classic style, and explorers seem to be more interested in the geographical and political conditions of the country, or even look down with contempt and lack of understanding on the early artistic monuments of India, although they have enriched our European middle ages. Thus there are great gaps in the history of Indian art which I was obliged to fill up for myself, and certainly a very different kind of study was needed to illustrate a Gospel of Buddha than for a pictorial construction of the life of a Plato or a Jesus.
Fräulein Emily von Kerckhoff, an artistic and highly cultured lady of Laren in Northern Holland, sailed on November 9, 1909, to join her family in Java where she remained for some time. Her journey occurring just at this time was of great help to me, for she complied with all my wishes in the most accommodating manner and filled up many gaps in my knowledge of India.
In Colombo she became acquainted with the Dias Bandaranaike and other refined Singhalese families, who were very friendly in answering my questions. Further she met Sister Sudham Machari of Upasikarama, Peradeniya Road, Kandy, a prominent Singhalese nun, who with the assistance of Lady Blake, the wife of a former governor, had founded the first modern Buddhist nunnery in Ceylon where she now lives as lady superior. She is well posted on Buddhism, for she has studied Pāli, Sanskrit, and Burmese for nine years in Burma, and has received ordination. Through her, Fräulein von Kerckhoff had an opportunity to visit the temple in Kandy where the strange relic of the “Sacred Tooth of Buddha” is perserved, and on this occasion was able to obtain some leaves from the sacred Bodhi tree which I wished to possess. She also became acquainted in Kandy with Dr. Kobekaduwe Tikiri Banda, a Singhalese physician who belonged to a Buddhist family and is the son of a Kandian chief. He had studied in England for a long time and possesses a remarkable knowledge of the country and people of India and Ceylon, by which I thus had an opportunity to profit.
Fräulein von Kerckhoff gathered further material for my purposes in Gampola, a place in the mountains about an hour’s ride from Kandy, on the occasion of a visit to the family of the district judge, Mr. De Livera, and by the acquaintance with Mr. J. B. Yatawara Rata-Mahatmaya, Governor of the District and a zealous Buddhist, who has translated into English part of the Jātakas (stories of the various rebirths of Buddha) in collaboration with the late Prof. Max Müller, of Oxford.
Later, in December, 1910, she sent me leaves from the Bodhi tree at Anuradhapura, the sacred city of the Buddhists, where there are ruins of ancient palaces and temples, and where stands that Bodhi tree which Mahinda, the first Buddhist apostle in Ceylon, is said to have planted from a branch of the sacred Bodhi tree in Buddhagaya under which Buddha attained enlightenment.
With regard to customs, habits and usages at princely courts I received information, though to be sure referring mainly to Java, through Prince Paku Alam, his uncle Prince Noto, his sisters and other relatives, all of whom talked Dutch fluently with Fräulein von Kerckhoff. She was also kind enough to send me all the interesting photographs she could find of famous Indian temples and ruins, views of native life, types and landscapes, pictures of the newly excavated temple ruins of Sarnath, where Buddha first preached after attaining enlightenment, and particularly also of the splendid temple of Boro-Budur. (She also went to Japan in search of traces of Buddhism for me).
By means of the Hagenbeck Indian ethnological exposition (Oct. 1911, in Munich) I was able to study types of the different Indian races and castes from nature, and this in addition to a personal observation of the features of Indians in the harbors of Genoa and Venice enabled me to draw my figures according to nature from genuine Indian models.
However, all these studies slightly influenced the externalities only of the whole series of pictures, for the knowledge obtained by detailed study had been covered to a remarkable extent at the beginning when I made my first sketches on the first inspiration. Still they have proved of great value to me since they gave me the assurance that historical fidelity has been preserved in my work.
Munich, Bavaria.
Olga Kopetzky.
[1 ] Two volumes, 1896, Published by order of the Secretary of State for India in Council.
[2 ] Chicago, Open Court Publishing Company.
During the time of printing “The Gospel of Buddha” the following valuable works on Indian art have come under my notice:
Ananda K. Coomaraswamy: The Arts and Crafts of India and Ceylon. E. B. Havell: The Ideals of Indian Art; Indian Sculpture and Painting. Dr. Curt Glaser: Die Kunst Ost-Asiens (Leipzig, Insel-Verlag).
5: Confucius, The Ethics of Confucius [1915]
Confucius, The Ethics of Confucius. The Sayings of the Master and his Disciples upon the Conduct of “The Superior Man”, arranged according to the plan of Confucius with running commentary by Miles Menander Dawson, with a foreword by Wu Ting Fang (New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1915).
Accessed from oll.libertyfund.org/title/2065 on 2011-05-14
The text is in the public domain.
CONFUCIUS
From a drawing by Kiechu Yamada, Based upon an Ancient Copy of the Traditional Portrait
Reproduced by the courtesy of Dr. Paul Carus
To
MISS JESSIE B. RITTENHOUSE,
discriminating critic and unfailing friend,
to whose appreciation
the author’s perseverance in the arduous labor
of collecting and collating the text for this book
and preparing it for its readers is chiefly due,
This Volume is Gratefully Inscribed.
FOREWORD
When Confucius died, it is recorded that his last words were regrets that none among the rulers then living possessed the sagacity requisite to a proper appreciation of his ethical philosophy and teachings. He died unhonoured,—died in his seventy-third year, 479 bc, feeling in the flickering beats of his failing heart that his inspiring pleas for truth and justice, industry and self-denial, moderation and public duty, though then without having awakened men’s impulses, would yet stir the depths of the social life of his land.
Only the future will tell how far his staunch guide-ropes to correct conduct will be extended within China, and even be threaded through the dark and dangerous passages of existence in the lands of the Occident to lead humanity safely to that elevated plane which the lofty ideals of the philosopher aimed at establishing. Not yet has the world, sagacious as it is, appreciated the wealth of gentleness, the profound forces for good, the uplifting influences embodied in the teachings of the ancient sage, whose aim, reduced to its simplest definition, was to show “how to get through life like a courteous gentleman.”
A great step forward in the dissemination of the doctrine in foreign lands is taken in “The Superior Man.” Lofty as appear the ideals, in the usual translations, they lose the effect on the average reader that the application which Mr. Dawson has now given them must create. Driving home the principles by careful compilation under different headings, the author causes the scheme of ethical conduct to attract and appeal; and the blessings it has bestowed in the vast expanses of China may yet give comfort to many people in many other lands.
Confucius strove to make the human being good—a good father, a good mother, a good son, a good daughter, a good friend, a good citizen. Though his truths were unpalatable at the time of their enunciation, they have lived to bear good fruit, despite the desperate efforts of Emperor Tsin Shi-hwang to destroy them by fire, and it is gratifying to see that a still wider sphere is being more and more developed for them in the West.
The movement that is now being energized in China to make the doctrine more familiar to the people, may also find reflection in foreign lands. “The Superior Man” will surely help the struggler in the mire of complexity to find his way out to the clean, substantial foothold of manliness and integrity.
Shanghai, China,
January 29, 1912.INTRODUCTION
WORKS OF CONFUCIUS AND CHIEF FOLLOWERS
The ethical and political precepts of Confucius are not well known in Occidental countries, even to most of those who give special attention to these subjects; and of what is known, much, indeed most, is confused with the notion that Confucius taught a religion in our sense of that term.
Yet these ethical teachings, which are almost purely secular, have for more than 2000 years been accepted by a larger number of human beings than those of any other teacher. This, also, notwithstanding that the peoples who so receive Confucian morals as their guide are of the most various views concerning religion, i. e., for instance, are Buddhists, Mahometans, Taoists, Shintoists, etc. No other ethical system, whether of religious origin, or of secular, has ever been acceptable to persons professing religious convictions so diverse.
And his political maxims have been regarded as fundamental, and knowledge of them, as well as of his ethics, has been insisted upon as a prime essential to political preferment, in a nation which, despite the not infrequent shifting of ruling dynasties, has the unparalleled record of continuing from prehistoric times to the present without a single break.
In view of their obvious importance and of the availability of translations of the Chinese classics, the question naturally arises: Why the prevailing want of information concerning the works of Confucius, his disciples and followers?
Though due in part, no doubt, to Confucianism not being a religion and so receiving but scant attention from students of comparative religions, to the relatively small interest of Occidentals, until very recently, in things Chinese, and to the comewhat expensive editions in which alone the best translation is available, the want of information concerning these teachings is, in my opinion, chiefly due to this: They are found in large volumes consisting of ancient Chinese classics which Confucius edited, of a collection of his sayings, of certain books by his disciples that purport to give his precepts accurately, in one book by his great apostle, Mencius,1 who more than a century later led the revival of Confucian ethics which has continued to this day, and in certain books by later followers; and these books consist, in varying proportions, ranging from a minimum of more than half to a maximum of at least nineteen-twentieths, of discourses upon ceremonies, customs, and the like, possibly of great interest to dwellers in China or Japan, but almost absolutely devoid of interest to most Occidentals.
These ceremonies and customs, already firmly intrenched when Confucius was born, doubtless constitute a very rich and expressive language, crystallized into conduct; but it is one which is wholly unintelligible and even repellent to persons of Western origin.
The only form, other than this, in which the ethical teachings of Confucius and his followers have been presented, is through books about these teachings, i. e., presenting, in the language of these modern authors, what they consider Confucius and his followers have taught.
The aim in preparing this book is to put before Occidental readers, in the words of the Chinese sage and his followers, as translated, everything concerning ethics and statecraft contained in the Confucian classics which is likely to interest them, omitting nothing of importance. This has been undertaken in the following fashion:
Every such passage has been extracted from all the works comprising the Confucian classics and several from the more important works of early Confucian scholars.
These have been arranged by topics in accordance with a scheme laid down as that of Confucius himself in “The Great Learning.”
The passages, so quoted, have been thrown into the order deemed most effective to demonstrate and illustrate the doctrine of Confucius.
To sustain the interest unbroken, the passages quoted are connected by a running narrative, showing briefly the relationship of one with the other, stating from what book taken and by whom enunciated, and most sparingly accompanied by quotations from other moralists, ancient or modern.
This book makes no claim to be an exhaustive study of the text, or of the commentaries on the text, of the Chinese sage; and much less to epitomize a critical investigation and collation of original texts. It accepts the generally received canon of the sayings and writings of Confucius as authentic, and deals exclusively with their significance as viewed scientifically in these days. Thus considered, the sayings of Confucius are seen to exhibit wonderful foresight and insight.
Indeed, it is a continual marvel that, like Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle, Confucius should have come so near to laying down, formally, the lines which scientific investigation must pursue; and yet that, as generation after generation passed away, the attitude of many of the disciples of each of these should have become more and more that of blind and even superstitious imitation of the great teacher, and almost scrupulous avoidance of the application of his principles in the never-ending search for truth. This seems to have commenced with the immediate disciples of the sage, and by the time of Mencius it was already a species of idolatry, expressed in such sayings as this:
“Since first there were living men until now, there has never been another Confucius.” (Bk. ii., pt. i., c. ii., v. 23.)
“From the birth of mankind till now, there has never been another like our Master.” (Bk. ii., pt. i., c. ii., v. 27.)
So also, among the Greeks and Romans, the very name, “philosopher,” i. e., “lover of wisdom,” which Socrates gave to himself as one who did not pretend to be wise already, but who merely sought wisdom earnestly, soon lost its true meaning, as veneration for Socrates, Plato, or Aristotle took the place of the child-like, simple, open-minded search for truth which they inculcated as the obvious duty of intelligent beings. In other words, the positive teaching of these great minds became in due time prescriptive authority in the view of their followers, while the essential factor in the thought of each of the great teachers, that the mind should be open—should, in the words of St. Paul, “try all things and hold fast that which is good”—gave way to a prohibition against questioning any declaration of the Master, and later against questioning any of the accepted derivations and corollaries of the authoritative sayings.
It is to be remembered that Confucius never made claim to be inspired; to be sure, he said of himself, “If Heaven had wished to let this cause of truth perish, then I, a mortal yet to be born, should not have got such a relation to that cause,” but this was rather a declaration of the universality of divine providence than a claim of special inspiration.
Later, however, the commentators virtually claimed it for him, i. e., that he was “divinely sent,” as in the Annotation of Kung-Yang quoting the Adjunct of the Spring and Autumn and also in the Adjunct of the Hsiâo King, in which Confucius is represented as reporting to Heaven the completion of his writings and as receiving divine approval in the form of a red rainbow arching down and becoming transformed into yellow jade with words carved upon it.
This book is written to afford others opportunity for the same inspiring understanding of the true nature of the Confucian conception of good conduct as an encouragement of independent, clear thinking concerning the purposes of life and what may be done with it, which met so warm a welcome in my own mind when I first fortunately chanced upon a really good translation of the Analects of Confucius. What is here attempted is but an unworthy recognition of the great benefit, which, across twenty-five centuries, the Chinese sage conferred upon me.
My thanks are due to various persons who have aided me with criticisms and suggestions; but very especially to Chen Huan Chang, Ph.D. (Columbia), Chin Shih of 1904 ad (i.e., winner of the prize in the highest competitive examination in China on the teachings of Confucius), formerly Secretary of the Grand Secretariat at Pekin, now President of the Confucian Society in China and leader of the successful movement there to restore public recognition of Confucian ethics and observances. Dr. Chen has looked up for me all doubtful interpretations of texts, advising me of the variant views and enabling me to choose among them. In general, and with almost no exceptions, the commonly accepted meaning is given.
THE WORKS OF CONFUCIUS, HIS DISCIPLES, AND MOST IMPORTANT FOLLOWERS
Including Ancient Books Edited by Him, Books of His Sayings, and Accounts of His Teachings by His Disciples and by Early Apostles and Commentators.
Confucius was born in 552 bc and died in 479 bc His name was K‘ung Ch‘in Chung-ni, of which K‘ung was the family name, Ch‘in the personal (i.e., what we call Christian) name, and Chung-ni the special name given upon reaching full age. He was called K‘ung Fu Tse later, the appellation Fu Tse meaning “Master”; and this has been Latinized into Confucius.
1. The actual authorship of but one book is ascribed to him, viz: Ch‘un Ch‘in, “Spring and Autumn” (English Edition, vol. v., “Chinese Classics”).
This book is said to have been written by Confucius himself, in his seventy-second year, and to have been designed by him to serve as an epitome of his teachings upon all ethical, social, and religious subjects. At least, Mencius so speaks of it. The book, in a different form and known as “The Annals of Lu,” was in existence before Confucius, and his task seems, after all, to have been to edit and amplify it. The work as it has come down to us, however, undoubtedly unchanged since the Han dynasty, is a bare record of events, almost utterly devoid of instruction and even of interest.
2. A collection of conversations with Confucius, containing many of his most important sayings, was made by his disciples after his death. It is known as:
Lun Yü, “The Analects,” translated by James Legge, and published in “The Sacred Books of the East.”
Several important books or collections of books, already ancient when Confucius was born and regarded as classics, were edited by Confucius and further edited by his early disciples. These are:
3. Yi King, the “Book of Changes.”
4. Hsiâo King, the “Book of Filial Piety.”
5. Shu King, the “Book of History.”
6. Shi King, the “Book of Poetry,” also called “The Odes.”
7. Li Ki, the “Book of Ceremonies.”
All of these were translated by James Legge and published in “The Sacred Books of the East.”
The last mentioned is also often called “Younger Tai’s Record of Rites,” and it is affirmed that the “Li-Ching,” said to be an older and greatly variant edition, should be accepted instead. In this book or collection of books are comprised two of very special importance:
8. “The Great Learning,” said to have been committed to writing by Tse-Tse, the grandson of Confucius, from his recollections of the teachings of his grandfather and from reports of the same by his father and other disciples of Confucius. His text is elucidated by commentaries in the “Li Ki.” This book has also come down separately.
9. “The Doctrine of the Mean,” also the work of disciples of Confucius and their early successors. This has also come down separately.
There is also the very valuable volume of the sayings of Meng Tse, the great apostle of Confucianism in the second century later—whose name is Latinized into:
10. Mencius.
This Book of Mencius was also translated by James Legge and is published in “The Sacred Books of the East.”
“The Four Books,” meaning thereby the elements and very core of Confucian doctrine, is the name given to “The Analects,” “The Great Learning,” “The Doctrine of the Mean,” and “Mencius.”
“The Five Classics” or “The Five Canons” is the name applied to the “Yi King,” “Hsiâo King,” “Shu King,” “Shi King,” and “Li Ki” (or “Li-Ching”), collectively. The word “King” means “classic” or “canon.”
Other works of Confucian commentators and scholars which are occasionally quoted from, are:
11. Shuo Yüan (“Park of Narratives”).
12. Hsun Tze.
13. Ku-liang Chuan (“Ku-liang’s Commentary”).
14. “Many Dewdrops of the Spring and Autumn.”
15. Pan-Ku.
16. “History of Han Dynasty.”
17. “History of Latter Han Dynasty.”
18. “Narratives of Nations.”
19. Kung-Yang Chuan (“Kung-Yang’s Commentary”).
The citations of this book are for the most part given by the name of the work, the name or number of the chapter and other grand division of the work and the verse, to the end that any edition in Chinese or any translation into English or into another language may be conveniently referred to.
M. M. D.
CONFUCIUS
K‘ung Fu-tsze, “the philosopher K‘ung,” whose name has been Latinized into Confucius, was born in the year 550 (or 551) bc His father, Shuh-liang Heih was an officer in charge of the district of Tsow in the State of Lu and had been famous for his strength and daring; he was of the K‘ung family and lineally descended from Hwang-Ti, an almost legendary character of ancient China.
At the age of seventy, Shuh-liang Heih, the father of ten children of whom but one was a son and he a cripple, sought a wife in the Yen family where there were three daughters. The two elder of them demurred when apprised by their father of the old man’s suit; but the youngest, Ching-tsai, only seventeen years of age, offered to abide by her father’s judgment. The following year Confucius was born and three years later she was a widow.
Confucius was married, in accordance with Chinese custom, at nineteen and accepted public employment as a keeper of stores and later as superintendent of parks and herds. At twenty-two, however, he commenced his life-work as a teacher, and gradually a group of students, eager to be instructed in the classics and in conduct and government, gathered about him.
He was a contemporary of Lao-tsze, the founder of Taoism, who, however, was of the next previous generation. Confucius is said to have had several interviews with him about 517 bc
Up to the age of fifty-two, he was not much in public life. He was then made chief magistrate of the city of Chung-tu, which so thrived and improved under his care, that the Duke of Lu appointed him minister of crime which resulted in a great reduction of wrongdoing. The Duke accepting a present of female musicians and giving himself over to dissipation, Confucius withdrew and wandered among the various states, giving instruction as opportunity offered.
His disciples during his lifetime rose to three thousand and of these some seventy or eighty were highly esteemed by him.
Confucius when he set forth on his wanderings was fifty-six; it was thirteen years before he returned to Lu.
In 482 bc, he lost his only son; in 481 bc, his favourite student, Yen Hwuy, and in 478 bc Tsze-lu, another of his favourites, passed away, and the same year Confucius himself died at the age of seventy-two.
He was buried in the K‘ung cemetery outside the gates of K‘iuh-fow, where most of his descendants, said to number more than forty thousand, still live. His tomb is yet preserved and is annually visited by vast numbers of his followers.
The Ethics of Confucius
CHAPTER I
WHAT CONSTITUTES THE SUPERIOR MAN
The central idea of Confucius is that every normal human being cherishes the aspiration to become a superior man—superior to his fellows, if possible, but surely superior to his own past and present self. This does not more than hint at perfection as a goal; and it is said of him that one of the subjects concerning which the Master rarely spoke, was “perfect virtue.” (Analects, bk. ix., c. i.) He also said, “They who know virtue, are few” (Analects, bk. xv., c. iii.), and was far from teaching a perfectionist doctrine. It refers rather to the perpetually relative, the condition of being superior to that to which one may be superior, be it high or low,—that hopeful possibility which has ever lured mankind toward higher things.
This accords well with the ameliorating and progressive principle of evolution which in these days offers a substantial reward, both for a man and for his progeny, if he will but cultivate higher and more useful traits and qualities. The aim to excel, if respected of all, approved and accepted by common consent, would appeal to every child and, logically presented to its mind and enforced by universal recognition of its validity, would become a conviction and a scheme for the art of living, of transforming power and compelling vigour.
In various sayings Confucius, his disciples, and Mencius present the attributes of the superior man, whom the sage adjures his disciples to admire without ceasing, to emulate without turning, and to imitate without let or hindrance. These are some of them:
Purpose: “The superior man learns in order to attain to the utmost of his principles.” (Analects, bk. xix., c. vii.)
Poise: “The superior man in his thought does not go out of his place.” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xxviii.)
Self-sufficiency: “What the superior man seeks, is in himself; what the ordinary1 man seeks, is in others.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xx.)
Earnestness: “The superior man in everything puts forth his utmost endeavours.” (Great Learning, ii., 4.)
Thoroughness: “The superior man bends his attention to what is radical. That being established, all practical courses naturally grow up.” (Analects, bk. i., c. ii., v. 2.)
Sincerity: “The superior man must make his thoughts sincere.” (Great Learning, vi., 4.) “Is it not his absolute sincerity which distinguishes a superior man?” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xiii., 4.)
Truthfulness: “What the superior man requires is that in what he says there may be nothing inaccurate.” (Analects, bk. xiii., c. iii., v. 7.)
Purity of thought and action: “The superior man must be watchful over himself when alone.” (Great Learning, vi., 2.)
Love of truth: “The object of the superior man is truth.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xxxi.) “The superior man is anxious lest he should not get truth; he is not anxious lest poverty come upon him.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xxxi.)
Mental hospitality: “The superior man is catholic and not partisan; the ordinary man is partisan and not catholic.” (Analects, bk. ii., c. xiv.) “The superior man in the world does not set his mind either for anything or against anything; what is right, he will follow.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. x.)
Rectitude: “The superior man thinks of virtue; the ordinary man thinks of comfort.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. xi.) “The mind of the superior man is conversant with righteousness; the mind of the ordinary man is conversant with gain.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. xxi.) “The superior man in all things considers righteousness essential.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xvii.)
Prudence: “The superior man wishes to be slow in his words and earnest in his conduct.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. xxiv.)
Composure: “The superior man is satisfied and composed; the ordinary man is always full of distress.” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xxxvi.) “The superior man may indeed have to endure want; but the ordinary man, when he is in want, gives way to unbridled license.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. i., v. 3.)
Fearlessness: “The superior man has neither anxiety nor fear.” (Analects, bk. xii., c. iv., v. 1.) “When internal examination discovers nothing wrong, what is there to be anxious about, what is there to fear?” (Analects, bk. xi., c. iv., v. 3.) “They sought to act virtuously and they did so; and what was there for them to repine about?” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xiv., v. 2.)
Ease and dignity: “The superior man has dignified ease without pride; the ordinary man has pride without dignified ease.” (Analects, bk. xiii., c. xxvi.) “The superior man is dignified and does not wrangle.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xxi.)
Firmness: “Refusing to surrender their wills or to submit to any taint to their persons.” (Analects, bk. xviii., c. viii., v. 2.) “The superior man is correctly firm and not merely firm.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xxxvi.) “Looked at from a distance, he appears stern; when approached, he is mild; when he is heard to speak, his language is firm and decided.” (Analects, bk. xix., c. ix.)
Lowliness: “The superior man is affable but not adulatory; the ordinary man is adulatory but not affable.” (Analects, bk. xiii., c. xxiii.)
Avoidance of sycophancy: “I have heard that the superior man helps the distressed, but he does not add to the wealth of the rich.” (Analects, bk. vi., c. iii., v. 2.)
Growth: “The progress of the superior man is upward, the progress of the ordinary man is downward.” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xxiv.) “The superior man is distressed by his want of ability; he is not distressed by men’s not knowing him.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xviii.)
Capacity: “The superior man cannot be known in little matters but may be entrusted with great concerns.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xxxiii.)
Openness: “The faults of the superior man are like the sun and moon. He has his faults and all men see them. He changes again and all men look up to him.” (Analects, bk. xix., c. xxi.)
Benevolence: “The superior man seeks to develop the admirable qualities of men and does not seek to develop their evil qualities. The ordinary man does the opposite of this.” (Analects, bk. xii., c. xvi.)
Broadmindedness: “The superior man honours talent and virtue and bears with all. He praises the good and pities the incompetent.” (Analects, bk. xix., c. iii.) “The superior man does not promote a man on account of his words, nor does he put aside good words on account of the man.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xxii.)
Charity: “To be able to judge others by what is in ourselves, this may be called the art of virtue.” (Analects, bk. vi., c. xxviii., v. 3.)
Moderation: “The superior man conforms with the path of the mean.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xi., v. 3.)
The Golden Rule: “When one cultivates to the utmost the capabilities of his nature and exercises them on the principle of reciprocity, he is not far from the path. What you do not want done to yourself, do not do unto others.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xiii., v. 3.)
Reserve power: “That wherein the superior man cannot be equalled is simply this, his work which other men cannot see.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xxxiii., v. 2.)
The Art of Living. “The practice of right-living is deemed the highest, the practice of any other art lower. Complete virtue takes first place; the doing of anything else whatsoever is subordinate.” (Li Ki, bk. xvii., sect. iii., 5.)
These words from the “Li Ki” are the keynote of the sage’s teachings.
Confucius sets before every man, as what he should strive for, his own improvement, the development of himself,—a task without surcease, until he shall “abide in the highest excellence.” This goal, albeit unattainable in the absolute, he must ever have before his vision, determined above all things to attain it, relatively, every moment of his life—that is, to “abide in the highest excellence” of which he is at the moment capable. So he says in “The Great Learning”: “What one should abide in being known, what should be aimed at is determined; upon this decision, unperturbed resolve is attained; to this succeeds tranquil poise; this affords opportunity for deliberate care; through such deliberation the goal is achieved.” (Text, v. 2.)
This speaks throughout of self-development, of that renunciation of worldly lusts which inspired the cry: “For what shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?”; but this is not left doubtful—for again in “The Great Learning” he says: “From the highest to the lowest, self-development must be deemed the root of all, by every man. When the root is neglected, it cannot be that what springs from it will be well-ordered.” (Text, v. 6, 7.)
Confucius taught that to pursue the art of life was possible for every man, all being of like passions and in more things like than different. He says: “By nature men are nearly alike; by practice, they get to be wide apart.” (Analects, bk. xvii., c. ii.)
Mencius put forward this idea continually, never more succinctly and aptly than in this: “All things are already complete in us.” (Bk. vii., pt. i., c. iv., 1.)
Mencius also announced that the advance of every man is independent of the power of others, as follows: “To advance a man or to stop his advance is beyond the power of other men.” (Bk. i., pt. ii., c. xvi., 3.)
It has already in these pages been quoted from the “Analects” that “the superior man learns in order to attain to the utmost of his principles.”
In the same book is reported this colloquy: “Tsze-loo asked ‘What constitutes the superior man?’ The Master said, ‘The cultivation of himself with reverential care’ ” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xlv.); and in the “Doctrine of the Mean,” “When one cultivates to the utmost the capabilities of his nature and exercises them on the principle of reciprocity, he is not far from the path.” (C. xiii., 3.).
In “The Great Learning,” Confucius revealed the process, step by step, by which self-development is attained and by which it flows over into the common life to serve the state and to bless mankind.
“The ancients,” he said, “when they wished to exemplify illustrious virtue throughout the empire, first ordered well their states. Desiring to order well their states, they first regulated their families. Wishing to regulate their families, they first cultivated themselves. Wishing to cultivate themselves, they first rectified their purposes. Wishing to rectify their purposes, they first sought to think sincerely. Wishing to think sincerely, they first extended their knowledge as widely as possible. This they did by investigation of things.
“By investigation of things, their knowledge became extensive; their knowledge being extensive, their thoughts became sincere; their thoughts being sincere, their purposes were rectified; their purposes being rectified, they cultivated themselves; they being cultivated, their families were regulated; their families being regulated, their states were rightly governed; their states being rightly governed, the empire was thereby tranquil and prosperous.” (Text, 4, 5.)
Lest there be misunderstanding, it should be said that mere wealth is not to be considered the prosperity of which he speaks, but rather plenty and right-living. For there is the saying: “In a state, gain is not to be considered prosperity, but prosperity is found in righteousness.” (Great Learning, x., 23.) The distribution of wealth into mere livelihoods among the people is urged by Confucius as an essential to good government, for it is said in “The Great Learning”: “The concentration of wealth is the way to disperse the people, distributing it among them is the way to collect the people.” (X., 9.)
The order of development, therefore, Confucius set forth as follows:
Investigation of phenomena.
Learning.
Sincerity.
Rectitude of purpose.
Self-development.
Family discipline.
Local self-government.
Universal self-government.
The rules of conduct, mental, spiritual, in one’s inner life, in the family, in the state, and in society at large, which will lead to this self-development and beyond it, Confucius conceived to be of universal application, for it is said in the “Doctrine of the Mean” (c. xxviii., v. 3): “Now throughout the empire carriages all have wheels with the same tread, all writing is with the same characters, and for conduct there are the same rules.”
How this may be, is set forth in the same book (c. xii., v. 1, 2): “The path which the superior man follows extends far and wide, and yet is secret. Ordinary men and women, however ignorant, may meddle with the knowledge of it; yet, in its utmost reaches, there is that which even the sage does not discern. Ordinary men and women, however below the average standard of ability, can carry it into practice; yet, in its utmost reaches, there is that which even the sage is not able to carry into practice.”
It is, indeed, a true art of living which is thus presented, a scheme of adaptation of means to ends, of causes to produce their appropriate consequences, with clear and noble purposes in view, both as regards one’s own development and man’s, both as regards one’s own weal and the common weal.
For the completion of its work, it requires, also, the whole of life, every deflection from virtue marring by so much the perfection of the whole. Its saintliness lies not in purity alone, but in the rounded fulness of the well-planned and well-spent life, the more a thing of beauty if extended to extreme old age. Confucius thus modestly hints how slowly it develops at best, when he says: “At fifteen I had my mind bent on learning. At thirty I stood firm. At forty I was free from doubt. At fifty I knew the decrees of Heaven. At sixty my ear was an obedient organ for the reception of truth. At seventy I could follow what my heart desired without transgressing what was right.” (Analects, bk. ii., c. iv.)
That it is not finished until death rings down the curtain upon the last act, is shown in the “Analects” by this aphorism attributed to his disciple, Tsang: “The scholar may not be without breadth of mind and vigorous endurance. His burden is heavy and his course is long. Perfect virtue is the burden which he considers it his to sustain; is it not heavy? Only with death does his course stop; is it not long?” (Analects, bk. viii., c. vii.)
Mental Morality. “When you know a thing, to hold that you know it, and when you do not know a thing, to acknowledge that you do not know it—this is knowledge.” (Analects, bk. ii., c. xvii.)
In these words Confucius set forth more lucidly than any other thinker, ancient or modern, the essential of all morality, mental honesty, integrity of the mind—the only attitude which does not close the door to truth.
The same thing is put forward in a different way in the “Li Ki,” thus: “Do not positively affirm when you have doubts; and when you have not, do not put forth what you say, as merely your view.” (Bk. i., sect. i., pt. i., c. iii., 5.)
The Chinese sage had no delusions about the real nature of the art of living, the rules of human conduct; he knew and understood that ethics are of the mind, that sticks and stones are neither moral nor immoral but merely unmoral, and that the possibilities of good and evil choices come only when the intelligence dawns which alone can choose between them.
Mencius considerably extended this view, starting from the position: “If men do what is not good, the blame cannot be imputed to their natural powers.” (Bk. xi., pt. i., c. vi., v. 6.)
Not that he did not recognize the perils of unrestrained animal passions, ministered to, instead of guided and controlled by, a human mind which accordingly becomes their slave instead of master; for he says: “That whereby man differs from the lower animals is little. Most people throw it away, the superior man preserves it.” (Bk. iv., pt. ii., c. xix., v. 1.)
And again he refers to this inexcusable reversal of the natural order, thus: “When a man’s finger is deformed, he knows enough to be dissatisfied; but if his mind be deformed, he does not know that he should be dissatisfied. This is called: ‘Ignorance of the relative importance of things.’ ” (Bk. vi., pt. i., c. xii., v. 2.)
The “Li Ki” says of this, more explicitly: “It belongs to the nature of man, as from Heaven, to be still at his birth. His activity shows itself as he is acted on by external things, and develops the desires incident to his nature. Things come to him more and more, and his knowledge is increased. Then arise the manifestations of liking and disliking. When these are not regulated by anything within, and growing knowledge leads more astray without, he cannot come back to himself, and his Heavenly principle is extinguished.
“Now there is no end of the things by which man is affected; and when his likings and dislikings are not subject to regulation (from within), he is changed into the nature of things as they come before him; that is, he stifles the voice of Heavenly principle within, and gives the utmost indulgence to the desires by which men may be possessed. On this we have the rebellious and deceitful heart, with licentious and violent disorder.” (Bk. xvii., sect. i., v. 11, 12.)
Therefore, with acumen and discernment never excelled, Confucius divined that the mind must first be honest with itself. This indicates the essential immorality of the mind which clings to that which it does not know, with fervency and loyalty more devoted than that with which it holds to that which it does know. That one should not be swayed by what he prefers to believe, is again asserted in these words of the “Shu-King,” ascribed to I Yin (pt. iv., bk. v., sect. iii., v. 2.):
“When you hear words that are distasteful to your mind, you must inquire whether they be not right; when you hear words that accord with your own views, you must inquire whether they be not contrary to right.”
It is consonant with the spirit and teaching of Confucius that the philosopher Ch‘ing should have said of the “Doctrine of the Mean”: “This work contains the law of the mind which was handed down from one to another”; and that Confucius himself has said: “In the Book of Poetry are three hundred pieces, but the design of them all may be embraced in one sentence: ‘Have no depraved thoughts.’ ” (Analects, bk. ii., c. ii.)
It was thus that Confucius conceived the art of living, as a thing thought out, a response purposive, instead of automatic, to every impulse from without. He says of himself, meaning thereby to instruct his disciples and inspire them to emulation: “I have no course for which I am predetermined and no course against which I am predetermined.” (Analects, bk. xviii., c. viii., v. 5.)
And, as already quoted, these are among his most striking attributes of the superior man: “The superior man is catholic and not partisan; the ordinary man is partisan and not catholic.” (Analects, bk. ii., c. xiv.) “The superior man in the world does not set his mind either for anything or against anything; what is right, he will follow.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. x.) “The superior man is anxious lest he should not get truth; he is not anxious lest poverty should come upon him.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xxxi.)
In yet more glowing and enthusiastic terms he sang the praises of the open mind, its need, its utility, its essential beauty and sure promise, saying: “They who know the truth are not equal to them that love it, and they who love it are not equal to them that find pleasure in it.” (Analects, bk. vi., c. xviii.)
Socrates said something akin to this when he rebuked the “sophists,” i. e., the “wise,” and modestly called himself “philosophos,” i. e., only a lover of wisdom and one who devoutly wishes to learn.
Confucius sets before his disciples the apprehension and ascertainment of the bald truth concerning the phenomena of nature, as the thing first to be desired; for he says: “The object of the superior man is truth.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xxxi.)
Of himself, his disciples present this portrayal: “There were four things from which the Master was entirely free: He had no foregone conclusions, no arbitrary predeterminations, no obstinacy, and no egoism.” (Analects, bk. ix., c. iv.)
The Investigation of Phenomena. “Wishing to think sincerely, they first extended their knowledge. This they did by investigation of things. By investigation of things, their knowledge became extensive. Their knowledge being extensive, their thoughts became sincere.”
These words from “The Great Learning” (Text, v. 4, 5) are meant to show how the mind, holding itself in resolution, its conclusions ready to take whatever form the compelling logic of the ascertained facts may require, must, as an essential prerequisite of a normal and well-rounded life, investigate the phenomena which are around it. These are its world, with which it must cope, and which, in order that it may cope therewith, it must also understand. Confucius says: “To this attainment”—i. e., perfect sincerity—“there are requisite extensive study of what is good, accurate inquiry into it, careful consideration of it, clear distinguishing about it, and earnest practical application of it.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xx., v. 19.)
That there must be this ardent spirit of inquiry, this insatiable thirst after knowledge, or the man is lost, is indicated by Confucius in many sayings. One of the aptest of these is: “When a man says not, ‘What shall I think of this? What shall I think of this?’, I can indeed do nothing with him.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xv.)
On another occasion he announced: “I do not reveal the truth to one who is not eager to get knowledge, nor assist any one who is not himself anxious to explain.” (Analects, bk. vii., c. viii.)
The apprehension that effect follows cause, was rightly regarded by him the first office of the human mind and the primary moral act of an intelligent being. This was made the foundation of “The Great Learning” (Text, v. 3): “Things have their root and their fruition. Affairs have their end and their beginning. To know what goes first and what comes after, is near to what is taught in the Great Learning.”
As the followers of Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle soon lost the real point of view of the great lover of wisdom, by reason of their devotion to what they understood to be the positive teaching of himself and his disciples, and built up a system of prescriptive and authoritative learning which in fact stifled original investigation of phenomena, while encouraging mere speculation and dialectics, so in like manner the investigation of phenomena, enjoined by Confucius, soon degenerated into scholasticism, and the mere conning and memorizing of texts. The neglect of the true significance of his injunction was so complete that, though apparently no other sentences are missing, the chapter of “The Great Learning” in which was given the early author’s version of what is meant by “investigation of things” is lost. Only these words are still extant: “This is called knowing the root. This is called the perfecting of knowledge.”
Views, ascribed to the commentator Ch‘ing, are usually supplied to fill this hiatus. They are here quoted to show how the true function of investigation, which is not the duty merely of the young and untutored mind but yet more the duty of the trained and experienced, was distorted into something altogether contrary, by passing through the intellect of the adoring scholiast: “The meaning of the expression, ‘The perfecting of knowledge depends upon the investigation of things’ is this: If we wish to carry our knowledge to the utmost, we must investigate the principles of all things we come into contact with; for the intelligent mind of man is certainly formed to know and there is not a single thing of which its principles are not a part. But so long as all principles are not investigated, man’s knowledge is incomplete. On this account, the ‘Learning for Adults,’ in its opening chapters, instructs the learner in regard to all things in the world, to proceed from what knowledge he has of their principles and pursue his investigations of them until he reaches the extreme point. After exerting himself in this way for a long time, he will suddenly find himself possessed of a wide and farreaching penetration. Then the qualities of all things, whether external or internal, subtle or coarse, will be apprehended and the mind, in its whole substance and its relations to things, will be perfectly intelligent. This is called the investigation of things, this is called the perfection of knowledge.”
But, while it may have been, and indeed was, called “the investigation of things,” by Ch‘ing and by many of the scholiasts since his day, it is obviously far from that enduring open-mindedness and spirit of impartial inquiry which Confucius held to be the first essential to the art of living. The words of Confucius, therefore, have clearer and higher significance in this scientific age than in all the centuries during which Asiatic students have memorized them in the schools.
That Confucius meant no such blind following of authority is clear from this saying: “Hwuy gives me no assistance. There is nothing that I say, in which he does not delight.” (Analects, bk. xi., c. iii.)
Investigation and the spirit of free investigation, in order that knowledge may ever be subjected to repeated tests, are “the root,” according to the reasoning of Confucius, from which the conduct of life must proceed. Therefore and referring thereto, the philosopher Yew is quoted as saying: “The superior man bends his attention to what is radical. That being established, all practical courses naturally grow up.” (Analects, bk. i., c. ii., v. 2.)
This is set forth at length in yet more enthusiastic language: “When we minutely investigate the nature and reasons of things till we have entered into the inscrutable and spiritual in them, we attain to the largest practical application of them; when that application becomes quickest and readiest and personal poise is secured, our virtue is thereby exalted. Proceeding beyond this, we reach a point which it is hardly possible to comprehend; we have thoroughly mastered the inscrutable and spiritual and understand the processes of transformation. This is the fulness of virtue.” (Yi King, appendix iii., sect. ii., v. 33, 34.)
Learning. “Learning without thought is labour lost; thought without learning is perilous.” (Analects, bk. ii., c. xv.)
The emphasis is put upon thinking in this statement of the Duke of Kau, quoted in the “Shu King,” by Confucius with approval: “The wise, through not thinking, become foolish; and the foolish, by thinking, become wise.” (Pt. v., bk. xviii., 2.)
To the idea expressed in these astute words thus adopted by Confucius, he has added a personal application elsewhere, emphasizing the emptiness of mere speculation: “I have been the whole day without eating and the whole night without sleeping, occupied with thinking. It was of no avail. The better plan is to learn.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xxx.)
The idleness of thought, desire, and conduct proceeding upon insufficient data is set forth by the sage in great detail, in the following: “There is the love of being benevolent without the love of learning;—the beclouding here leads to a foolish simplicity. There is the love of knowing without the love of learning;—the beclouding here leads to dissipation of mind. There is the love of being sincere without the love of learning;—the beclouding here leads to an injurious disregard of consequences. There is the love of straightforwardness without the love of learning;—the beclouding here leads to rudeness. There is the love of boldness without the love of learning;—the beclouding here leads to insubordination. There is the love of firmness without the love of learning;—the beclouding here leads to extravagant conduct.” (Analeets, bk. xvii., c. viii., v. 3.)
Therefore the necessity for patient, unremitting study, not merely of books but of men, animals, and things, of the phenomena of animate and inanimate nature, is urged by the great teacher again and again: “Learn as if you might not attain your object and were always fearing lest you miss it.” (Analects, bk. viii., c. xvii.) “Is it not pleasant to learn with constant perseverance and application?” (Analects, bk. i., c. i., v. 1.)
In this regard, he leaves this picture of himself, in words which he spoke to one of his disciples: “The Duke of She asked Tsze-loo about Confucius and Tsze-loo did not answer him. The Master said, ‘Why did you not say to him: He is simply a man who in his eager pursuit of knowledge forgets his food, who in the joy of attaining it forgets his sorrows, and who does not perceive that old age is coming on?’ ” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xviii.)
And this is also declared to be an essential characteristic of the superior man: “The superior man learns and accumulates the results of his learning; puts questions and discriminates among those results; dwells magnanimously and unambitiously in what he has attained to; and carries it into practice with benevolence.” (Yi King, appendix iv., c. vi., v. 31.)
That one must be modest as to his ability and acquirements, in order to learn, was as obvious to the mind of Confucius, as to that of Socrates. These words of Yueh in the “Shu King” are illustrative of this: “In learning there should be a humble mind and the maintenance of constant earnestness.” (Pt. iv., bk. viii., sec. iii., 1.)
And these are the words of Tsang, referring to his friend, Yen Yuan: “Gifted with ability and yet putting questions to those who were not so; possessed of much and yet putting questions to those possessed of little; having, as though he had not; full, and yet counting himself as empty; offended against, and yet entering into no altercation.” (Analects, bk. viii., c. v.)
Though the mentor of princes, Confucius did not himself depart from such modesty in giving instruction, even as he adjured his disciples to observe it always in receiving t; for he gives this testimony concerning his course: “From the man bringing his bundle of dried flesh upwards, I have never refused instruction to any one.” (Analects, bk. vii., c. vii.)
There comes before the mind of the modern student of Confucius, therefore, the same picture of humble companionship with the lowly as with the great, which the sojourn of Jesus, of Socrates, or of Epictetus among men also conjures forth. That such would be the universal consequence, were there universal instruction, i. e., that learning is essentially democratic and not a respecter of rank, riches, or even of persons, he affirms in this sentence: “There being instruction, there will be no distinction of classes” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xxxviii.), which declaration, accepted and followed, has preserved China from that stifling death into which the caste system of India has forced its unhappy people.
Yet by no means unto all, the scoffer as well as the earnest student, the dull as well as the discerning, did Confucius consider that all knowledge should be imparted; instead he said: “To those whose talents are above mediocrity, the highest subjects may be announced. To those who are below mediocrity, the highest subjects may not be announced.” (Analects, bk. vi., c. xix.)
The course which he who would learn must follow is given by Tsze-hea in these words: “He who from day to day recognizes what he has not yet attained to, and from month to month remembers what he has attained to, may be said to love to learn.” (Analects, bk. xix., c. v.)
And that thoroughness and completion of all tasks are absolutely requisite, in these: “The prosecution of learning may be compared with what may happen in raising a mound. If there lack but one basket of earth to complete the work, and I there cease, the cessation is my own act.” (Analects, bk. ix., c. xviii.)
That gravity and earnestness are requisite, he thus affirms: “If the scholar be not grave, he will not call forth any veneration, and his learning will not be solid.” (Analects, bk. i., c. viii., v. 1.)
The reward of learning he declares to be: “It is not easy to find a man who has learned for three years, without coming to be virtuous.” (Analects, bk. viii., c. xii.)
If observation in these twentieth-century days does not confirm this, is it not because of this, that investigation and study are but too often undertaken only in support of propositions to which the students are already committed, or, to put it otherwise, that such are rather the labours of the special advocate to establish his cause than of the impartial seeker after truth? And, if so, how could the result be as Confucius said? Moreover, in which of our schools are the rules of mental ethics, of correct study and thought, imparted? Is not the fault rather that education is not what it should be, than that there is education?
One of the disciples of Confucius testified concerning his instruction, “He enlarged my mind with learning and taught me the restraints of propriety” (Analects, bk. ix., c. x., v. 2), by which is meant the rules of conduct, mental and within one’s self, as well as mental though outwardly expressed. Another disciple said: “There are learning extensively and having a firm and sincere aim, inquiring with earnestness, and reflecting with self-application; virtue is in such a course.” (Analects, bk. xix., c. vi.)
Confucius himself remarked: “By extensively studying all learning and keeping himself under the restraint of the rules of propriety, one may thus likewise not err from what is right.” (Analects, bk. xii., c. xv.)
And in the “Li Ki” this is found: “To acquire extensive information and remember retentively while yet modest; to do earnestly what is good and not become weary in so doing—these are characteristics of him whom we call the superior man.” (Bk. i., sect. i., pt. iv., v. 27.)
By emphasizing that learning should be extensive, he did not mean to advise serious study of every idle speculation which the invention and ingenuity of human intellects can produce. Instead, the course which he marked out is that of close and careful observation of facts and painstaking, cautious reasoning about them. Of the perils of the other, he says: “The study of strange doctrines is injurious indeed.” (Analects, bk. ii., c. xvi.)
Notwithstanding this, he did not subordinate, and much less did he eliminate the need for, attention to the broad conception of the universe, while keeping one’s eye upon the particle of dead matter or the infinitesimal forms of life. That the laws which operate in the phenomena of nature are the very laws of God, was ever present in his mind, and that narrow views of these phenomena, as if they were unrelated and independent, are not and cannot be true knowledge. Therefore is it, as he said, that “in order to know men,” one “may not dispense with a knowledge of Heaven.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xx., v. 7.)
That everything cognizable is the field of learning is suggested in the words: “Accordingly, the sage, looking up, contemplates the brilliant phenomena of the heavens and, looking down, examines the definite arrangements of the earth; thus he knows the causes of darkness and of light. He traces things to their beginning and follows them to their end; thus he knows what can be said about death and life.” (Yi King, appendix iii., c. iv., v. 21.)
The great utility to him who would round out his own life by knowledge of the achievements of ancient worthies was enforced as follows: “The scholar lives and associates with men of his own time; but the men of antiquity are the subjects of his study.” (Li Ki, bk. xxxviii., v. 11.)
The great, the all-important place of learning, so defined as a moving force in the scheme of life, and, within the measure of his capacity, its claim upon every human being, he thus affirmed: “Knowledge, magnanimity, and energy, these three are the virtues which are universally binding.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xx., v. 8.)
The union of a sublime trust and an earnest struggle to learn is thus praised by the sage himself: “With sincere trust he unites the love of learning; holding firm unto death, he is perfecting the excellence of his course.” (Analects, bk. viii., c. xiii., v. 1.)
Genius and Inspiration. It is characteristic of Confucius that, where he did not know, he did not affirm. His saying, “When you do not know a thing, to acknowledge that you do not know it, is knowledge” (Analects, bk. ii., c. xvii.), is far from being: “If you do not know a thing, affirm that it is not true.”
Therefore, especially since, as all candid souls must ever have been, he was impressed with the marvellous insight which the minds of some of earth’s children had shown, he was not a doctrinaire concerning the possibility of quicker, surer, and deeper discernment of facts and truths than that of which ordinary human beings are capable. Accordingly he says of this: “Those who are born in the possession of knowledge, are the highest class of men. Those who learn and so acquire knowledge, are next. The dull and stupid who yet achieve knowledge, are a class next to these. Those who are dull and stupid and yet do not learn, are the lowest of the people.” (Analects, bk. xvi., c. ix.)
Though he is now reverenced by millions in the Asiatic world as the greatest mind that has been incarnate among them, Confucius makes no claim to such inspiration and internal perception of knowledge without external observation, for himself; instead, he says: “I am not one who was born in the possession of knowledge; I am one who is fond of antiquity and earnest in seeking it there.” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xix.)
In view of the fact that others were not able in his day to find what he set forth, in the archives of mankind or even in the contemplation of nature, and the further undeniable fact of his wonderful penetration and clarity, it may be questioned whether, in addition to his tireless industry, there was not present also the full measure of illumination from without and, let us reverently say, from above, which has attended others of the world’s great moral teachers and leaders in all time.
That it was not all pure grind—nay, more, that it should never be all pure grind—but, instead, the organic absorption of knowledge into himself and as inherent parts of himself, blending into a harmonious, developed whole, these words indicate: “The Master asked, ‘Tsze, you think, I suppose, that I am one who learns many things and keeps them in his memory?’ Tsze-kung replied, ‘Yes, but perhaps it is not so?’ ‘No,’ was the answer, ‘I seek unity, all pervading.’ ” (Analects, bk. xv., c. ii.)
That there might not be foolish reliance upon internal light as a means of escaping the onerous labour of learning, he spoke this parable: “The mechanic who wishes to do his work well must first sharpen his tools.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. ix.)
Preparation for the practice of the art of living, he taught, is necessary unto all men, saying: “Let every man consider virtue as what devolves upon himself; he may not yield the performance of it even to his teacher.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xxxv.) And also that perfection is a plant of slow growth, matured only by steady progress in development, in this saying as in many others: “I saw his constant advance. I never saw him halt in his progress.” (Analects, bk. ix., c. xx.)
Sincerity. “Their knowledge being extensive, their thoughts became sincere.”
The foregoing from “The Great Learning” (Text, v. 5) is challenged more frequently, perhaps, than any other of its propositions; for the mind immediately recurs to the remembrance of many Machiavellian characters who were well-informed, even erudite, and yet insincere. And, although Confucius here speaks of sincerity within a man’s self and toward himself, as counter-distinguished from sincere speech and action, yet, notwithstanding that one cannot read the inmost thoughts and purposes of another, few there are who have pondered deeply and observed widely and closely, that do not know that sincerity of thought must itself be cultivated or at least be preserved.
Confucius had no mind to say otherwise for he puts it thus in “The Great Learning” at the very outset: “Wishing to think sincerely, they first extended their knowledge as widely as possible. This they did by the investigation of things”; and he himself says, elsewhere: “Leaving virtue without proper cultivation; not thoroughly discussing what is learned; not being able to move toward righteousness of which knowledge has been gained; and not being able to change what is not good: these are the things which occasion me solicitude.” (Analects, bk. vii., c. iii.)
He also said, referring to knowledge: “A man can enlarge his principles; the principles do not [i. e., of themselves] enlarge the man.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xxviii.) The same is also implied, as well as that a man of character, while ready to serve, will not permit himself to be used, by this saying (Analects, bk. ii., c. xii.): “The superior man is not an utensil,” i. e., his usefulness is not confined to one thing.
Therefore, not to one who must as a matter of mere consequence comply, but to one who may exercise a choice whether to obey or not, learned though he may be, he directs this injunction: “Hold faithfulness and sincerity as first principles and be moving continually toward what is right.” (Analects, bk. xii., c. x.)
Mencius puts it, beautifully, thus: “There is no greater delight than to be conscious of sincerity upon self-examination.” (Bk. vii., pt. i., c. iv., v. 2.)
In the “Doctrine of the Mean,” Confucius says: “Is it not just entire sincerity which marks the superior man?” (c. xiii., v. 4); and in “The Great Learning”: “The superior man must make his thoughts sincere.” (C. vi., 4.)
The same idea Mencius presents in this pleasing trope: “The great man is he who does not lose his child’s heart.” (Bk. iv., pt. ii., c. xii.)
This sincerity of thought, as of action, Confucius included among the five qualities essential to perfect virtue, saying: “To be able to practise five things everywhere under heaven constitutes perfect virtue: Gravity, magnanimity, sincerity, earnestness, and kindness.” (Analects, bk. xvii., c. vi.)
That it should not be found in every man, however imperfect and however unstable, was incomprehensible to him, since to his view it is the very breath of life for an intelligent being. This he declares in these terms: “Ardent and yet not upright; stupid and yet not attentive; simple and yet not sincere: such persons I do not understand.” (Analects, bk. viii., c. xvi.)
Yet that he did not expect those who were uninstructed to be sincere, is plain from this expression in the “Doctrine of the Mean”: “If a man do not understand what is good, he will not attain sincerity in himself.” (C. xix., v. 17.)
This is but a negative statement of what has already been quoted (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xx., v. 19): “To this attainment”—i. e., of sincerity—“there are requisite extensive study of what is good, accurate inquiry concerning it, careful consideration of it, clear distinguishing about it, and earnest practical application of it”—many things, in short, besides and beyond mere knowledge, essential as the intelligent perception of things as they are, may be. As much is also implied in: “He who attains to sincerity chooses the good and firmly holds it fast.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xxi., v. 8.)
That the attainment of sincerity is an essential prerequisite to self-development, this book strongly asserts. “Sincerity,” it says, “is that whereby self-development is effected and the path by which a man must direct himself” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xxv., v. 1); and again: “It is only he who is possessed of the completest sincerity that can exist under Heaven, who can give full development to his nature.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xxii.) In the “Yi King” (appendix iv., sect. i., c. ii., v. 3), it is said: “He is sincere even in his ordinary words and earnest in his everyday conduct. Guarding against depravity, he preserves his sincerity. His goodness is recognized in the world but he does not boast of it.”
This beneficent power he is also not confined to exerting upon himself and for his own development only. Instead, it is of broader and even universal application; for Confucius says: “The possessor of sincerity develops not himself only; with it, he also develops others.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xxv., v. 3.)
By means of sincerity, it is taught in the “Doctrine of the Mean,” and by it alone, man becomes, and is welcomed as, the co-operator with Heaven, and may thus beneficially influence and even transform others. There is psychological import in the words: “It is only he who is possessed of the completest sincerity that can exist under Heaven, who can transform.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xxiii.)
This is but one of the many alluring rewards that the sage saw to attend sincerity, which is, besides, sufficiently its own reward. Insight and foresight are others, concerning which it is said in the “Doctrine of the Mean”: “He who has sincerity without effort hits what is right and discerns without laborious thought; he is a sage who naturally and readily follows the path.” (C. xx., v. 18.) “It is characteristic of the completest sincerity to be able to foreknow.” (C. xxiv.) “When calamities or blessings are about to befall, the good or the evil will surely be foreknown by him. He, therefore, who is possessed of the completest sincerity, is like a spirit.” (C. xxiv.)
Extreme as these statements may appear, who is there among earnest thinkers and students that has not seen or experienced something very like this? It is obvious that the mind can the better fulfil its highest offices, if steadily applied thereto and never to the grovelling arts of deception or, lower yet, of self-deception. If gross self-deception, as by cowardice, self-seeking, prejudice, or superstition, renders the mind incapable of perceiving the simplest truths concerning the phenomena of nature, it may well be that complete absence of the wish to deceive or to be deceived bespeaks clarity of vision and of prevision—which is, perhaps, only clear reasoning from the known and now, to the unknown and to be—though it otherwise seem impossible.
“The Great Learning” teaches that a large measure of this clear vision may be attained; for, immediately after saying, “The superior man is watchful over himself, when alone,” it is added: “There is no evil to which the inferior man will not proceed, when alone. When he beholds a superior man, he tries at once to disguise himself, concealing his evil under a display of virtue. The other penetrates him as if he saw his heart and reins” (Text, vi., v. 1, 2).
And this is said (Great Learning, vi., v. 2) to warn the inferior man and encourage the superior: “What is in fact within, will show without”; and the Master is quoted in the “Doctrine of the Mean” (c. xx., v. 18), as saying with an enthusiasm no more than commensurate with the subject: “Sincerity is the path of Heaven. The attainment of sincerity is the path for men,” and the “Doctrine of the Mean” adds yet more rapturously in its praise: “Sincerity is the end and the beginning of all things; without sincerity, there is nothing. Therefore, the superior man regards the attainment of sincerity the highest excellence.” (C. xxv., v. 2.)
This eloquent passage in the “Shu King” (pt. v., bk. ix., v. 2) is evidently at one with the view of Confucius: “Awful though Heaven be, it yet helps the sincere.”
Rectification of Purpose. “Their thoughts being sincere, their purposes were rectified.”
In “The Great Learning,” from which this is taken (Text, v. 5), the following brief explanation of it is given: “This is meant by ‘Self-development depends upon rectifying one’s purposes’: If a man be swayed by passion, his conduct will be wrong; and so also if he be swayed by terror, by fondness, by sorrow, by distress. When the mind is not dominant, we look but see not, we hear but comprehend not, we eat but taste not.” (C. vii., v. 1, 2.)
The same thought Confucius expresses at another time when addressing one of his disciples: “Ch‘ang is under the influence of his passions; how can he be pronounced firm and unbending?” (Analects, bk. v., c. x.)
Rarely in any of the books edited by Confucius, composed of his sayings or purporting to set forth his views, is anything advanced as the very word of God. Yet upon this topic the following is found in the “Shi King” (Major Odes, decade i., ode 7): “God said to King Wan: ‘Be not like them who reject this and cling to that! Be not like them who are ruled by their likes and desires!’ ”
And in the “Li Ki” is found this account of the methods and purposes of the ancient kings, already once quoted: “It belongs to the nature of man, as from Heaven, to be still at his birth. His activity shows itself as he is acted on by external things, and develops the desires incident to his nature. Things come to him more and more, and his knowledge is increased. Then arise the manifestations of liking and disliking. When these are not regulated by anything within, and growing knowledge leads more astray without, he cannot come back to himself, and his Heavenly principle is extinguished.
“Now there is no end of the things by which man is affected; and when his likings and dislikings are not subject to regulation (from within), he is changed into the nature of things as they come before him; that is, he stifles the voice of Heavenly principle within, and gives the utmost indulgence to the desires by which men may be possessed. On this we have the rebellious and deceitful heart, with licentious and violent disorder.” (Li Ki, bk. xvii., sect. i., v. 11, 12.)
The starting-point for such rectification is vividly portrayed by the sage in the following passage, also from the “Li Ki” (bk. vii., sect. ii., v. 20): “The things which men greatly desire are comprehended in meat, drink, and sexual pleasure; the things which they greatly dislike are comprehended in death, exile, poverty, and suffering. Likes and dislikes are the great elements of men’s minds.”
If to the three things desired by all men were added “air,” the four primal animal requisites to self-preservation and race-preservation would have been named, each good and well adapted for its own purposes and not one of them subject to any abuses by the unthinking beast.
That the mind of man, in possessing which he differs from his brother animals, should fail to subordinate each of these and at the same time more perfectly and accurately to adapt it to its own purposes, constitutes abandonment by him of his highest heritage; and such abuses of normal appetites as are involved in feasting, drinking, abandoned venery, or snuff-taking, or tobacco or opium smoking, each an exercise in an abnormal way of a special function for its own sake and without design that the consequences of its healthful exercise should follow, obviously are perversions of the mind and well illustrate that saying of the sage: “The progress of the superior man is upward; the progress of the ordinary man is downward.” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xxiv.)
The destructive results of setting the heart upon blind indulgence in these refinements of sensual pleasure were sung in “The Odes” by one of the ancient bards:
- “He who loves hunting and women
- Abandons his state to ruin.”
(Li Ki, bk. ix., sect. ii., v. 12.)
And this bald fact, abundantly shown in this age by the vital statistics of every country, was spoken by the Duke of Kau and handed down in the “Shu King” (pt. v., bk. xv., v. 2): “They sought for nothing but excessive pleasure and so not one of them had long life.”
The greater longevity of men who were earnest students and vigorous, forceful thinkers, not given to dissipation of their energies in any of the ways described, had already been remarked, indeed, centuries before the time of Confucius. Yet he had more respect for misguided seekers after pleasure, at bottom, than for the smug lovers of safe comfort; the former at least lived, however mistaken their view of life’s true aim, the strenuous existence, making sacrifices to obtain that which they desired. He would not have been ready to go so far, perhaps, as Ibsen who says through the lips of Brand:
- “Let be, ye are the serfs of pleasure;
- Be such, then, with no let nor measure!
- Not one thing merely for today
- And quite another thing tomorrow.
- The Bacchants were ideal. They
- Kept up a constant round of revel.
- The sot who swings ’twixt drink and sorrow
- Is but a ‘pitiable devil.’
- Silenus was a fine figure,
- The tippler but his caricature.”
But much more clearly than any of the other great ethical teachers of ancient times, Confucius recognizes the true opposite of lofty purpose when he puts the contrast thus: “The superior man thinks of virtue; the ordinary man thinks of comfort.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. xi.)
He thus sets one against the other the highest and the lowest aims of which man is capable; for all other low aims involve at least some sacrifice, while he who seeks comfort only, thinks that he would be happier as a mere parasite. Of such, Confucius says: “Hard is the case of him who will stuff himself with food the whole day, without applying his mind to anything. Are there not gamesters and chessplayers? Even to be one of these would be better than doing nothing at all.” (Analects, bk. xvii., c. xxii.)
In this age, when comfort is the sole god of the many, who also deem themselves good and virtuous and even superior, surely these truths need to be held before all men without surcease, lest the race degenerate and perish—degenerate because of low aim and its successful attainment, and perish because they whose god is comfort tend to cease to propagate. Was it not to this the sage referred when he said, “Your good, careful people of the villages are the thieves of virtue” (Analects, bk. xvii., c. xiii.), and, as quoted by Mencius, “I hate your good, careful men of the villages, lest they be confounded with the virtuous”? (Bk. vii., pt. ii., c. xxxvi., v. 12.)
The Duke of Kau is represented in the “Shu King” (pt. v., bk. xv., v. 1) to have said of old: “The superior man rests in this, that he will indulge in no injurious ease.”
Confucius was ever insistent upon contrasting the love of virtue with the love of comfort as in these sayings: “The scholar who cherishes the love of comfort is not fit to be deemed a scholar.” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. iii.) “A scholar, whose mind is set on truth and who is ashamed of poor clothes and poor food, is not fit to be discoursed with.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. ix.)
Scarcely less apposite to the conditions of the present day is this contrast which he makes: “The mind of the superior man is conversant with righteousness; the mind of the ordinary man is conversant with gain.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. xxi.)
Yet he holds that one may receive and welcome his reward, albeit that to secure it should not be his purpose in doing an excellent thing or service. Indeed, one must not even set before him the purpose to secure rewards which are real, though not material, such as fame or even success and self-approbation. The course of virtue, leading to singleness of purpose and thoroughness of work, is thus marked out: “The man of virtue makes the difficulty to be overcome his first business, and success only a subsequent consideration.” (Analects, bk. vi., c. xx.)
This he adverts to again, saying: “If doing what is to be done be made the first business, and success a secondary consideration, is not this the way to exalt virtue?” (Analects, bk. xii., c. xxi., v. 3.)
And repeatedly in the “Li Ki” this idea is presented in such varied and beautiful forms as these: “The Master said: ‘The superior man will decline a position of high honour, but not one that is mean; will decline riches, but not poverty. . . . The superior man, rather than be rewarded beyond his desert, will have his desert greater than the reward.’ ” (Bk. xxvii., v. 7.) “The Master said: ‘There is only now and then a man under heaven who loves what is right without expectation of reward, or hates what is wrong without fear of consequences.’ ” (Bk. xxix., v. 13.) “A superior man will not for counsel of little value accept a great reward, nor for counsel of great value a small reward.” (Bk. xxix., v. 36.)
Yet more reprehensible, if possible, he deems it that in learning the purpose be not solely the attainment of truth and the acquisition of knowledge, but also or even exclusively the praise or favours of others; for he says: “In ancient times men learned with a view to their own improvement. Nowadays men learn with a view to the approbation of others.” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xxv.)
From the book of Mencius the following is taken: “Yang Hoo said: ‘He who seeks to be rich will not be benevolent; he who seeks to be benevolent will not be rich.’ ” (Bk. ii., pt. i., c. iii., v. 5.)
The following inspiring saying from the “Li Ki” (bk. xxix., v. 27) points out the goal to attain which the sincere mind must perforce direct all its power: “The services of Hau Ki were the most meritorious of all under heaven. . . . But all he longed for was that his actions should be better than the fame of them, and so he said of himself that he was simply ‘a man who is useful to others.’ ”
Mencius supplies these infallible indications that one’s purpose is not unmixed with selfish designs, and therefore that it requires careful scrutiny and rectification: “If a man love others and that love is not returned, let him examine himself as to his love of others. If he rules others but his government is not successful, let him examine himself as to wisdom. If he is polite to others but they impolite to him, let him examine himself as to real respect for them. When by what we do we do not achieve our aim, we must examine ourselves at every point. When a man is right, the whole empire will turn to him.” (Bk. iv., pt. i., c. iv., v. 1, 2.)
Rectified Purpose. “Exalted merit depends on high aim.”
This precept, taken from the “Shu King” (pt. v., bk. xxi., v. 4), in altered form and otherwise applied, runs through these sentences of Confucius: “Do not be desirous of having things done quickly. Do not look at small advantages. Desire to have things done quickly prevents their being done thoroughly. Looking at small advantages prevents great affairs from being accomplished.” (Analects, bk. xiii., c. xvii.)
Stern self-examination is inculcated in the “Li Ki” as the first duty of him who aspires to be of service, or who assumes responsibilities: “For one who wished to serve his ruler, the rule was first to measure his abilities and duties and then enter upon the responsibilities; he did not first enter and then measure. The same rule applied when one begged or borrowed from others or sought to enter their service.” (Bk. xv., v. 19.)
And yet more pointedly in this from the “Shi King” (Major Odes, decade iii., ode 6): “He was always anxious lest he should not be equal to his task.”
Thoroughness, continuity of purpose and persistence are strongly urged; but, above all things, that rigorous judgment of a man’s self which alone can keep his effort directed toward the goal. On this point, Confucius sadly and repeatedly warns his disciples against over-confidence that these things will come of themselves, saying: “I have not seen one who loves virtue as he loves beauty.” (Analects, bk. ix., c. xvii., bk. xv., c. xii.) And again: “I have not yet seen one who could perceive his faults and inwardly accuse himself.” (Analects, bk. v., c. xxvi.)
Nevertheless the necessity for constant self-inspection was held before his disciples, as in this parable (Great Learning, c. ii.): “On the bathtub of T‘ang the following words were engraved: ‘If you can purify yourself a single day, do so every day. Let no day pass without purification!’ ”; and the same he said, even more vigorously, thus: “To assail one’s own wickedness and not assail that of others, is this not the way to correct cherished evil?” (Analects, bk. xii., c. xxi., v. 3.)
On another occasion Confucius illustrated it by referring to archery and saying: “In archery, we have something like the way of the superior man. When the archer misses the centre of the target, he turns around and seeks the cause of his failure within himself.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xiv., v. 5.)
His disciple, Tsang, thus describes the scrutiny to which he habitually and daily submitted his own thoughts and conduct: “I daily examine myself on three points: whether, in transacting business for others I may not have been faithful; whether, in intercourse with friends, I may not have been sincere; and whether I may not have mastered and practised the instructions of my teacher.” (Analects, bk. i., c. iv.)
This the “Doctrine of the Mean” enjoins as necessary in order that one may justly cherish true self-respect, saying: “The superior man examines his heart that there may be nothing wrong there and that he may have no cause for dissatisfaction with himself.” (C. xxxiii., v. 2.)
Both emulation of the virtues of superior men and this unrelenting introspection are urged in this counsel: “When we see men of worth, we should think of equalling them; when we see men of the contrary character, we should turn inwards and examine ourselves.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. xvii.)
Mencius illustrates this and enlarges upon it thus: “To support the resolution, there is nothing better than to make the desires few. Here is a man whose desires are few; in some things he may not be able to maintain his resolution, but they will be few. Here is a man whose desires are many; in some things he may be able to maintain his resolution, but they will be few.” (Bk. vii., pt. ii., c. xxxv.)
The emphasis which the sage thus puts upon desire and purpose, does not imply that he deems the act good or bad, only according as the motive is virtuous or evil. The act will be judged by its effect and the motive also by its result. The act may affect for weal or woe the man or others or both, entirely independently of the purpose; but the wish and intention immediately affect the development of the man himself, and make him more or less a man.
Therefore is it that from earliest youth one must be careful about that which he most earnestly desires, not because he will not obtain it, but because he will, to his making or his undoing; and the teachers of the young have greater reason to direct with care their wishes, longings, and ambitions than merely their present application to study and work.
Mencius refers to this when he aptly says: “Let a man stand fast in the nobler part of himself and the meaner part will not be able to take it from him.” (Bk. vi., pt. i., c. xv., v. 2.)
He also points out how men are distinguished by the loftiness or lowness of their purposes, thus: “Those who follow that part of themselves which is great, are great men; those who follow that part of themselves which is little, are little men.” (Bk. vi., pt. i., c. xv., v. 1.)
The intimate and immediate connection between sincerity and purity of purpose is self-evident; only by the most searching sincerity can the human intellect be prevented from deceiving itself, where elemental appetites, useful for the purposes for which they exist but destructive if unrestrained, plead for freedom from restraint and even for stimulation as ends in themselves and not in furtherance of the cosmic purposes of self-preservation and race-preservation for which they were given.
This glorious picture of achievement Confucius puts before those of his disciples who will preserve in thought and action unswerving integrity of purpose and of aim: “Contemplating good and pursuing it as if they could not attain to it, contemplating evil and shrinking from it as they would from thrusting the hand into boiling water—I have seen such men as I have heard such words.” (Analects, bk. xvi., c. xi., v. 1.)
There may, then, be such men; no impossible standard is here set up. Confucius had long held his conduct up to it and says of himself: “With coarse rice to eat, with water to drink and my bended arm for a pillow, I still have joy in the midst of these things. Riches and honours, acquired by unrighteousness, are to me as a floating cloud.” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xv.)
CHAPTER II
SELF-DEVELOPMENT
The characteristics of the superior man having been presented, it is in logical order to examine the faculties and qualities which Confucius would have one cultivate to attain this ideal state. First in importance is the will.
The Will. “Their purposes being rectified, they cultivated themselves.”
By these words in “The Great Learning” (Text, v. 5) it is meant that when there is no conflict of aims, of duties and desires, when one wills what he wishes, and with all his heart singly and clearly wishes what he wills, then and not till then does the will become clear and firm and strong.
The man is his will; back of his will is his purpose; and back of his purpose, his desire. If his knowledge enable him to make right choices, he should be sincere, his desires should be disciplined, his purpose lofty, and, resting thereupon as on a rock, his will fixed and immovable. That is character.
Confucius puts it: “If the will be set on virtue, there will be no practice of wickedness.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. iv.) True; for when the will rests upon set purpose, based upon purified desire, born of knowledge and discriminating investigation of phenomena, nothing can undermine it!
This rectification of the antecedent conditions is what the sage refers to when he says: “To subdue one’s self and return to propriety is perfect virtue” (Analects, bk. xii., c. 1), and again: “The firm, the enduring, the simple, and the unpretentious are near to virtue.” (Analects, bk. xiii., c. xxvii.)
That the will is proved by its resistance rather than its impelling force, Mencius says in this: “Men must be resolute about what they will not do and then they are able to act with vigor.” (Bk. iv., pt. ii., c. viii.)
The same is meant, i. e., that if one’s trust is thus grounded, nothing external can shake his determination, when Confucius says: “The commander of the forces of a large state may be carried off, but the will of even a common man cannot be taken from him.” (Analects, bk. ix., c. xxv.) So speaks Ibsen who puts into the mouth of Brand:
- “That one cannot him excuses,
- But never that he does not will.”
Confucius refuses to accept the excuse of inability unless one actually expires in a supreme effort to achieve. Therefore, when his disciple, Yen K‘ew, said: “It is not that I do not delight in your doctrines, but my strength is insufficient,” he admonished him: “They whose strength is insufficient give over in the middle of the way, but now you do but set limits unto yourself.” (Analects, bk. vi., c. x.)
The scorn of craven compromise is well voiced in this: “Tsze-Chang said, ‘When a man holds fast virtue, but without seeking to enlarge it, and credits right principles, but without firm sincerity, what account can be made of his existence or non-existence?” (Analects, bk. xix., c. ii.)
That the path of duty leads to the very brink of the grave—and beyond it—Confucius says in no uncertain language: “The determined scholar and the man of virtue will not seek to live at the expense of injuring their virtue. They will even sacrifice their lives to preserve their virtue complete.” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. viii.) “The man who in the view of gain thinks of righteousness, who in the view of danger is prepared to give up his life, and who does not forget an old agreement, however far back it extends—such a man may be reckoned a complete man.” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xiii., v. 2.)
His disciple, Tsze-Chang, said of this: “The scholar, beholding threatened danger, is prepared to sacrifice his life. When the opportunity for gain is presented to him, he thinks of righteousness.” (Analects, bk. xix., c. i.)
This picture, which to uninstructed mortals may seem dark and forbidding,—it should not seem so, since to die is before every man and few can hope to have so noble an end,—Confucius did not always hold before the eyes of his disciples, however, but on the contrary justly declared, in the face of their craven dread: “Virtue is more to man than either fire or water. I have seen men die by treading upon fire or water, but I have never seen a man die by treading the path of virtue.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xxxiv.)
It costs really nothing to will that which is good and beneficial; the cost is all on the other side. That one sacrifices, is pure delusion; the pleasure as well as the solid benefit is to be found where the enlightened will would bear us. Such conduct is heroic to contemplate; but it is simple truth and not merely personal praise which Confucius spake of another: “With a single bamboo dish of rice, a single gourd dish of drink, and living in a mean, narrow lane, while others could not have endured the distress, he did not allow his joy to be affected by it.” (Analects, bk. vi., c. ix.)
It might, indeed it ought and would, be true of any other, if unspoiled; and, as he has well said: “For a morning’s anger, to wreck one’s life and involve the lives of his parents, is not this a case of delusion?” (Analects, bk. xii., c. xxi., v. 3.)
And, while not so strikingly and obviously true, this statement holds for every aberration from the path of duty, into which one may believe himself led by reason of the greater pleasure and satisfaction that it seems to offer, be it what it may. The beauty, the compensations and relaxations of the upward course are thus set forth by the sage: “Let the will be set on the path of duty! Let every attainment of what is good be firmly grasped! Let perfect virtue be emulated! Let relaxation and enjoyment be found in the polite arts!” (Analects, bk. vii., c. vi.)
To the instructed mind there is nothing uninviting in this prospect; and low and mind-destroying pleasures and comforts which are in fact, though not apparently, lower and more destructive are well abandoned for these higher, simpler, keener, and more abiding satisfactions. Confucius puts it also more explicitly thus: “To find enjoyment in the discriminating study of ceremonies and music; to find enjoyment in speaking of the goodness of others; to find enjoyment in having many worthy friends:—these are advantageous. To find enjoyment in extravagant pleasures; to find enjoyment in idleness and sauntering; to find enjoyment in the pleasures of feasting:—these are injurious.” (Analects, bk. xvi., c. v.)
Even reverses and hardships have their lesson and reward if one but meet them with resolution; for as Mencius says: “When Heaven is about to confer a great office on any man, it first disciplines his mind with suffering and his bones and sinews with toil. It exposes him to want and subjects him to extreme poverty. It confounds his undertakings. By all these methods it stimulates his mind, hardens him, and supplies his shortcomings.” (Bk. vi., pt. ii., c. xv., v. 2.)
This development of the will, which is the development of the man, is therefore not a thing to terrify or repel. Instead, it is mastery, power, sway, achievement—that for which the mind of man longs unceasingly. And it comes of itself, if the basis for it has been safely and carefully laid in purified desires and righteous aims, without effort, without strain, without pain or penalty.
“Is virtue a thing remote?” asked the sage; and answered: “I wish to be virtuous, and lo, virtue is at hand!” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xxix.)
What, then, is this will? What, this virtue? The disciples of Confucius handed the secret of it down from one to another, in these words: “The doctrine of our master is to be true to the principles of our nature and the benevolent exercise of them to others.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. xv., v. 2.)
That the joy of well-doing is more than comparable with the pleasure of abandonment to sensual playing with elemental appetites, is said in these words of Wu, reported in the “Shu King”: “I have heard that the good man, doing good, finds the day insufficient; and that the evil man, doing evil, also finds the day insufficient.” (Pt. v., bk. i., sect. 2.)
Fortitude. When the will accords completely with the purpose and the desire, courage follows necessarily; for, if one desires a given result, designs to compass it, and wills to achieve it, it can only mean that he is not fearful about it but instead is cool and determined. As it costs nothing to will, when the purposes are rectified; so, when the will is clear and firm, it costs nothing to be brave. Therefore in “The Great Learning” it is said that by this course, “unperturbed resolve is attained.” Confucius elsewhere puts it: “To see what is right and not to do it, is want of courage.” (Analects, bk. ii., c. xxiv., v. 2.)
For if one see what is right, he should think sincerely about it, without self-delusion; and, thinking thus, his desires and his purposes should be rectified and therefrom the will to do right will flow. And if he see the truth and do not do these things, it is plainly want of courage—the courage to cast aside comfortable delusions, to think sincerely and be undeceived. When undeceived and with desire and resolve purified, the will and courage follow inevitably.
Confucius again refers to this, saying: “When you have faults, do not fear to abandon them.” (Analects, bk. i., c. viii., v. 4.) This is also the gist of the following injunction from the “Li Ki” (bk. xv., v. 22): “Do not try to defend or conceal what was wrong in the past.”
So also speaks Yueh in the “Shu King”: “Do not be ashamed of mistakes and so proceed to make them crimes!” (Pt. iv., bk. viii., sect. ii., v. 1.)
The fear here referred to is doubtless both the fear of discomfort and the fear of the prying eyes and the caustic tongues of others. To this craven dread, reference is made when Tsze-Hea says: “The inferior man is sure to gloss his faults.” (Analects, bk. xix., c. viii.) The remedy for it, Confucius demonstrates in these brave words: “I am fortunate! If I have any faults, people are sure to know them.” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xxx., v. 3.)
Thus Mencius puts it: “When any one told Tsze-loo that he had a fault, he rejoiced.” (Bk. ii., pt. i., c. viii., v. 1.)
Again speaking in the “Yi King” in praise of the son of the Yen family, Confucius says: “If anything that he did was not good, he was sure to become conscious of it; and, when he knew it, he did not do the thing again.” (Appendix iii., v. 42.)
So, also, King Thang is represented in the “Shu King” as saying: “The good in you I will not dare to keep concealed; and for the evil in me, I will not dare to forgive myself.” (Pt. iv., bk. iii., v. 3.)
And in the “Shu King,” also, the great Shun is reported to have said: “When I am doing wrong, it is yours to correct me. Do not concur to my face and when you have retired, speak otherwise!” (Pt. ii., bk. iv., 1.)
Fearlessness Confucius ever named as an attribute of the superior man, saying (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xxx., v. 1): “The way of the superior man is threefold, but I am not equal to it. Virtuous, he is free from anxieties; wise, he is free from perplexities; bold, he is free from fear”; and he presents this opposite picture (Analects, bk. iv., c. ii.): “They who are without virtue cannot abide long either in a condition of poverty and hardship or in a condition of enjoyment.”
This is even more strikingly presented in the following: “Having not and yet affecting to have, empty and yet affecting to be full, straitened and yet affecting to be at ease! It is difficult with such characteristics to have constancy.” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xxv., v. 3.)
And in this contrast: “The superior man is satisfied and composed, the ordinary man is always full of distress.” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xxxvi.)
The cowardice of such concern about the future as sets one to speculating and worrying is condemned in the “Li Ki” (bk. xv., 22) as follows: “Do not try . . . to fathom what has not yet arrived.”
The sage was not unaware that boldness may be the result of ignorance as well as of knowledge, that it may be madness and folly instead of clear sanity and wisdom. It was concerning such that Confucius spoke when he said of the superior man: “He hates those who have valour only and are unobservant of propriety. He hates those who are forward and determined and at the same time of contracted understanding.” (Analects, bk. xvii., c. xxiv., v. 2.)
That the bravery of the superior man and the bravado of the inferior should be distinguished, is the gist of the following saying: “Men of principle are sure to be bold, but those who are bold may not always be men of principle.” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. v.)
The absolute need of fearlessness, Mencius enjoins in this which he puts into the mouth of Mang She-Shay: “I look upon not conquering and conquering in the same way. To measure the enemy and then advance, to calculate the chances of victory and then engage—this is to stand in dread of the opposing force. How can I make certain of conquering? But I can rise superior to all fear.” (Bk. ii., pt. i., c. ii., v. 5.)
The shame of moral cowardice is well set forth by Confucius in the “Yi King,” thus: “If one be distressed by what need not distress him, his name is sure to be disgraced.” (Appendix iii., sect. ii., c. v.)
What, then, may the superior man fear? The answer, disclosing that upon which the courage of the superior man rests securely, is in this query: “They sought to act virtuously and they did so; and what was there for them to repine about?” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xiv., v. 2.)
The freedom from fear which is here referred to costs no effort; if the precedent conditions have been fulfilled, it is their natural and necessary consequence and appears in the noble attributes of the superior man, to which Confucius often adverted, as thus: “The superior man has neither anxiety nor fear.” (Analects, bk. xii., c. iv., v. 1.) “When internal examination discovers nothing wrong, what is there to be anxious about, what is there to fear?” (Analects, bk. xii., c. iv., v. 3.)
Poise. “To this”—i. e., to unperturbed calm—“succeeds tranquil poise. In this poise is found deliberation.”
This passage from “The Great Learning” (Text, v. 2) aims to enforce that it is not enough that one should be resolute and composed in the presence of danger; he must ever be calm and resolute. Thus the sage has said: “What the superior man seeks, is in himself; what the ordinary man seeks, is in others.” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xxviii.) And his disciple, Tsang, says: “The superior man in his thoughts does not go out of his place.” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xxviii.)
In the “Yi King” (appendix ii., c. iii.), it is put thus: “The superior man does not in his thoughts go beyond the position in which he is.”
And thus, also: “The influence of the world would make no change in him; he would do nothing merely to secure fame. He can live withdrawn from the world without regret; he can experience disapproval without a troubled mind. . . . He is not to be torn from his root.” (Appendix iv., c. ii., v. 41.)
In the “Li Ki” this is much expatiated upon, in part only as follows: “The scholar keeps himself free from all stain; . . . he does not go among those who are low, to make himself seem high, nor set himself among those who are foolish, to make himself seem wise; . . . he does not approve those who think as he, nor condemn those who think differently; thus he takes his stand alone and pursues his course, unattended.” (Bk. xxxviii., v. 15.)
The reward for this attainment of perfect poise is described in the “Yi King” (appendix iii., sect. i., c. i., v. 8), in these words: “With the attainment of such ease and such freedom from laborious effort, the mastery is had of all principles under the sky.”
And the mode and manner of it are portrayed in the same book (appendix iii., sect. ii., c. v., v. 44) by this saying attributed to Confucius: “The superior man composes himself before trying to move others; makes his mind at rest and easy, before he opens his mouth; determines upon his method of intercourse with others, before he seeks anything of them.”
The central conception is that the man should be so balanced that, instead of giving unconscious reactions or semi-conscious responses to stimuli from without, every response, however promptly delivered in speech or act, should be purposive—the consequence of intelligent understanding and resolve.
Mencius said of himself (bk. ii., pt. i., c. ii., v. 1): “At forty I attained to an unperturbed mind”; and Confucius of himself (Analects, bk. vi., c. xxvii.): “There may be those who do this or that, without knowing why. I do not do so.”
The sage also eulogizes the balanced, self-centred man in no uncertain terms, as follows: “He with whom neither calumny which slowly soaks into the mind, nor insults that startle like a wound to the flesh, are successful, may indeed be called intelligent; yea, he with whom neither soaking calumny nor startling insults are successful may be called far-seeing.” (Analects, bk. xii., c. vi.)
Here are yet other words of penetrating wisdom concerning the advantages of this perfect poise and calm: “He who does not anticipate attempts to deceive him nor think beforehand of his not being believed, and yet apprehends these things readily when they occur, is he not a man of superior worth?” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xxxviii.)
Mencius also characterizes such a man as follows: “When he obtains the desired position to practise virtue for the good of the people; when disappointed in that ambition to practise virtue for himself; to be above the power of riches and honours to corrupt, of poverty and a mean condition to swerve and of might and sway to bend—these characterize the great man.” (Bk. iii., pt. ii., c. ii., v. 3.)
Confucius deemed it indispensable for a ruler to thus possess his soul. Alone it would make a ruler good, if not indeed great. Therefore, he says: “May not Shun be instanced as having governed efficiently without exertion? What did he do? He did nothing but gravely and reverently occupy his imperial seat.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. iv.)
And again in these enthusiastic words: “How majestic was the manner in which Shun and Yu held possession of the empire, as if it were nothing to them!” (Analects, bk. viii., c. xviii.)
How this singleness of purpose and this perfect poise of soul, unsuspected during an uneventful life, when great occasion arises, stand forth and reveal the man, is the burden of this saying: “The superior man cannot be known in little matters but he may be entrusted with great concerns.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xxxiii.)
Self-Control. “Want of forbearance in small matters confounds great plans.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xxvi.)
The need for constancy and self-control is often urged by the sage, as thus: “Inconstant in his virtue, he will be visited with disgrace.” (Analects, bk. xiii., c. xxii., v. 2.) In the “Shu King,” I Yin is represented as expressing this sentiment: “Be careful to strive after the virtue of self-restraint and to cherish far-reaching plans.” (Pt. iv., bk. v., sect. 1, 2.)
What is emphasized in these passages, is that he who has formed worthy conceptions of the significance of life and correct designs for accomplishing its ends must not permit himself, at unguarded moments, to be surprised into revelations of deeper-seated longings, by the unexpected presentation of opportunities for the safe enjoyment of sensual delights or by the excitement of rage or terror or other unworthy emotion.
It is well said in the “Shi King” (Minor Odes of the Kingdom, decade v., ode 2): “Men who are grave and wise, though they drink, are masters of themselves. Men who are benighted and ignorant become slaves of drink and more so, daily. Be careful, each of you, of your conduct! What Heaven confers, when once lost, will not be regained.”
The necessity for reflection and consideration, though it be but momentary, before responding to any impulse from without, either in speech or in action, instead of the automatic, animal response of a curse or a blow, a smile or a caress, or whatever it may be when one is played upon, is always present in the mind of the sage. It is significantly expressed thus: “Ke Wan Tze thought thrice and then acted. When the Master was informed of it, he said: ‘Twice may do.’ ” (Analects, bk. v., c. xix.)
That even greater prudence in speech is desirable, is indicated by this reply to the inquiry of Tsze-kung: “What constitutes the superior man?” “He acts before he speaks and afterwards speaks in accordance with his act.” (Analects, bk. ii., c. xiii.)
Reasons for reticence are given in several passages, from which these are culled: “The Master said, ‘The superior man is modest in his speech but exceeds in his actions.’ ” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xxix.) “This man seldom speaks; when he does, he is sure to hit the point.” (Analects, bk. xi., c. xiii., v. 3.) “When a man feels the difficulty of doing, can he be otherwise than cautious and slow in speaking?” (Analects, bk. xii., c. iii., v. 3.) “The reason why the ancients did not readily give utterance to their words was because they feared lest their deeds should not come up to them.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. xxii.)
The prudence of this course is illustrated in the “Shi King” (Major Odes, decade iii., ode 2) by this apt comparison: “A flaw in a mace of white jade may be ground away, but a word spoken amiss cannot be mended.”
This is expatiated upon by the sage as follows: “Hear much and put aside the points of which you are in doubt, while you speak cautiously at the same time of others;—then you will afford few occasions for blame. See much and put aside the things which seem perilous, while you are cautious at the same time in carrying the others into practice;—then you will have few occasions for repentance.” (Analects, bk. ii., c. xvii., v. 2.)
And when Fan Ch‘e asked about perfect virtue, Confucius replied in practical terms: “It is, in retirement, to be sedately grave; in the management of business, to be reverently attentive; in intercourse with others, to be strictly sincere.” (Analects, bk. xiii., c. xix.)
The portrait of such a man is well drawn in these outlines: “Looked at from a distance, he appears stern; when approached, he is mild; when he is heard to speak, his language is firm and decided.” (Analects, bk. xix., c. ix.)
By this is not meant mere obstinacy, but firmness, based upon resolve, resting in turn on rectified purpose, that in turn upon clarified and illuminated desire, and all upon intelligent investigation and determination of facts. Therefore, he has also said: “The superior man is correctly firm, and not firm merely.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xxxvi.)
Dignity also accompanies this aplomb or mental and moral balance, as a consequence and not as a thing which must be thought about and striven for—simple dignity which comes as naturally as the bloom upon the peach or upon the cheek of youth or maiden—never to be confounded with arrogance. Of this, we learn: “The superior man has dignified ease without pride. The ordinary man has pride without dignified ease.” (Analects, bk. xiii., c. xxvi.)
Moderation. “Sincerely hold fast the due mean.” (Analects, bk. xx., c. i., v. 1.)
“The Master said: ‘Alas, how the path of the mean is not walked in!’ ” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. v.)
An entire book, bearing the title: “The Doctrine of the Mean,” consisting chiefly of sayings of Confucius upon this subject, survives. The following account of its origin is found in the introduction: “This work contains the law of the mind which was handed down from one to another in the Confucian School till Tsze-tsze (the grandson of Confucius), fearing lest in the course of time errors should arise about it, committed it to writing and delivered it to Mencius.”
What is meant by “the mean” is the virtue which the ancient Greeks especially praised under the name of temperance. It is defined in the “Li Ki” as follows: “Pride should not be allowed to grow. The desires should not be indulged. The will should not be gratified to the full. Pleasure should not be carried to excess.” (Bk. i., sect. i., pt. i., c. ii.)
Confucius attached great importance to this idea, saying: “Perfect is the virtue which is according to the mean. They have long been rare among the people who could practise it.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. iii.)
He also said: “I know how it is that the path of the mean is not walked in; the knowing go beyond it and the stupid do not come up to it. I know how it is that the path of the mean is not understood; the men of talents and virtue go beyond it, and the worthless do not come up to it.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. iv., v. 1.)
The difficulty, indeed the well-nigh impossibility, of attaining this perfect self-control was appreciated by Confucius, who often spoke of it, saying: “All men say, ‘We are wise’; but happening to choose the path of the mean, they are not able to keep it for a round month.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. vi.)
And again: “The empire, its states, and its families may be perfectly ruled, dignities and emoluments may be declined, naked weapons may be trampled under the feet, but the course of the mean cannot be attained to.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. ix.)
And in another place he says: “The good man tries to proceed according to the right path, but when he has gone half-way he abandons it.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xi., v. 2.)
Yet he does not overemphasize this nor fail to recognize that this path is as frequently found by the lowly and humble as by those who are conscious of greatness. He says, instead: “The path is not far from man. When men try to pursue a course which is far from the common indications of consciousness, this course cannot be considered the path.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xiii., v. 1.)
Mencius in two places reverently echoes this sentiment, as follows: “The path of duty lies in what is near and men seek for it in what is remote; to follow it is easy and men seek it among arduous undertakings.” (Bk. iv., pt. i., c. xi.) “The way of truth is like a great road. It is not hard to find it. The trouble is only that men will not look for it. Go home and seek it and you will find many ready to point it out.” (Bk. vi., pt. ii., c. ii., v. 7.)
This strange but necessary combination of simplicity and complexity, of things easy and things difficult to understand, is well set forth in the following cryptic language: “The way of the superior man may be found in its simple elements in the intercourse of common men and women, in its utmost reaches it shines brightly through Heaven and earth.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xii., v. 4.)
Confucius finds the starting point for following the path of the mean in this, that one should be natural, should be himself. The whole picture of what is fundamentally necessary and of what result may be hoped for is in the following from the “Doctrine of the Mean” (c. xiv.):
“The superior man does what is proper to the station in which he is, he does not desire to go beyond this. In a position of wealth and honour he does what is proper to a position of wealth and honour; in a poor and low position, he does what is proper to a poor and low position; situated among barbarous tribes, he does what is proper to a situation among barbarous tribes; in a position of sorrow and difficulty, he does what is proper to a position of sorrow and difficulty.
“The superior man can find himself in no position in which he is not himself. In a high situation he does not treat with contempt his inferiors, in a low situation he does not court the favour of his superiors. He rectifies himself, and seeks for nothing from others, so that he has no dissatisfaction.
“He does not murmur against Heaven nor grumble against men. Thus it is that the superior man is quiet and calm, waiting for the appointments of Heaven, while the inferior man walks in dangerous paths, looking for lucky occurrences.”
This path, according to Confucius, lies before every man. It is put thus in the “Doctrine of the Mean” in a passage deemed by Chinese scholars to refer to Confucius only: “It waits for the proper man, and then it is trodden. Hence it is said, ‘Only by perfect virtue can the perfect path in all its courses be realized.’ Therefore the superior man honours his virtuous nature and maintains constant inquiry and study, seeking to carry it out to its breadth and greatness, so as to omit none of the most exquisite and minute points which it embraces, and to raise it to its greatest height and brilliancy, so as to pursue the course of the mean.” (C. xxvii., v. 4, 5, 6.)
The qualities of the man who follows the path of the mean are matters about which the author of the “Doctrine of the Mean” becomes enthusiastic, indulging in declarations such as these: “It is only he, possessed of all sagely qualities that can exist under Heaven, who shows himself quick in apprehension, clear in discernment, of far-reaching intelligence and all-embracing knowledge, fitted to exercise rule; magnanimous, generous, benign and mild, fitted to exercise forbearance; impulsive, energetic, firm and enduring, fitted to maintain a firm grasp; self-adjusted, grave, never swerving from the mean and correct, fitted to command reverence; accomplished, distinctive, concentrative, and searching, fitted to exercise discrimination; all-embracing is he, and vast, deep, and active as a fountain, sending forth, in their due seasons, his virtues.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xxxi., v. 1, 2.)
Confucius rarely held out any actual, earthly reward, external to the man, for any line of conduct; and indeed above all other attitudes of mind, he praised that which considered solely the thing to be done and not the reward for doing it. Yet as to certain consequences which flow from following the path of the mean, the “Doctrine of the Mean” was not silent, but said of him who follows it consistently: “Wherever ships and carriages reach, wherever the strength of man penetrates, wherever the heavens overshadow and the earth sustains, wherever the sun and moon shine, wherever frost and dew fall, all who have blood and breath unfeignedly honour and love him.” (C. xxxi., v. 3.)
Righteousness. “Such deliberation results in achievement of the ends of being.”
These words from “The Great Learning” (Text, v. 2) raise the question: What is life’s object? Confucius elsewhere answers it: “Man is born for uprightness. If a man lose his uprightness and yet live, his escape is the result of mere good fortune.” (Analects, bk. vi., c. xvii.)
Tsang Tze, according to Mencius, attributes this also to Confucius: “If on self-examination, I find I am not upright, shall I not be in fear even of a poor man in his loose garments of hair-cloth? If on self-examination I find that I am upright, I will go forward against thousands and tens of thousands.” (Mencius, bk. ii., pt. i., c. ii., v. 7.)
It is to this, also, that Confucius refers when he says: “Let every man consider virtue as what devolves upon himself; he may not yield the performance of it even to his teacher.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xxxv.)
That it comes naturally and easily if the purpose has been rectified and the will is clear and strong, he says in these words: “If the will be set on virtue, there will be no practice of wickedness.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. iv.)
The life which is devoid of purity and rectitude, he regards as thrown away. Righteousness should reign in men’s hearts and in their lives. Its name and how desirable a thing it is should be upon their lips every day; for of this he speaks as follows: “When a number of people are together for a whole day without their conversation turning on righteousness, and when they are fond of carrying out a narrow shrewdness, theirs is indeed a hard case.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xvi.)
Cunning shrewdness he regarded as utterly inconsistent with rectitude, saying: “Who says of Wei-chang Kao that he is upright? One begged some vinegar of him and he begged it of a neighbour and gave it to him.” (Analects, bk. v., c. xxiii.)
That righteousness is of the man and not only of his deed, Mencius thus affirms: “Kao Tze has never understood righteousness. He makes it a thing external.” (Bk. ii., pt. i., c. ii., v. 15.)
The attainment of righteousness of thought and conduct, then, is the aim of all who wish, in conformity with the art of living, to achieve a well-spent life. Perfect and complete rectitude is, of course, not a sine qua non in order that one should be a superior man; for the word “superior” is relative. Confucius says: “Superior men, and yet not always virtuous, there have been, alas! But there has never been an inferior man who was at the same time virtuous.” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. vii.)
Among the descriptions of the superior man, we find these which bear upon the same subject; for the most part they have already been quoted, but it is necessary to reconsider them here: “The superior man thinks of virtue, the ordinary man thinks of comfort. The superior man thinks of sanctions of law, the ordinary man of favours.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. xi.) “The mind of the superior man is conversant with righteousness, the mind of the ordinary man is conversant with gain.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. xvi.) “The superior man holds righteousness to be of the highest importance.” (Analects, bk. xvii., c. xxiii.) “The superior man in all things considers righteousness essential.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xvii.)
Mencius thus identifies righteousness as the normal attribute of man: “Benevolence is the tranquil habitation of man and righteousness his straight path. Alas for them who leave the tranquil habitation tenantless and dwell not therein and who turn away from the straight path and pursue it not!” (Bk. iv., pt. i., c. x., v. 2, 3.)
Nine things, as regards which one must keep watch over himself, are enumerated by Confucius as follows: “The superior man has nine things which are subjects with him of thoughtful consideration. In regard to the use of his eyes, he is anxious to see clearly. In regard to the use of his ears, he is anxious to hear distinctly. In regard to his countenance, he is anxious that it should be benign. In regard to his demeanour, he is anxious that it should be respectful. In regard to his speech, he is anxious that it should be sincere. In regard to his doing of business, he is anxious that it should be reverently careful. In regard to what he doubts about, he is anxious to question others. When he is angry, he thinks of the difficulties his anger may involve him in. When he sees gain to be got, he thinks of righteousness.” (Analects, bk. xvi., c. x.)
Some of the qualities which go to make up rectitude of demeanour and conduct are recorded in this passage, with appropriate statements as to their advantages: “If you are grave, you will not be treated with disrespect. If you are generous, you will win all. If you are sincere, people will repose trust in you. If you are earnest, you will accomplish much. If you are kind, this will enable you to employ the services of others.” (Analects, bk. xvii., c. vi.)
And in the “Li Ki” (bk. vii., sect. ii., 19), the following are given as essentials of right-living: “What are the things which men consider right? Kindness in a father, filial piety in a son; gentleness in an elder brother, obedience in a younger; righteousness in a husband, submission in a wife; kindness in elders, deference in juniors; benevolence in a ruler, loyalty in a minister. These ten are things which men consider right. To speak the truth and work for harmony are what are called things advantageous to men. To quarrel, plunder, and murder are things disastrous to men.”
The philosophy, the sequence, even the causation of it are contained in this, from the same book: “He who knows how to exemplify what a son should be, can afterwards exemplify what a father should be. He who knows how to exemplify what a minister should be, can afterwards exemplify what a ruler should be. He who knows how to serve others, can afterwards employ them.” (Bk. vi., sect. i., 20.)
Perhaps there are traces of an ancient freemasonry—or did they merely presage the newer symbolism?—in this, from the “Yi King” (appendix iv., sect. ii., c. ii., 6): “The plumb signifies correctness; the square, righteousness.” There are several such passages in the ancient books of the Chinese.
Self-righteousness is far from what the sage has in mind. Indeed, such a conception could not be harboured by him who said: “I am fortunate. If I have any faults, people are sure to know them” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xxx., v. 3); and again: “In letters I am perhaps equal to other men, but the character of the superior man, carrying out in his conduct what he professes, is what I have not yet attained to.” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xxxii.) As the sage puts it: “To have faults and not to reform them, this indeed should be pronounced having faults.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xxix.)
He also said concerning himself: “If some years were added to my life, I would give fifty to the study of the Yi, and then I might come to be without great faults” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xvi.); and he especially praised the selection by Keu Pihyuh of a messenger who, when asked, “What is your master engaged in?” replied: “My master is anxious to make his faults few, but has not yet succeeded.” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xxvi.)
And the necessity for frequent introspection and unsparing criticism of self is thus enjoined: “Therefore, the superior man examines his heart that there may be nothing wrong there, and that he may have no cause for dissatisfaction with himself.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xxxiii., v. 2.)
That righteousness may—and, indeed, must, in order to be practicable by mortals—coexist with the presence of many shortcomings and may even be reflected in them, Confucius indicates in this shrewd remark: “By observing a man’s faults, it may be known that he is virtuous.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. vii.)
Not that one is to hug this to his soul in self-justification and self-indulgence, for it is written: “Hold faithfulness and sincerity as first principles, and be moving continually toward what is right!” (Analects, bk. xii., c. x., v. 1.) He would not lightly excuse or condone the abandonment of virtue; for is it not he “who in the view of gain thinks of righteousness,” that is pronounced “a complete man”? (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xiii., v. 2.) “The determined scholar and the man of virtue,” he also said, “will not seek to live at the expense of injuring their virtue. They will even sacrifice their lives to preserve their virtue complete.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. viii.)
Mencius also puts forth this idea in another dress: “I prize life indeed but there is that which I prize more than life and therefore I will not seek to preserve it by improper means. I shrink from death indeed but there is that which I shrink from more than death, and therefore there are occasions when I will not avoid danger.” (Bk. vi., pt. i., c. x., v. I.)
Confucius had no notion of palliating the offence of one who abandons right-doing; for he said of this: “If a superior man abandon virtue, how can he fulfil the requirements of the name? The superior man does not, even for the space of a single meal, act contrary to virtue. In moments of haste, he cleaves to it. In seasons of danger he cleaves to it.” (Analects, bk. iv., v. 2, 3.)
And this constancy he again adverts to, sagely: “The virtuous rest in virtue; the wise desire virtue.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. ii.) Yet he laments: “I have not seen a person who loved virtue, or one who hated what is not virtuous. He who loved virtue, would esteem nothing above it. He who hated what is not virtuous, would practise virtue in such a way that he would not allow anything that is not virtuous to approach his person. Is any one able for one day to apply his strength to virtue? I have not seen the case in which his strength would be insufficient. Should there possibly be such a case, I have not seen it.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. vi.)
Yet he despairs of constant righteousness; for he says elsewhere: “To subdue one’s self and return to propriety is perfect virtue. If a man for one day subdue himself and return to propriety, all under heaven will ascribe perfect virtue to him.” (Analects, bk. xii., c. i., v. 1.) And likewise: “If a man in the morning hear the right way, he may die in the evening without regret.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. viii.)
Earnestness. “Wheresoever you go, go with all your heart!” (Shu King, pt. v., bk. ix., 2.)
These words are ascribed to the illustrious Wu or to Khang, his son. The injunction which Ibsen puts into the mouth of Brand:
- “Be what thou art, with all thy heart—
- Not piecemeal, only, and in part!”
seems but a modern echo, or reaffirmation, of this sentiment of thousands of years ago.
In the “Shu King,” also, I Yin is made to say: “What attainment can be made without anxious thought? What achievement without earnest effort?” (Pt. iv., bk. vi., sect. iii., 2.)
Mencius puts it strongly thus: “Now chess-playing is but a small art; but without giving his whole mind to it and bending his will to it, a man cannot excel in it.” (Bk. vi., pt. i., c. ix., v. 3.)
The absolute sincerity of thought which has been found prerequisite to the acquisition of sound learning, the formation of right desires, and the planning of the art of life, must ripen into earnestness in conduct and candour of speech. Else were it fruitless and unavailing. As much is embraced in this primary injunction of Confucius: “Hold faithfulness and sincerity as first principles!” (Analects, bk. i., c. viii., v. 2.)
Among the nine things which are with the superior man subjects “of thoughtful consideration,” he includes these: “In regard to his speech, he is anxious that it be sincere. In regard to his doing of business, he is anxious that it should be reverently careful.” (Analects, bk. xvi., c. x.)
These resulting virtues of speech and action were two of the “four things which the Master taught: Letters, ethics, devotion of spirit, and truthfulness.” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xxiv.) And urgently did he enjoin each of his disciples “to give one’s self earnestly to the duties due to men.” (Analects, bk. vi., c. xx.)
That this should come naturally and easily, without strain or striving, Mencius says in this: “The great man does not think beforehand of his words that they may be sincere nor of his actions that they may be resolute; he simply speaks and does what is right.” (Bk. iv., pt. ii., c. xi.)
The opposite Mencius finds in this: “The disease of men is this:—that they neglect their own fields and go to weed the fields of others and that what they require from others is great, while what they lay upon themselves is light.” (Bk. vii., pt. ii., c. xxxii., v. 3.)
The evil results of uninstructed earnestness in conduct, i. e., earnestness unaccompanied by clear knowledge of what is aimed at, of consequences and causes and of the means by which one’s real ends may be furthered, are set forth in this: “There is the love of being sincere without the love of learning; the beclouding here leads to an injurious disregard of consequences.” (Analects, bk. xvii., c. viii., v. 3.)
Notwithstanding these obvious limitations, none of which goes to the root and all of which have to do only with what should accompany earnestness and candour, Confucius enjoins both, upon the young as upon the old, as absolutely essential to right-living. Thus of the youth, he says: “He should be earnest and truthful” (Analects, bk. i., c. vi.), and of the superior man: “He who aims at complete virtue . . . is earnest in what he is doing and careful in his speech.” (Analects, bk. i., c. xiv.) “The superior man wishes to be slow in speech and earnest in conduct.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. xxiv.) “What the superior man requires, is just that in his words there may be nothing inaccurate.” (Analects, bk. xiii., c. iii., v. 7.)
Twice in the “Analects,” although Confucius spoke seldom about “perfect virtue,” he referred, when replying to inquiries on this important subject, especially to sincerity of speech and faithfulness of conduct, the first time briefly thus: “Fan Ch‘e asked about perfect virtue. The Master said, ‘It is in retirement, to be sedately grave; in the management of business, to be reverently attentive; in intercourse with others, to be strictly sincere.’ ” (Analects, bk, xiii., c. xix.)
The second time, he did not content himself with mere categorical mention, but proceeded to expatiate upon the beneficent results of these virtues, in the following: “Tsze-chang asked Confucius about perfect virtue. Confucius said, ‘To be able to practise five things everywhere under heaven constitutes perfect virtue.’ He begged to inquire what they were, and was told: ‘Gravity, generosity, sincerity, earnestness, and kindness. If you are grave, you will not be treated with disrespect. If you are generous, you will win all. If you are sincere, people will repose trust in you. If you are earnest, you will accomplish much. If you are kind, this will enable you to employ the services of others.’ ” (Analects, bk. xvii., c. vi.)
These results, he further taught, are independent of time and place and of the state of civilization of those among whom these virtues are practised, for he says: “Let his words be sincere and truthful, and his actions honourable and careful;—such conduct may be practised among the rude tribes of the South or of the North. If his words be not sincere and truthful, and his actions not honourable and careful, will he, with such conduct, be appreciated, even in his own neighbourhood?” (Analects, bk. xv., c. v., v. 2.)
Humility. “I am not concerned that I have no place; I am concerned how I may fit myself for one. I am not concerned that I am not known; I seek to be worthy to be known.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. xiv.) “I will not be afflicted that men do not know me; I will be afflicted that I do not know men.” (Analects, bk. i., c. xvi.) “I will not be concerned at men’s not knowing me; I will be concerned at my own want of ability.” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xxxii.) “The superior man is distressed by his want of ability; he is not distressed by men’s not knowing him.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xvii.)
These are but a few of the many expressions in the “Analects” of the spirit of humility which is essential to true self-development. It is not want of self-respect that is here inculcated; but, instead, that poise which demands not the acclaim of others. In the “Yi King” (appendix ii., sect. i., c. xxviii.) it is put thus: “The superior man . . . stands alone and has no fear, and keeps retired from the world without regret.”
Yet it is also far from encouraging the progress-destroying self-sufficiency of one who disregards others’ opinions because placing too high an estimate upon his own. For in the “Shu King” (pt. iv., bk. vi., 4) the earnest injunction is found, accredited to I Yin: “Do not think yourself so large as to deem others small!”
And this, also, is found in the “Shu King” (pt. iv., bk. ii., 4): “He who says that others are not equal to himself, comes to ruin.”
And in the same book (pt. iv., bk. viii., sect. ii., 1) the illustrious Yueh is reported to have said: “Indulging the consciousness of being good is the way to lose that goodness; being vain of one’s ability is the way to lose it.”
And in its pages also (pt. v., bk. xxvi.) King Mu is made to say of himself, in all humility: “I rise at midnight and think how I can avoid falling into errors.”
The Duke of Khin, also in the “Shu King” (pt. v., bk. xxx.), thus describes how difficult, albeit salutary, it is to receive, welcome, and apply the reproof of others: “Reproving others is easy, but to receive reproof and allow it free course is difficult.”
And in the “Li Ki” (bk. ii., sect. ii., pt. iii., 17) the ruinous consequences of false pride are depicted by means of a clever parable, as follows: “It is because I would not eat ‘Poor man, come here!’ food that I am come to this state.”
In the same book (Li Ki, bk. xxvii., 9) it is related of Confucius: “The Master said, ‘The superior man exalts others and abases himself; he gives the first place to others and takes the last himself.’ ”
Mencius applied this to himself in this famous colloquy: “The officer Ch‘oo said, ‘Master, the King sent persons to spy out whether you were really different from other men.’ Mencius said, ‘How should I be different from other men? Yaou and Shun were the same as other men.’ ” (Bk. iv., pt. ii., c. xxxii.)
This also does Confucius teach, that with admiration and appreciation a man should look upon superior men, rejoicing in their virtue, and emulating them; and that, on the contrary, when beholding persons with grave and glaring faults, he is not to rejoice that he is not like unto them, but instead, with deep humility, to search his own heart with microscopic care and remorseless earnestness, lest these very faults or errors be hiding there. Thus he says: “When we see men of worth, we should think of equalling them; when we see men of contrary character, we should turn inward and examine ourselves.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. xvii.)
The difficulty of doing this, however, he did not minimize, knowing full well how prone the human mind is to justify its own aberrations. Indeed he more than once complained with sadness: “I have not yet seen one who could perceive his faults and inwardly accuse himself.” (Analects, bk. v., c. xxvi.)
He counselled the greatest possible avoidance of the thought of personal success as a prime consideration of conduct, and inculcated the truth that unless the mind is devotedly bent to the achievement of its own purpose, to the accomplishment of the thing which it designs, the man’s work will not be that which he desired to do but will merely be done in order that men might acclaim him.
He often emphasized even to a superlative degree the obstacles in the way of the formation of character and of living a well-spent and therefore successful life. Indeed, that this should ever come up to one’s longings, or even to one’s expectations, was, he frequently granted, quite impossible, meaning thereby not that the structure might not be imposing or beautiful, but that it would fall short of that perfect beauty which the mind is able to conjure up before it, and must so imagine to itself if the man is to be kept steadily on the path of progress.
It is true that in all this there is no departure from the notion that the man should be in fact self-sufficient. It is not the idea of the sage that he should abandon himself to despair but that his mind, beholding clearly and courageously the perfection that he cannot hope to equal, should do all that lies in its power to mould itself after that vision of beauty, which after all is but an imperfect attempt to reconstruct within itself the glories which it cannot fully apprehend. Thus he teaches that one should be at ease about himself, even though others should hold him of no account. This is not meant by Confucius to be mere self-abasement, affected in order to obtain an advantage in coping with others, but a genuine willingness that one’s work be done year in and year out, without being visited with the acclaim of the multitude. He says: “Is he not a man of complete virtue who feels no discomposure though men may take no note of him?” (Analects, bk. i., c. i., v. 3.)
He thus pays his tribute of praise and appreciation to the great soul who compasses this: “Admirable, indeed, was the virtue of Hwuy! With a single bamboo dish of rice, a single gourd dish of drink, and living in his mean narrow lane, while others could not have endured the distress, he did not allow his joy to be affected by it. Admirable, indeed, was the virtue of Hwuy!” (Analects, bk. vi., c. ix.)
Aspiration. “The scholar does not deem gold and jade precious, but loyalty and good faith. He does not crave broad lands and possessions, but holds the rectification of himself his domain. He asks not great wealth but looks upon many-sided culture as true riches.” (Li Ki, bk. xxxviii., 6.)
Thus in the “Li Ki” Confucius indicates that for and unto which man should aspire. It is contrasted thus with the opposite and vainglorious but destructive course: “It is the way of the superior man to prefer the concealment of his virtue while it daily becomes more illustrious, and it is the way of the inferior man to seek notoriety while he daily goes more and more to ruin.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xxxiii., v. 1.)
And in this passage perhaps even more discriminatingly and finely: “The thing wherein the superior man cannot be equalled is simply this, his work which other men cannot see.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xxxiii., v. 2.)
Of the path which leads to this and which Confucius trod, it is said in this from the “Doctrine of the Mean,” already once quoted: “It waits for the proper man, and then it is trodden. Hence it is said, ‘Only by perfect virtue can the perfect path in all its courses be realized.’ Therefore the superior man honours his virtuous nature and maintains constant inquiry and study, seeking to carry it out to its breadth and greatness so as to omit none of the most exquisite and minute points which it embraces and to raise it to its greatest height and brilliancy, so as to pursue the course of the mean.” (C. xxvii., v. 4, 5, 6.)
This is the portrait, considered by Chinese scholars to be that of Confucius, which in a passage from the same book, already once quoted, presents the many-sided character to which men, striving for the right, are to aspire: “It is only he possessed of all sagely qualities that can exist under Heaven, who shows himself quick in apprehension, clear in discernment, of far-reaching intelligence and all-embracing knowledge, fitted to exercise rule; magnanimous, generous, benign, and mild, fitted to exercise forbearance; impulsive, energetic, firm, and enduring, fitted to maintain a firm grasp; self-adjusted, grave, never swerving from the mean and correct, fitted to command reverence; accomplished, distinctive, concentrative, and searching, fitted to exercise discrimination. All embracing is he, and vast, deep, and active as a fountain, sending forth in their due seasons his virtues.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xxxi., v. 1, 2.)
In the “Li Ki,” in more prosaic but not less striking fashion, the aspirations which are justifiable, honourable, and beneficial for a man are detailed, thus: “There are three things that occasion sorrow to a superior man. If there be a subject of which he has not heard, and he do not hear of it; if he hear of it, and do not come to learn it; if he learn it but have no chance to practise it. There are five things that occasion the superior man humiliation. If in office and unfamiliar with its duties; if familiar with them but not carrying them into practice; if once in office and then dismissed; if in charge of a large territory but not well populated; if anybody with the same duties do better than he.” (Li Ki, bk. xviii., 20.)
In the “Yi King” (appendix iii., sect. ii., c. v., 37), Confucius sharply contrasts this with the sordid, self-destroying motives of the inferior man, thus: “The inferior man is not ashamed of what is not benevolent nor does he fear to do what is not righteous. Without the prospect of gain he does not stimulate himself to what is good, nor does he correct himself without being moved.”
The attitude which should be taken toward these incentives, usually so powerful, the sage thus presents: “Riches and honours are what men desire. If it cannot be brought about in the proper way, they should not be held. Poverty and meanness are what men dislike. If it cannot be brought about in the proper way, they should not be avoided.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. v., v. 1.)
Yet Confucius deemed it self-evidently a desirable thing that one’s merit should be recognized and a thing almost incredible that true merit should go unrecognized. But he urged that this should be regarded as but an incident and not as the object to be aimed at and striven for. Instead, the labour must be primarily to serve one’s fellowman and to develop one’s self. Notoriety and genuine distinction he discussed in the following: “The Master said, ‘What is it you call being distinguished?’ Tsze-chang replied, ‘It is to be heard of through the state, to be heard of through the family.’ The Master said: ‘That is notoriety, not distinction. The man of distinction is substantial and straightforward and loves uprightness. He examines people’s words and looks into their countenances. He is anxious to defer to others. Such a man will be distinguished in the country; he will be distinguished in the family. As to the man of notoriety, he assumes the appearance of virtue but his actions belie it, and he rests in this character without any doubts about himself. Such a man will be heard of in the country; he will be heard of in the family.’ ” (Analects, bk. xii., c. xx.)
There is one sort of aspiration for fame which Confucius said that he himself did not possess: “To live in obscurity and to practise wonders, in order to be mentioned with honour in future ages—this is what I do not do.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xi., v. 1.)
Yet it is by no means his opinion that only they who by their virtues deserve to be known or even to be loved, receive the acclaim of the multitude. This but raises the question whether the man is really worthy or has merely deceived and misled the people. Confucius says that it but puts one upon inquiry, thus: “When the multitude hate a man, it is necessary to examine into the case. When the multitude like a man, it is necessary to examine into the case.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xxvii.)
This he explains more fully at another time in the following colloquy: “Tsze-kung asked, saying, ‘What do you say of a man who is loved by all the people of his village?’ The Master replied, ‘We may not for that accord our approval of him.’ ‘And what do you say of him who is hated by all the people of his village?’ The Master said, ‘We may not for that conclude that he is bad. It is better than either of these cases that the good in the village love him, and the bad hate him.’ ” (Analects, bk. xiii., c. xxiv.)
Confucius could not enough condemn the doing of any act for the mere purpose of obtaining the approval of men or of winning the laurels of fame. The aim must be the accomplishment of the work or service, itself. This he has said in many passages, among them these: “If doing what is to be done be made the first business and success a secondary consideration, is not this the way to exalt virtue?” (Analects, bk. xii., c. xxi., v. 3.) “In ancient times men learned with a view to their own improvement. Nowadays, men learn with a view to the approbation of others.” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xxv.) “The man of virtue makes the difficulty to be overcome his first business and success only a subsequent consideration.” (Analects, bk. vi., c. xx.)
The true spirit of the man with an exalted aim he thus depicts: “Though he may be all unknown, unregarded by the world, he feels no regret.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xi., v. 3.)
In the “Yi King” (appendix iv., sect. i., c. ii., 6) Confucius recurs to it thus: “He occupies a high position without pride and a low position without anxiety.”
And in the “Li Ki” with greater circumstantiality the indifference and unconcern of the superior man toward mere worldly rewards or failure to obtain them, and his complete immunity from evil result of either of these things, are thus portrayed: “The scholar is not cast down or uprooted by poverty and a mean condition; he is not elated or enervated by riches and an exalted condition.” (Bk. xxxviii., 19.)
Yet, not utterly is ambition for worldly honours discouraged; for in the “Doctrine of the Mean,” in a passage already once quoted, and which Chinese scholars deem to refer to Confucius himself, the prospect of the man who pursues the path of the mean is thus apostrophized: “Wherever ships and carriages reach, wherever the strength of man penetrates, wherever the heavens overshadow and the earth sustains, wherever the sun and moon shine, wherever frosts and dews fall, all who have blood and breath unfeignedly honour and love him.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xxxi., v. 3.)
And, although the words, “I desire nothing but rightly to die,” are ascribed to Tsang-tse, when dying (Li Ki, bk. ii., sect. i., pt. i., 18), Confucius himself has said: “The superior man dislikes the thought of his name not being mentioned after his death.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xix.)
Prudence. “If a man take no thought about what is distant, he will find sorrow near at hand.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xi.)
In the “Yi King” (appendix iii., sect. ii., c. v., 39), the wisdom of prudence and of foresight, thus vividly presented in the “Analects,” is enforced by the Master in these maxims: “He who keeps danger in mind, is he who will rest safe in his seat; he who keeps ruin in mind, is he who will preserve his interests secure; he who sets the danger of disorder before him, is he who will maintain order.”
And in the “Shu King” Yueh is represented as urging thoughtful care, by these words: “For all affairs let there be adequate preparation; with preparation there will be no calamitous issue.” (Pt. iv., bk. viii., sect. ii., 1.)
Of the same nature is this injunction from the “Li Ki” (bk. xv., 22): “Do not commence or abandon anything hastily.”
Though far from teaching that the aim of the superior man should be the acquisition of wealth, and though insistent upon the view that this depends so much more upon fortune than upon the desert, or even the scheming, of individuals, Confucius, as in the foregoing, pleads always for the use of foresight and prudence in the ordinary affairs of life. Thus he places among the cardinal qualities of the superior man reverent attention to business. (Analects, bk. xvi., c. x.) Yet he rarely discoursed upon this subject nor, indeed, upon the part of Heaven in determining the good or ill fortune which attends man; and that this is not true only of the sayings which have come down to us, is shown by this statement of his disciples: “The subjects of which the Master seldom spoke were: profitableness, also the appointments of Heaven and perfect virtue.” (Analects, bk. ix., c. i.)
That the sordid pursuit of wealth is to be avoided he indicated in these words already quoted: “Riches and honour are what men desire. If it cannot be brought about in the proper way, they should not be held. Poverty and meanness are what men dislike. If it cannot be brought about in the proper way, they should not be avoided.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. v., v. 1.)
This he also said again and again, as in this contrast: “The mind of the superior man is conversant with righteousness; the mind of the average man is conversant with gain” (Analects, bk. iv., c. xvi.); and in another place he names as one of the qualities of “the complete man” that, “in view of gain,” he “thinks of righteousness.” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xiii., v. 2.)
He teaches that “riches and honours depend upon Heaven” (Analects, bk. xii., c. v., v. 3); notwithstanding which, prudence and industry will, in a well-governed country, insure a competence. Wherefore he says: “When a country is well governed, poverty and a mean condition are things to be ashamed of. When a country is ill governed, riches and honour are things to be ashamed of.” (Analects, bk. viii., c. xiii., v. 3.)
To nothing would his proverb, “To go beyond is as bad as to fall short” (Analects, bk. xi., c. xiv., v. 3), apply more aptly than to expenditure, of which he also sagely remarks (Analects, bk. vii., c. xxxv.): “Extravagance leads to insubordination and parsimony to meanness. It is better to be mean than to be insubordinate”—though, obviously, best of all to be neither.
As regards the pursuit of wealth, Confucius spoke, for himself, thus: “If the search for riches were sure to be successful, though I should become a groom with whip in hand to get them, I would do so. As the search may not be successful, I will pursue that which I desire.” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xi.)
Resignation to the appointments of Heaven in this regard, and the greater desirability that more worthy ambitions be dominant, are urged in this striking passage: “There is Hwuy! He has nearly attained to perfect virtue. He is often in want.” (Analects, bk. xi., c. xviii.)
That riches is not that to which the soul of the superior man aspires, he affirms in these words, already quoted in another connection: “The superior man is anxious lest he should not get truth; he is not anxious lest poverty should come upon him.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xxxi.)
This version of “Riches takes unto itself wings” is given by the commentator in “The Great Learning”: “Wealth, got by improper means, will take its departure in the same way.” (C. x., v. 10.)
Among the “three things which the superior man guards against,” he names avarice, saying: “In youth, when the physical powers are not yet settled, he guards against lust. When he is strong, and the physical powers are full of vigour, he guards against quarrelsomeness. When he is old, and the animal powers are decayed, he guards against covetousness.” (Analects, bk. xvi., c. vii.)
Though duties, corresponding to their ill fortune or good fortune, rest upon the poor and upon the rich, Confucius deems it much harder for the impoverished man to possess his soul and act according to propriety; of this he says: “To be poor without murmuring is difficult. To be rich without pride is easy.” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xi.)
The imprudence, not to speak of the immorality, of acting in a purely selfish manner, is shown in this: “He who acts with a constant view to his own advantage will be much murmured against.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. xii.)
This, however, is not limited to financial dealings, but applies as well to all other exactions; as to which the sage shrewdly observes: “He who requires much from himself and little from others, will keep himself from being the object of resentment.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xiv.)
It is also the part of prudence as early as possible to guard against speech and conduct which cause dislike; for, as the sage somewhat sweepingly asserts: “When a man at forty is the object of dislike, he will always continue what he is.” (Analects, bk. xvii., c. xxvi.)
The same idea, but a different application of it, is presented in this wise saying from the “Shu King” (pt. v., bk. xxi., 2) attributed to King Khang: “Seek not every quality in one individual!”
And this vivid picture of the foredoomed failure of the ambitious but imprudent man Confucius gives in the “Yi King” (appendix iii., sect. ii., c. v., v. 40): “Virtue small and office high; wisdom small and plans great; strength small and burden heavy—where such conditions exist, it is seldom they do not end in evil.”
The necessity for unflinching self-examination before engaging in any important undertaking or assuming any heavy obligation, not merely as a matter of personal honesty, but also as a matter of prudence, is thus enjoined in the “Li Ki” in a passage already quoted: “For one who wished to serve his ruler, the rule was first to measure his abilities and duties and then enter on the responsibilities; he did not first enter and then measure. The same rule applied when one begged or borrowed from others or sought to enter their service.” (Bk. xv., 19.)
And in the “Yi King” (appendix ii., c. xxxiii., v. 4) this caution and this self-restraint are thus appreciated: “A superior man retires, notwithstanding his likings; an average man cannot attain to it.”
This sketch of the superior man is elaborated further in the following passage in the “Analects”: “He who aims to be a man of complete virtue, in his food does not seek to gratify his appetite, nor in his dwelling-place does he seek the appliances of ease; he is earnest in what he is doing, and careful in his speech; he frequents the company of men of principle that he may be rectified.” (Analects, bk. i., c. xiv.)
Prudence is, of course, merely the application of the same calm clear-sightedness and study of cause and effect, which the sage enjoins as the very foundation of the investigation of phenomena, upon which in turn the entire superstructure of the art of life rests. To what advantage does one refuse to recognize the stubborn facts, whether as regards himself or as regards others? Or as the sage phrases it: “Who can go out but by the door? How is it that men will not walk according to these ways?” (Analects, bk. vi., c. xv.)
The need of patience and thoroughness he also repeatedly inculcates, as in this: “Do not be desirous of having things done quickly; do not look at small advantages! Desire to have things done quickly prevents their being done thoroughly. Looking at small advantages prevents great things being accomplished.” (Analects, bk. xiii., c. xvii.)
And the slow but solid achievement which attends this course is thus portrayed: “The way of the superior man may be compared with what takes place in travelling, when to go to a distance we must first traverse the space that is near and when in ascending a height we must first begin from the lower ground.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xv., v. 1.)
CHAPTER III
GENERAL HUMAN RELATIONS
After instruction in self-development, men need to know their relation to their fellows. First in importance of our social duties, and intimately connected with individual character, Confucius placed propriety.
The Rules of Propriety. “Let the superior man never fail reverentially to order his own conduct; and let him be respectful to others and observant of propriety. Then all within the four seas will be his brothers.” (Analects, bk. xii., c. v., v. 4.)
Thus Confucius in the “Analects” emphasizes the importance of the due observance of propriety. The rules of propriety were, in the mind of the sage, of much the same order as the positive commands which make up the ordinary man’s only system of morality. They were the things enjoined, which the superior man must observe, not in order to become or even to be a superior man, however, but because he is such. Therefore it is said: “If a man be without the virtues proper to humanity, what has he to do with the rites of propriety?” (Analects, bk. iii., c. iii.)
Yet propriety has its office, also, and that not a small one, albeit the real character, the open mind, sincerity, purity of purpose, will, courage, poise, and all the rest, must first have been attained; else mere outward conformity with propriety is nothing. Its office is thus described: “It is by the rules of propriety that the character is established.” (Analects, bk. viii., c. viii., v. 2.) “Without an acquaintance with the rules of propriety, it is impossible for the character to be established.” (Analects, bk. xx., c. iii., v. 3.)
This is indeed sufficiently obvious upon consideration since character can be evinced only in speech, conduct, deportment, and demeanour, each of which must have its own canons of propriety. The utility of these rules in this respect is adverted to in the “Li Ki,” thus: “The rules of propriety serve as instruments to form men’s characters. . . . They remove from a man all perversity and increase what is beautiful in his nature. They make him correct, when employed in the ordering of himself; they ensure for him free course, when employed toward others.” (Bk. viii., sect. i., 1.)
In another place in the “Li Ki,” the following is said concerning the depraved state of men who have no conception of propriety: “But if beasts and without the rules of propriety, father and son might have the same mate.” (Bk. i., sect. i., pt. i., c. v., v. 21.)
And in yet another place in that book the following tribute to the superlative utility of propriety and especially to its usefulness in forming character appears: “Therefore the rules of propriety are for man what the yeast is for liquor. By the use of them the superior man becomes better and greater. The inferior man by neglect of them becomes smaller and poorer. (Bk. vii., sect. iv., v. 7.)
Mencius thus laid bare the very foundation for the sense of propriety: “The sense of shame is of great importance to man.” (Bk. vii., pt. i., c. vii., v. 1.)
The Chinese tradition was that the rules of propriety had been established by the ancient kings and embodied their conception of right. The following account, also in the “Li Ki,” which is devoted to a discussion of these rules, is given, both of their origin and of their construction: “The rules as instituted by the ancient kings had their radical element and their outward, elegant form. A true heart and good faith are their radical element. The characteristics of each according to the idea of what is right in it are its outward, elegant form. Without the radical element, they could not have been established; without the elegant form, they could not have been put in practice.” (Bk. viii., sect. i., v. 2.)
That an observance is to be judged, not only by its general acceptance as “good form,” but also and, if need be, exclusively by what is right, is urged in this passage from the same book: “Rules of ceremony are the embodied expression of what is right. If an observance stand the test of being judged by the standard of what is right, although it may not have been among the usages of the ancient kings, it may be adopted on the ground of its being right.” (Bk. vii., sect. iv., v. 9.)
Mencius thus rebuked the notion, yet prevalent in more than one quarter, that mere “good form” is propriety although it be the cover for wanton cruelty and wrong: “Acts of propriety which are not proper and deeds of righteousness that are not righteous, the great man does not do.” (Bk. iv., pt. ii., c. vi.)
The untoward consequences, if the rights of propriety are neglected, are strikingly set forth by Confucius in these words: “Respectfulness, without the rules of propriety, becomes laborious bustle; carefulness, without the rules of propriety, becomes timidity; boldness, without the rules of propriety, becomes insubordination; straightforwardness, without the rules of propriety, becomes rudeness.” (Analects, bk. viii., c. ii., v. 1.)
Several of the nine things which he names as worthy “of thoughtful consideration” are of this nature. The pronouncement, already once quoted, will bear repetition: “The superior man has nine things which are subjects with him of thoughtful consideration: In regard to the use of his eyes he is anxious to see clearly. In regard to the use of his ears he is anxious to hear distinctly. In regard to his countenance he is anxious that it should be benign. In regard to his demeanour he is anxious that it should be respectful. In regard to his speech he is anxious that it should be sincere. In regard to his doing of business he is anxious that it should be reverently careful. In regard to what he doubts about he is anxious to question others. When he is angry he thinks of the difficulties his anger may involve him in. When he sees gain to be got he thinks of righteousness.” (Analects, bk. xvi., c. x.)
In another place he says: “If you are grave, you will not be treated with disrespect; if you are generous, you will win all; if you are sincere, people will repose trust in you; if you are in earnest, you will accomplish much; if you are kind, this will enable you to employ the services of others.” (Analects, bk. xvii., c. vi.)
Each of these has reference to a rule of propriety.
Again, when asked what constitutes perfect virtue, he said: “It is in retirement to be sedately grave, in the management of business to be reverently attentive, in intercourse with others to be strictly sincere.” (Analects, bk. xiii., c. xix.)
Among the repulsive characters which he holds it the duty of the superior man to hate, is this: “He hates those who have valour merely and are unobservant of propriety.” (Analects, bk. xvii., c. xxiv., v. 1.)
Perhaps in nothing are the real qualities of a man more frankly exhibited than in his conduct toward those who are subject to his orders and must obey him. The petty tyrannies which the small mind invents under such conditions are familiar to every observer, but few have had the penetration to discern what Confucius illustrates in the following passage: “The superior man is easy to serve and difficult to please. If you try to please him in any way which is not accordant with right, he will not be pleased. But in his employment of men he uses them according to their capacity. The inferior man is difficult to serve, and easy to please. If you try to please him, though it be in a way which is not accordant with right, he may be pleased. But in his employment of men he wishes them to be equal to everything.” (Analects, bk. xiii., c. xxv.)
This is but a shrewd practical application of this observation from the “Li Ki”: “Propriety is seen in humbling one’s self and giving honours to others.” (Bk. i., sect. i., pt. i., c. vi., v. 25.)
But this humility must be such as comports with true dignity; for, as the Duke of Shao says in the “Shu King” (pt. v., bk. vi., 2): “Complete virtue allows no contemptuous familiarity.”
This combination of humility and dignity, which has ever characterized the Chinese conception of propriety, is cleverly adverted to in these significant and weighty sentences: “Gan P’ing Chung knew well how to maintain friendly intercourse. The acquaintance might be long, but he showed the same respect as at first.” (Analects, bk. v., c. xvi.)
This combination of humility and dignity is yet more pointedly and convincingly outlined in this pithy sentence: “Condemning none, courting none, what can he do that is not good?” (Analects, bk. ix., c. xxvi., v. 2.)
Though Confucius was so insistent that his disciples should learn and practise the refinements of polite behaviour, he held the balance even, and at all times urged the greater importance of the real things of character. Complete sanity is in these discerning sentences: “Where the solid qualities are in excess of the accomplishments, we have rusticity; where the accomplishments are in excess of the solid qualities, we have the manners of a clerk; when the accomplishments and solid qualities are equally blended, we then have the man of complete virtue.” (Analects, bk. vi., c. xvi.)
In the “Li Ki” the urgent need that one give reverent attention to propriety is thus phrased: “The superior man watches over the manner in which he maintains his intercourse with other men.” (Bk. viii., sect. ii., v. 14.)
It is, however, not desirable that over-emphasis be laid upon unimportant details; for as Tsze-hea says in the “Analects”: “When a person does not transgress the boundary-line of the great virtues, he may pass and repass it in the small virtues.” (Analects, bk. xix., c. xi.)
There is, notwithstanding, something near to vehemence in this urgent adjuration that propriety is on no account to be neglected either in passive or in active moments: “Look not at what is contrary to propriety; listen not to what is contrary to propriety; speak not what is contrary to propriety; make no movement which is contrary to propriety!” (Analects, bk. xii., c. i., v. 2.)
This glowing picture of what the superior man, conversant with propriety and following its rules with discernment, sympathy, and enthusiasm, may become, already quoted from the “Doctrine of the Mean,” is so illuminating in this connection that it is here repeated: “The superior man does what is proper to the station in which he is; he does not desire to go beyond this. In a position of wealth and honour he does what is proper to a position of wealth and honour; in a poor and low position, he does what is proper to a poor and low position; situated among barbarous tribes he does what is proper to a situation among barbarous tribes; in a position of sorrow and difficulty, he does what is proper to a position of sorrow and difficulty.
“The superior man can find himself in no position in which he is not himself. In a high situation he does not treat with contempt his inferiors, in a low situation he does not court the favour of his superiors; he rectifies himself, and seeks for nothing from others, so that he has no dissatisfaction.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xiv.)
The influence and the value of such a man to his community he thus rates, when told that the tribes of the East, with whom he purposes to live, are rude: “If a superior man lived among them, what rudeness would there be?” (Analects, bk. ix., c. xiii., v. 2.)
Propriety of Demeanour. “Always and in everything let there be reverence, with the demeanour grave as when one is thinking deeply and with speech composed and definite.” (Li Ki, bk. i., sect. i., pt. i., c. i.) “If the heart be for a moment without the feeling of harmony and joy, meanness and deceitfulness enter it. If the outward demeanour be for a moment without gravity and reverence, indifference and rudeness show themselves.” (Li Ki, bk. xxi., sect. ii., 8.)
These two passages from the “Li Ki” illustrate the high estimate which the Chinese justly placed upon the value of grave demeanour. The idea is that between two superior men there is a communion of souls and a commerce one with another which results inevitably from virtuous purposes, high resolves, and the reflection of these in the attitude of one toward the other. This association the superior man values not merely for the opportunities for benevolence and influence which it affords, but also for that which it means for himself as well.
It was not for nothing that the Greek poets located the gods aloof from one another on the peaks of mountains, silent for the most part though in communion each with the others, and breaking the silence only when concerns of great import called for expression.
It is something like this which Confucius sets before the superior man, as the ideal. It is for this reason that he strongly affirms that the superior man should be grave and serious. Of this he says: “If the scholar be not grave, he will not call forth veneration, and his learning will not be solid.” (Analects, bk. i., c. viii.)
By manners, it is almost needless to say, he did not mean anything at all similar to the mere gloss of one who is conversant with the rules of social behaviour, and who adroitly manipulates them to please this person or vent his spite on that; for one of his aptest texts runs: “Fine words and an insinuating appearance are seldom associated with true virtue.” (Analects, bk. i., c. iii.)
Mencius thus illustrates the reward for frank demeanour and the sure detection of the contrary: “Of all the parts of a man’s body there is none more excellent than the pupil of the eye. The pupil cannot hide a man’s wickedness. If within the breast all be correct, the pupil is bright. If within the breast all be not correct, the pupil is dull. Listen to a man’s words and look at the pupil of his eye. How can a man conceal his character?” (Bk. iv., pt. i., c. xv.)
This concerning the demeanour of Confucius is related in the “Analects”: “The Master was mild but dignified; commanding but not fierce; respectful but easy.” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xxxvii.)
Tsze-hea in the “Analects” thus depicts the demeanour of the superior man: “Looked at from a distance, he appears stern; when approached, he is mild; when he is heard to speak, his language is firm and decided.” (Analects, bk. xix., c. ix.)
In another place Confucius contrasts the poise of the superior man with the pose of the man with low ideals, the one dignified without being conscious of it, the other constantly striving to show that control over himself and confidence in himself which he really does not possess. But the idea is better apprehended from the sage’s own words: “The superior man has dignified ease without pride; the ordinary man has pride without dignified ease.” (Analects, bk. xiii., c. xxvi.)
Propriety of Deportment. “It is virtuous manners which constitute the excellence of a neighbourhood. If a man in selecting a residence do not fix upon one where such prevail, how can he be wise?” (Analects, bk. iv., c. i.)
These words of the sage, taken from the “Analects,” are characteristic. Confucius is more frequently accused of paying too much attention to propriety in manners than too little. Undoubtedly, he did place great stress both upon ceremonies and upon manners, but more upon the spirit that should inform them. How significant the ceremonies may have been in view of the traditions and customs of the people, it is impossible for men of this age living in Western countries to divine. But the canons of good manners which Confucius set up, although subjected to most critical examination, are found to be universal in scope and quite as valid today and in Western countries as in his day and in the East.
How universal and permanent they are, may be seen from this, taken from the “Li Ki”: “Do not listen with head inclined on one side nor answer with a loud, sharp voice, nor look with a dissolute leer nor keep the body in a slouching position. Do not saunter about with a haughty gait nor stand with one foot raised. Do not sit with your knees wide apart nor lie face down.” (Bk. i., sect. i., pt. iii., c. iv.)
This from the same book is so advanced that even in these modern days men in civilized Occidental countries have barely commenced to apprehend it: “When he intends to go to an inn, let it not be with the feeling that he must have whatever he asks for!” (Bk. i., sect. i., pt. ii., c. v., v. 2, 3.)
Undoubtedly he attached great importance to manners, in part because his whole system was one of breeding. It was his notion that a man should care about himself and therefore that his behaviour should comport with his real dignity and his sense of dignity.
One who so earnestly urged the necessity for absolute sincerity could scarcely be expected to praise that social polish which is both an affectation and a lie. He draws, indeed, a sharp distinction between the superior man, who is approachable and far from distant in manner but avoids flattery, and the man who behaves with hauteur, intended to wound and embarrass, toward all but those into whose favour he would ingratiate himself. He places them thus in contrast: “The superior man is affable but not adulatory; the inferior man is adulatory but not affable.” (Analects, bk. xiii., c. xxiii.)
That by propriety in deportment is not meant subserviency, Confucius shows by his reply, when asked by his disciple, Tsze-loo, how a sovereign should be served: “Do not impose upon him, and moreover withstand him to his face.” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xxiii.) This counsel, it is worth remarking, was given by one who was the instructor of princes.
How minute, accurate, and well-taken were the rules of behaviour which he laid down is well illustrated by the following passages from the “Li Ki”: “In all cases, looks directed up into the face denote pride, below the girdle grief, askance villainy.” (Bk. i., sect. ii., pt. iii., c. vii.) “When a thing is carried with both hands, it should be held on a level with the heart; when with one hand, on a level with the girdle.” (Bk. i., sect. ii., pt. i., c. i., v. 1.) “When sitting by a person of rank, if he begin to yawn and stretch himself, to turn round his tablet, to play with the head of his sword, to move his shoes about, or to ask about the time of day, one may ask leave to retire.” (Bk. xv., 18.)
From a volume upon human conduct which betrays so fine and discriminating penetration, it is not surprising that we may cull so choice an expression of good taste as this: “For great entertainments there should be . . . no great display of wealth.” (Bk. i., sect. ii., pt. iii., c. ix.)
This acute perception of the most delicate distinctions was evidenced no more strongly, perhaps, in any of the marvellous sentences which have come down to this generation than in the following: “Of all people, girls and servants are the most difficult to behave to. If you are familiar with them, they lose their humility; if you maintain a reserve toward them, they are discontented.” (Analects, bk. xvii., c. xxv.)
That youth, or rather childhood, is the period when development of character and therefore of deportment should commence, is ever in his thought. That the son should admire and imitate his father, and the father should make of himself a human being whom the son, without surrendering his power to see things as they are, might admire and imitate, was fundamental in the Confucian conception of the art of living.
Whatever indicated the contrary of admiration and respect of a son for his father was to him as to all right-minded men offensive and disgusting. He characterizes such a boy: “In youth not humble as befits a junior” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xlvi.), and later excoriates him in the following burning sentences: “I observe that he is fond of occupying the seat of a full-grown man. I observe that he walks shoulder to shoulder with his elders. He is not one who is seeking to make progress in learning. He wishes quickly to become a man.” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xlvii., v. 2.)
That this might be avoided and that the manner as well as the purposes of the son might be directed into other and better channels, one of his disciples placed this requirement upon the father, whose parenthood vests him with responsibility for the manners of his offspring: “I have also heard that the superior man maintains a distant reserve toward his son.” (Analects, bk. xvi., c. xiii., v. 5.)
Not one of the foregoing is inapplicable to the regrettable incivility of children in this buoyant but inconsiderate age; and surely no others are so sorely needed in these days of flippant disrespect for elders as these trenchant exposures of the inherent badness of the manners of Oriental youths of olden times.
It remained for Mencius to lay down the following obviously correct rule for the association of friends: “Friendship should be maintained without condescension on the ground of age, station, or family. Friendship with a man is friendship with his virtue and does not admit of assumptions of superiority.” (Bk. v., pt. ii., c. iii., v. 1.)
The views of the sage as to what constitutes the true spirit of polite deportment seem always to square with the maturest judgment of the most recent authorities. What trained gentleman of any school will fail to recognize, with a thrill of satisfaction, this expression of the fundamentally correct notion of sportsmanship, observable according to his disciples in the conduct of Confucius himself: “The Master angled, but did not use a net; he shot, but not at birds perching.” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xxvi.)
Propriety of Speech. “They who meet men with smartness of speech, for the most part procure themselves hatred.” (Analects, bk. v., c. iv., v. 2.)
That one should be most circumspect about his speech, Tsze-kung enforces, also in the “Analects,” by saying: “For one word a man is often deemed to be wise and for one word he is often deemed to be foolish.” (Bk. xix., c. xxv., v. 2.)
And especially that he should be cautious about making rash promises, Confucius thus enjoins: “He who speaks without modesty, will find it hard to make his words good.” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xxi.)
The same idea is more fully and explicitly developed in this passage of the “Li Ki”: “The Master said: ‘Dislike and reprisals will attend him whose promises from the lips do not ripen into fulfilment. Therefore the superior man incurs rather the resentment due to refusal than the charge of breaking his promise.’ ” (Bk. xxix., 49.)
The need for caution in giving commands is urged in these apt words from the “Shu King” (pt. v., bk. xx., 4): “Be careful in the commands you issue; for, once issued, they must be carried into effect and cannot be retracted.” And yet more generally, emphatically, and powerfully the reason for caution in speech in this striking passage of the “Shi King,” already quoted in another connection: “A flaw in a mace of white jade may be ground away, but a word spoken amiss cannot be mended.” (Major Odes, decade iii., ode 2.)
The limits of proper admonition of a friend and the reasons therefor, Confucius also indicates thus: “Faithfully admonish your friend and try to lead him kindly. If you find him impracticable, stop; do not disgrace yourself!” (Analects, bk. xii., c. xxiii.)
This proverb furnishes yet another reason for great moderation in that respect: “Those whose courses are different cannot lay plans for one another.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xxxix.)
This also, which the “Analects” puts into the mouth of a madman, fixes the limits both of reproof and of the utility of reference to the past: “As to the past, reproof is useless, but the future may be provided against.” (Bk. xviii., c. v., v. 1.)
Confucius dwells upon the same idea in another place: “Things that are done, it is needless to speak about; things that have had their course, it is needless to remonstrate about; things that are past, it is needless to blame.” (Analects, bk. iii., c. xxi., v. 2.)
That one must watch carefully, lest he be misled by fair words, the sage shows, referring to his own experience: “At first, my way with men was to hear their words and give them credit for their conduct. Now my way is to hear their words and look at their conduct.” (Analects, bk. v., c. ix., v. 2.)
Simplicity and directness of discourse are commended in all that Confucius says of sincerity of thought, candour of speech, and earnestness of conduct; but he rarely, if ever, put it better than in the following (Analects, bk. xvi., c. xl.): “In language it is sufficient that it convey the meaning”—i. e., the precise meaning, not something other than what seems to be said or variant from it. To this, also, the sage refers, though to the part of the listener, rather than that of the speaker, when he says: “Without knowing the force of words, it is impossible to know men.” (Analects, bk. xx., c. iii., v. 3.) That is, one must accurately understand what a man says, though it is, of course, necessary to look beneath the mere words in many cases in order to discover the true character of the man. To this, also, the sage gives expression thus: “The virtuous will be sure to speak aright; but not all whose speech is good are virtuous.” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. v.)
In the “Li Ki,” this is said of the superior men of old: “They did not peer into privacies nor form intimacies in matters aside from their proper business. They did not speak of old affairs nor wear an appearance of being in sport.” (Bk. xv., 20.)
And the urgent reasons for care in speaking of important matters are thus presented in the “Yi King” (appendix iii., sect. i., c. viii., 47): “If important matters in the germ be not kept secret, that will be injurious to their accomplishment. Therefore the superior man is careful to maintain secrecy and does not allow himself to speak.”
Regarding candour it was well said, not alone of worldly success, but yet more of self-development: “I know not how a man without truthfulness is to get on.” (Analects, bk. ii., c. xxii.)
The craven character of deceit he often indicated and strongly condemned, as in these pregnant sentences: “Fine words, an insinuating appearance, and excessive respect; Tso-k‘ew Ming was ashamed of them. I also am ashamed of them. To conceal resentment against a person and appear friendly with him; Tso-k‘ew Ming was ashamed of such conduct. I also am ashamed of it.” (Analects, bk. v., c. xxiv.)
The contempt with which such conduct is to be regarded, is thus described in the “Li Ki”: “The Master said, ‘The superior man does not merely look benign as if, while cold at heart, he could feign affection. That is of the inferior man and stamps him as no better than the sneak thief.”’ (Bk. xxix., 50.)
However covert such dissimulation may be, Confucius finds it equally reprehensible and degrading. Thus, again in the “Li Ki” it is written: “The Master said, ‘When on light grounds a man breaks off his friendship with the poor, and only on weighty grounds with the rich and influential, his love of merit must be small and his contempt for meanness is not seen.’ ” (Bk. xxx., 21.)
And in the same book the more elusive hypocrisy of decrying what a man himself indulges in, is discovered and condemned, thus: “To disapprove of the conduct of another and yet to do the same himself, is contrary to the rule of instruction.” (Bk. xxii., 12.)
Here is yet another unflattering picture, taken from the “Analects,” of the unhappy and most undesirable state of the dissembler who is keeping up appearances: “Having not and yet affecting to have, empty and yet affecting to be full, straitened and yet affecting to be at ease, it is difficult with such characteristics to have constancy.” (Bk. vii., c. xxv., v. 3.)
And here a picture of yet another type of man, going about deceiving himself, rather than others, because what he is shows through: “Ardent and yet not upright; stupid and yet not attentive; simple and yet not sincere: such persons I do not understand.” (Analects, bk. viii., c. xvi.)
That such dissimulation must ever be unsuccessful in the end, Confucius asserted in many places, in no other perhaps more persuasively than in this: “See what a man does! Mark his motives! Examine in what things he rests! How can a man conceal his character?” (Analects, bk. ii., c. x.)
Or in this from “The Great Learning” (c. vi., v. 2): “There is no evil to which the inferior man, dwelling retired, will not proceed; but when he sees a superior man, he instantly tries to disguise himself, concealing his evil and displaying what is good. The other beholds him, as if he saw his heart and reins; of what use is his disguise? This is an instance of that saying, ‘What truly is within will be manifested without.’ ”
That without being continually on his guard and therefore constantly the slave of suspicion, the superior man, with his own mind open and sincere, should readily detect the attempt to delude him, however cleverly designed and executed, Confucius advanced as follows: “He who does not anticipate attempts to deceive him, nor think beforehand of his not being believed, and yet apprehends these things readily when they occur, is he not a man of superior worth?” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xxxiii.)
That the chief peril is to him who would deceive others, that is, that he will himself deceive, Confucius says in this: “Specious words confound virtue.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xxvi.)
Precisely as in all else, none the less, it is in earnestness and candour possible to go to excess; in this as in everything, to go too far is as bad as to fall short. Thus there are hidden things of life, intimate relations, tender ties, too private and sacred to be talked of. Of such, it is said: “I hate those who make secrets known and think that they are straightforward.” (Analects, bk. xvii., c. xxiv.)
Candour may thus degenerate into indiscreet chattering. Obviously, when directed at the faults of others, it may also become incivility, unless tempered by considerate good-will and training in deportment. They, for instance, who would push their requirements as to frankness to a prohibition of the polite evasion, “Mr. So-and-so is not at home,” will find little encouragement in the following revelations as to the ancient custom upon similar occasions, with which Confucius complied, as with all other ceremonies, such constituting a language of their own: “Joo Pei wished to see Confucius, but Confucius declined to see him on the ground of being ill. When the bearer of this message went out at the door, he took the harpsichord and sang to it, in order that Pei might hear him.” (Analects, bk. xvii. c. xx.)
Mencius thus characterizes both the impropriety and the injudiciousness of over-candour: “What future misery do they have and ought they to have, who talk of what is not good in others!” (Bk. iv., pt. ii., c. ix.)
Confucius puts this in two ways, each illustrative of something which is wanting when such takes place: “There is the love of straightforwardness without the love of learning; the beclouding here leads to rudeness.” (Analects, bk. xvii., c. viii., v. 3.) “Straightforwardness, without the rules of propriety, becomes rudeness.” (Analects, bk. viii., c. ii., v. 1.)
Propriety of Conduct. “What I do not wish men to do to me, I also wish not to do to men.” (Analects, bk. v., c. xi.)
This text from the “Analects” of Confucius is more widely known among English-speaking people than is any other; and is very generally understood to be a merely colourless, negative phase of the Golden Rule.
But even in the days of Confucius it had developed into a standard for human conduct, broad and of general application. Thus, when Tszekung asked, “Is there any one word which may serve as a rule of practice for all one’s life?” the Master replied: “Is not ‘Reciprocity’ such a word? What you do not want done to yourself, do not do to others!” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xxiii.)
This is far indeed from being all that Confucius says upon the subject; for in “The Great Learning” (c. x., v. 10) is found this extended and thorough exposition of his views: “What a man dislikes in those who are over him, let him not display toward those who are under him; what he dislikes in those who are under him, let him not display toward those who are over him! What he hates in those who are ahead of him, let him not therewith precede those who are behind him; and what he hates in those who are behind him, let him not therewith pursue those who are ahead of him! What he hates to receive upon the right, let him not bestow upon the left; and what he hates to receive upon the left, let him not bestow upon the right! This is called the standard, by which, as by a measuring square, to regulate one’s conduct.”
Confucius, indeed, put the performance of the duties due to one’s fellowman above all other duties, except that of self-development, with which he found it to be in no way inconsistent. Thus he placed it far above the duty of ancestor communion—miscalled “worship” by Occidentals—then as now the prevailing religious ceremony in China, in a memorable colloquy with one of his disciples: “Ke Loo asked about serving the spirits of the dead. The Master said: ‘While you are not able to serve men, how can you serve spirits?’ ” (Analects, bk. xi., c. xi.)
The same, in a slightly different form, he repeated at another time, saying: “To give one’s self earnestly to the duties due to men, and, while respecting spiritual beings, to keep aloof from them, may be called wisdom.” (Analects, bk. vi., c. xx.)
The philosophy of human service and of duty to others, as a necessary means of self-development, was surely never better expressed than in these words: “Now the man of perfect virtue, wishing to be confirmed himself, confirms others; wishing to be enlarged himself, enlarges others.” (Analects, bk. vi., c. xxviii., v. 2.)
The contrast between this obviously correct rule of human conduct and the unedifying spectacle of the brutal struggle for success which marks and mars the picture of modern business and social life, renders this moral enlightenment of the highest importance to men of the here and now. Confucius phrases it, however, even more beautifully and with added meaning, thus: “The superior man seeks to develop the admirable qualities of men and does not seek to develop their evil qualities. The inferior man does the opposite of this.” (Analects, bk. xii., c. xvi.)
In the “Li Ki,” Tsang-tsze is represented as saying with his failing breath, when death had come upon him: “The superior man loves on grounds of virtue; the inferior man’s love appears in his indulgence.” (Bk. ii., sect. i., pt. i., 18.)
Mencius indicates, however, the limitations of this, namely, that one should not be urging that excellence of conduct upon others which he indulgently neglects himself: “The evil of men is that they like to be teachers of others.” (Bk. iv., pt. i., c. xxiii.)
The discriminating and judicial character of the superior man’s respect and regard for others is well put in the “Li Ki,” thus: “Men of talents and virtue can be familiar with others and yet respect them; can stand in awe of others and yet love them. They can love others and yet recognize the evil that is in them.” (Bk. i., sect. i., pt. i., c. iii.)
And Confucius has said in the “Analects”: “Pih-e and Shuh-ts‘e did not keep the former wickedness of men in mind, and hence the resentments directed towards them were few.” (Analects, bk. v., c. xxii.)
The same sentiment of broad charity the sage displays in this declaration of his own personal policy: “If a man purify himself to wait upon me, I receive him, so purified, without endorsing his past conduct.” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xxviii., v. 2.)
Confucius did not, however, concur in the view that charity should be so all-embracing as utterly to lose sight of distinctions between men. On the contrary he sturdily reprobated that notion. He often urged the recognition of the special ties of kinship and of friendship, as thus in the “Li Ki”: “I have heard that relatives should not forget their relationship nor friends their friendship.” (Bk. ii., sect. ii., pt. iii., 24.)
And in the “Yi King” (Appendix iii., sect. i., c. viii., v. 43) appears this beautiful tribute to friendship by Confucius:
- “This in public office toils;
- That at home the time beguiles;
- One his lips with silence seals,
- One his inmost soul reveals.
- But when two are one at heart,
- Bolts will not keep them apart;
- Words they in communion use
- Orchids’ fragrances diffuse.”
In the time of Confucius, the religious teacher, Lao Tsze, was laying the foundations of Taoism, the most widely resorted to of all the forms of worship of Chinese origin other than reverence for and communion with departed ancestors. Lao Tsze urged the validity of the rule of conduct: “Love thine enemies!” Inquiry was made of Confucius regarding this, resulting in the following dialogue: “Some one said, ‘What do you say concerning the principle that injury should be recompensed with kindness?’ The Master said: ‘With what then will you recompense kindness? Recompense injury with justice and recompense kindness with kindness!’ ” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xxxvi.)
Confucius also went much further than this; for he taught that there is a duty to hate men who evince certain evil traits of character, wherever found, and that this duty is as binding as the other. He says (Analects, bk. iv., c. iii.): “It is only the truly virtuous man who can love, or who can hate, others,” by which it is understood that he who is not of virtuous purpose loves only in order that he may selfishly enjoy, and hates on personal grounds; while the virtuous man loves because he finds that which should be loved, and in order to bless, and also hates that which is worthy of hate and not because of any personal offence.
In the following colloquy are a few specimens of the courses of conduct which one is privileged to hate, as Confucius sees it:
“Tsze-kung said, ‘Has the superior man his hatreds also?’ The Master said: ‘He has his hatreds. He hates those who proclaim evil in others. He hates the man who, being of a low station, slanders his superiors. He hates those who have valour merely and are unobservant of the rules of propriety. He hates those who are forward and determined and, at the same time, of contracted understanding.’
“The Master then inquired, ‘Tsze, have you also your hatreds?’ Tsze-kung replied: ‘I hate those who pry out matters and ascribe the knowledge to their wisdom. I hate those who are only not modest and think that they are brave. I hate those who reveal secrets and think that they are straightforward.’ ” (Analects, bk. xvii., c. xxiv.)
In another place, he has said: “I hate those who with their sharp tongues overthrow kingdoms and families.” (Analects, bk. xvii., c. xviii.)
Yet Confucius said that a youth “should overflow with love for all.” (Analects, bk. i., c. vi.)
The policy, even the necessity, for this course is thus indicated in the “Shu King”: “To evoke love, one must love; to evoke respect, one must respect.” (Pt. iv., bk. iv., 2.)
And Confucius was so far from intending that what he said of hatred for the wrong-doer should be interpreted as merely rancorous dislike of an unfortunate human being, the victim of evil influences, that, when asked by Fan-Ch‘e about benevolence, he replied: “It is to love all men.” (Analects, bk. xii., c. xxii., v. 1.)
Propriety of Example. “There are three friendships which are advantageous and three which are injurious. Friendship with the upright, friendship with the sincere, and friendship with the man of much observation—these are advantageous. Friendship with the man of specious airs, friendship with the insinuatingly soft, and friendship with the glib-tongued—these are injurious.” (Analects, bk. xvi., c. iv.)
Confucius, in addition to the foregoing, numbered among “the three things men find enjoyment in, which are advantageous,” this: “to find enjoyment in having many worthy friends”; and said that a youth “should . . . cultivate the friendship of the good.” (Analects, bk. i., c. vi.) One of the traits, also, of him “who aims to be a man of complete virtue” is, he declares, that “he frequents the company of men of principle that he may be rectified.” (Analects, bk. i., c. xiv.)
In the “Li Ki,” the converse is remarked: “Friendship with the dissolute leads to the neglect of one’s learning.” (Bk. xvi., 12.)
And in the “Shu King” (pt. v., bk. xxvi.) Mu is recorded as voicing this warning: “Cultivate no intimacy with flatterers!”
The same ancient worthy is represented in the “Shu King” (bk. xxvi.) to have uttered this admonition: “Do not employ men of artful speech and insinuating looks!”
Confucius obviously intended to give the same counsel, when he said: “Fine words and an insinuating appearance are seldom associated with real virtue.” (Analects, bk. i., c. iii.)
The contrast between the meritorious and the meretricious in human character and of the usefulness of one and the harmfulness of the other is most cleverly revealed in this saying of Confucius, taken from the “Li Ki” (bk. xxix., 47): “The superior man seems uninteresting but he aids to achievement, the inferior man winning but he leads to ruin.”
Prudence as regards conversation and association with others is also variously recommended by Confucius, as thus: “When a man may be spoken with, not to speak with him is to waste opportunity. When a man may not be spoken with, to speak with him is to waste words.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. vii.)
The last of these admonitions he elsewhere puts figuratively, thus: “Rotten wood cannot be carved; a wall of dirty earth will not receive the trowel.” (Analects, bk. v., c. ix., v. 2.)
The same idea recurs in this counsel: “Faithfully admonish your friend and kindly try to lead him. If you find him impracticable, desist; do not disgrace yourself.” (Analects, bk. xii., c. xxiii.)
Also in this warning against unnecessary admonitions: “In serving a prince, frequent remonstrances lead to disgrace. Between friends, frequent reproofs make the friendship distant.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. xxvi.)
The three wishes, however, to which Confucius gave expression when interrogated by Tsze-loo, were: “In regard to the aged, to give them rest; in regard to friends, to show them sincerity; in regard to the young, to treat them tenderly.” (Analects, bk. v., c. xxv.)
It therefore appears that he would not withhold his counsel or even reproof, if needed, although it might result in breaking the bonds of friendship; but would instead prefer to lose his friend, if need be, rather than fail of his full duty toward him. The attitude which the friend should take and the course, likewise, are indicated in these words: “Can men refuse assent to the words of just admonition? But it is reforming the conduct because of them, which is the thing.” (Analects, bk. ix., c. xxiii.)
The great value of good example Confucius strikingly set forth in this question: “If there were not virtuous men in Loo, how could this man have acquired this character?” (Analects, bk. v., c. ii.)
So also when remonstrated with, upon expressing his intention to go and live among the nine wild tribes of the east, Confucius, answering, inquired: “If a superior man dwelt among them, what rudeness would there be?” (Analects, bk. ix., c. xiii., v. 2.)
In another place he says (Analects, bk. i., c. viii., v. 3): “Have no friends not equal to yourself!” meaning thereby of course not that they should be equal in abilities, necessarily, but equal in character and deportment. The same, very nearly, is the significance of this text: “When the persons on whom a man leans are proper persons for him to be intimate with, he can make them his guides and masters.” (Analects, bk. i., c. xiii.)
This his disciples, with boundless admiration, asserted that they had themselves obeyed, when they had hung upon the lips of Confucius; for they leave this panegyric of their teacher: “Our Master cannot be attained to, precisely as the heavens cannot be scaled by the steps of a ladder.” (Analects, bk. xix., c. xxv., v. 2.)
That the wisdom of this counsel is not confined to the case of a single associate, but instead extends to all associations both individual and communal, is shown by this additional text, already quoted in another connexion: “It is virtuous manners which constitute the excellence of a neighbourhood. If a man in selecting a residence do not fix on one where such prevail, how can he be wise?” (Analects, bk. iv., c. i.)
Yet the evil in man is useful for instruction, as well as the good; and he says of this: “When I walk along with two others, they may serve me as my teachers. I will select their good qualities and follow them, their bad qualities and avoid them.” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xxi.)
And in another place he warns his disciples, saying: “When we see men of worth, we should think of equalling them; when we see men of a contrary character, we should turn inwards and examine ourselves.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. xvii.)
This does not, however, necessarily imply that he advises association with the latter nor indeed does he, though he says of himself: “It is impossible for me to associate with birds and beasts, as if they were the same with us. If I associate not with these people—with mankind—with whom am I to associate?” (Analects, bk. xviii., c. vi., v. 4.)
In reply to doubts expressed by his disciples, however, Confucius on one occasion defended himself in a manner very like the response of Jesus, saying: “I admit people’s approach to me without committing myself as to what they may do when they have retired. Why must one be so severe? If a man purify himself to wait upon me, I receive him, so purified, without endorsing his past conduct.” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xxviii., v. 2.)
It is interesting and refreshing to find in Confucius something akin to the sage words of the Elder Edda: “Unwise is he who permits the grass to grow between his house and his friend’s.” It runs: “ ‘How the flowers of the aspen-plum flutter and turn! Do I not think of you? But your house is distant.’ The Master said: ‘It is the want of thought over it. How is it distant?’ ” (Analects, bk. ix., c. xxx.)
That the truly virtuous man will not want for companionship, the sage thus declares: “Virtue is not left to stand alone. He who practises it, will have neighbours.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. xxv.)
This is but another way of saying what is elsewhere so well said in these words: “Let the superior man never fail reverentially to order his own conduct, and let him be respectful to others and observant of propriety; then all within the four seas will be his brothers.” (Analects, bk. xii., c. v., v. 4.)
Sexual Propriety. “The scholar keeps himself free from all stain.” (Li Ki, bk. xxxviii., 15.) “The Master said, ‘Refusing to surrender their wills or to submit to any taint to their persons; such, I think, were Pih-e and Shuh-ts‘e.’ ” (Analects, bk. xviii., c. viii., v. 2.) These two passages illustrate the sage’s insistence upon sexual continence, among other virtues.
While of course personal purity is a conception which, both in ancient China and in the modern Occident, embraces much more than this, and while abuses of the appetites for food or drink, or even of the more unconsciously exercised appetite for breathing, as in smoking, may contaminate in essentially the same fashion as the misuse of the function which reproduces the race of men, yet both in the days of Confucius and in these later days the superior seductiveness of the appeal of feminine beauty causes the mind to recur at once to chastity when personal purity is spoken of.
Confucius distinguished and understood all of these evil habits which were exigent in his day and condemned them, as thus: “To find enjoyment in extravagant pleasures, to find enjoyment in idleness and sauntering, to find enjoyment in the pleasures of feasting—these are injurious.” (Analects, bk. xvi., c. v.)
And again: “Hard is the case of him who will stuff himself with food the whole day, without applying the mind to anything.” (Analects, bk. xvii., c. xxii.)
As regards all the physical functions, Mencius puts at once the problem and the difficulties, thus: “The physical organs with their functions belong to our Heaven-conferred nature. But a man must be a sage before he can satisfy the design of his physical organism.” (Bk. vii., pt. i., c. xxxviii.)
But especially as respects the greatest of all human relations, that of a man with a woman, and those which grow out of it, the sage urged such regard for the purity of both sexes as would assure the suppression of mere playing with the means of the greatest of all human ends, the bringing of new lives into being and the development of higher and yet higher orders of human beings upon the earth. In the “Li Ki” it is thus insisted that the distinction between men and women must be observed and preserved for the good of all: “If no distinction were observed between males and females, disorder would arise and grow.” (Bk. xvii., sect. i., 32.)
King Wan, one of the most celebrated rulers of China, in the time of Confucius already a character of almost legendary antiquity, is said in the first Appendix to the “Yi King” (sect. ii., c. xxxviii., v. 3) to have given this reason for the necessary distinction and separation of men from women: “Heaven and earth are separate and apart, but the work which they do is the same. Male and female are separate and apart, but with a common will they seek the same objects.”
This rule of separation did not withdraw woman into the absolute seclusion of a harem; it permitted innocent intercourse of mind with mind. But, according to the “Li Ki,” it avoided all physical contact and, so far as possible, all opportunities for it.
These are some of the rules there laid down: “The Master said, ‘According to the rules, male and female do not give the cup, one to the other, except at sacrifice. This was intended to guard the people.’ ” (Bk. xxvii., 35.) “Males and females should not sit on the same mat, nor have the same stand or rack for their clothes, nor use the same towel or comb, nor let their hands touch in giving and receiving.” (Bk. i., sect. i., pt. iii., c. vi., v. 31.) “They should not share the same mat in lying down, they should not ask or receive anything from one another, and they should not wear upper or lower garments alike.” (Bk. x., sect. i., 12.)
The following explanation of the reasons for such separation is attributed in the “Li Ki” to Confucius himself: “The Master said: ‘The ceremonial usages serve as dykes for the people against evil excesses. They exemplify the separation between the sexes which should be maintained, that there may be no ground for suspicion and human relations may be clearly defined. . . . So it was intended to guard the people; yet there are women among them who offer themselves.’ ” (Bk. xxvii., 33.)
In a more extended passage, also attributed to Confucius, the reason for the strictness of the rules is more fully stated, together with illustrations of their application, as follows: “The Master said: ‘The love of virtue should balance the love of beauty. Men of position should not be like anglers for beauty in those below them. The superior man withstands the allurements of beauty, to give an example to the people. Thus men and women, in giving and receiving, allow not their hands to touch; in driving even with his wife in his carriage, a husband holds forth his left hand; when a young aunt, a sister, or a daughter is wed and returns to her father’s house, no male relative should sit with her upon the mat; a widow should not lament at night; in asking after a wife who is ill, the nature of her illness should not be referred to. Thus it was sought to guard the people. Yet there are those who become licentious and introduce disorder and confusion into their families.’ ” (Li Ki, bk. xxvii., 37.)
There was no relaxation of this separation before marriage. Thus Mencius says: “When a son is born, what is desired for him is that he may have a wife; when a daughter is born, that she may have a husband. All men as parents have this feeling. If, without awaiting the instructions of their parents and the arrangements of the intermediary, they bore holes to steal a sight of each other, or climb over a wall to be with each other, their parents and all others will despise them.” (Bk. iii., pt. ii., c. iii., v. 6.)
In the “Yi King” (appendix iii., sect. i., c. viii., 48) the adornment of women so as to attract men is thus referred to: “Careless laying up of things excites to robbery, as a woman’s adorning herself excites to lust.”
Under the rules laid down in the “Li Ki” this delicacy about sex was carried so far that “a man was not permitted to die in the hands of women, nor a woman in the hands of men!” (Bk. xix., sect. i., 1.)
Confucius and for centuries before his time the dominant persons in Chinese society were firm believers in the home as the sphere of woman. Within the home she was supreme; the privacies of her realm should not be revealed without, nor the hardships and worries of the outside world brought within to annoy and terrify her. In the “Li Ki” it is said: “The men should not speak of what belongs to the inside of the house, nor the women of what belongs to the outside.” (Bk. x., sect. i., 12.)
And again: “Outside affairs should not be talked of inside the home, nor inside affairs outside of it.” (Bk. i., sect. i., pt. iii., c. vi., v. 33.)
The severity of the rules enjoined by Confucius and his Chinese predecessors in the matter of avoiding temptation is well illustrated by the following, the enforcement of which must have rendered the childhood and youth of the sage, himself the only son of a widow, unusually and even painfully solitary at times:
“The Master said: ‘One does not pay visits to the son of a widow. This may seem an obstacle to friendship, but the superior man, in order to avoid suspicion, will make no visits in such a case. Hence, also, in calling upon a friend, if the master of the house be not at home, unless there be some great cause for it, the guest does not cross the threshold.’ ” (Bk. xxvii., 36.)
CHAPTER IV
THE FAMILY
With the Chinese, as with the ancient Romans, the family is the social unit, and Confucius has much to say on this subject. As he connected propriety, the relation of a man to his fellows, with self-development, so he does even more intimately the relation of a man to the members of his household.
Prerequisites to its Regulation. “What is meant by ‘The regulation of one’s own family depends on his self-development’ is this: Men are partial where they feel affection and love, partial where they despise and dislike, partial where they stand in awe and reverence, partial where they feel sorrow and compassion, partial where they are arrogant and harsh. Thus it is that there are few men in the world who love and at the same time know the bad qualities of them they love or who hate and yet know the excellences of them they hate. Hence it is said, in the common adage: ‘A man does not know the wickedness of his son; he does not know the richness of his growing corn.’ This is what is meant by saying that if there is not self-development, a man cannot regulate his family.” (Great Learning, c. viii.)
The idea expressed in this passage from “The Great Learning” seems to be that the love of an inferior man for his family is not really affectionate regard for the welfare of wife or child but merely an indulgent disposition, permitting them, partly through favour, partly because to take the trouble to regulate them is too great a detriment to his own personal comfort, to go their own way without restraint. Such, the sage conceives, is the conduct of the inferior man whose partiality so blinds him to the faults of those whom he loves, that he cannot bring himself to correct them. The superior man, he holds, should be, and indeed necessarily is, of the contrary view and practice. Of this it is said in the “Li Ki”: “The superior man commences with respect as the basis of love. To omit respect is to leave no foundation for affection. Without love there can be no union; without respect the love will be ignoble.” (Bk. xxiv., 9.)
Precisely the opposite of mere indulgent laxity is indicated as the course of the superior man in respect to his family; and it is asked by Confucius with full assurance as to what the reply must be if veracious: “Can there be love which does not lead to strictness with its objects?” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. viii.)
The essential mutuality and the prerequisites of that union of hearts upon which alone true marriage may rest, and by means of which alone lifelong existence in the closest of human relations is tolerable, are well set forth in this sentiment from the lips of I Yin, the minister of King Thang, which is found in the “Shu King”: “To evoke love, you must love; to call forth respect, you must show respect.” (Pt. iv., bk. iv., 2.)
For the purposes of discipline within the family, as well as for material support and protection, the woman was counselled to subject herself to the man. In the “Li Ki” it was ordered thus: “The woman follows the man. In her youth she follows her father and elder brother; when married, she follows her husband; when her husband is dead, she follows her son.” (Bk. ix., 10.)
About the worst that, in the opinion of Confucius, could be said of any man, was this remark of Yu, in the “Shu King,” speaking of Ku of Tan, son of Yao: “He introduced licentious associates into his family.” (Pt. ii., bk. iv., 1.)
The delights of a well-ordered household, where love and harmony hold sway, are pictured by the sage as follows: “It is said in the Book of Poetry: ‘A happy union with wife and children is like the music of lutes and harps! When there is concord among brethren, the harmony is delightful and enduring. Thus may you regulate your family and enjoy the delights of wife and children!’ The Master said, ‘In such a condition parents find perfect contentment.’ ” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xv., v. 2, 3.)
Wedlock. “The observance of propriety commences with careful attention to the relations between husband and wife.” (Li Ki, bk. x., sect. ii., 13.)
In these words, the “Li Ki,” the book of the rules of propriety, celebrates the prime importance of the marriage relation and of the useful principles for the regulation of human conduct which spring out of it. This was a favourite and familiar idea of Confucius and will be adverted to frequently in the development of his theories of the regulation of the family and of the government.
In his days, as in these days, there were not wanting those who saw in marriage a mere ceremony, conformity with which added no element of sacredness to a natural and necessary relation. These were rebuked in the “Li Ki” in these terms: “He who thinks the old embankments useless and destroys them, is sure to suffer from the desolation caused by overflowing water; and he who should consider the old rules of propriety useless and abolish them, would be sure to suffer from the calamities of disorder. Thus if the ceremonies of marriage were discontinued, the path of husband and wife would be embittered and there would be many offences of licentiousness and depravity.” (Bk. xxiii., 7, 8.)
Again in the same book this is put tersely and pointedly, thus: “This ceremony [i. e., marriage] lies at the foundation of government.” (Bk. xxiv., 11.) In the “Doctrine of the Mean,” the “duties of universal obligation” are given as follows: “The duties are between sovereign and minister, father and son, husband and wife, elder and younger brother, friend and friend.” (C. xx., v. 8.)
In the “Elder Tai’s Book of Rites” (bk. lxxx.), are certain advisory regulations as to the choice of a wife, chiefly that she shall be of a family of a high standard of moral conduct and shall not be a daughter of a disloyal house, of a disorderly house, of a house with more than one generation of criminals or of a leprous house, nor be taken if the mother is dead and the daughter is old.
The one inexorable rule as regards marriage was this: “The Master said: ‘A man in taking a wife does not choose one of the same surname as himself.’ ” (Li Ki, bk. xxvii., 34.)
This, rather than any other rule based upon kinship, was enforced because the wife was considered to merge herself in her husband’s family, to join in sacrifices to his ancestors and to give her life over to bearing and rearing sons to continue his race and to preserve his ancestral temples. She thus lost her relationship to her own kindred, during the continuance of the marriage relation, and permanently unless it were dissolved by divorce; and therefore relatives on the mothers’ side, however near, were not considered to be within the prohibited degrees of consanguinity, while relatives on the father’s side, however remote, were so esteemed.
In the “Tso Chuan” or “Tso’s Commentary” the following reason for this rule is given: “When husband and wife are of the same surname, their children do not do well and multiply.”
This observation, applied, however, to relatives on either side, is in harmony with the most modern discoveries concerning the effect of persistent inbreeding as well as modern views of propriety. In “Spring and Autumn” and later in the “Code of the Ts‘ing Dynasty” (c. x.), this was extended to proscribe marriages within certain degrees of relationship on the mother’s side. The wife became, by her marriage, of the same rank as her husband, thus being identified closely with his family. In the “Li Ki” it is said of this: “Though the wife had no rank, she was held to be of the rank of her husband and she took her seat according to the position belonging to him.” (Bk. ix., sect. iii., 11.)
The demoralizing “morganatic” marriage, indulged by certain royalties of Europe, is accordingly unknown in China.
As a part of the ceremony of marriage, the bridegroom went in person to bring his bride home to his father’s house, where she became a member of his father’s family and a daughter to his mother. This is referred to in the “Li Ki” as follows: “The bridegroom went in person to meet the bride, the man taking the initiative and not the woman—according to the idea that regulates the relation between the strong and the weak.” (Bk. ix., sect. iii., 8.)
In the same book there is recorded an argument upon the propriety of this custom, in which Confucius is represented as taking part. The record runs as follows: “The duke said, ‘. . . For the bridegroom in his square-topped cap to go in person to meet his bride, is it not making too much of it?’ Confucius looked surprised, became very serious and said, ‘It is the union of two surnames in friendship and love, to continue the posterity of the sages of old, to supply those who shall preside at the sacrifices to Heaven and Earth, at sacrifices to ancestors, at sacrifices to the spirits of the land and grain; how can you, then, call the ceremony too great?’ ” (Bk. xxiv., 10.)
Mencius thus quotes from the Ritual the instructions which the bride’s mother gives her in view of the approaching nuptials: “At the marriage of a young woman, her mother admonishes her, accompanying her to the door on her leaving and cautioning her with these words, ‘You are going to your home. You must be respectful. You must be careful. Do not disobey your husband!’ ” (Bk. iii., pt. ii., c. ii., v. 2.)
Though the Chinese girl was brought up, then as now, with matrimony in view as her goal, and though she was trained with an eye to subjection to her husband in the regulation of the family and to obedience to her husband’s mother in the home, it does not appear that she was trained in respect to rearing of children; for of this it is said in “The Great Learning” (c. ix., v. 2): “If a mother is really anxious to do so, though she may not hit precisely the wants of her child, she will not be far from it. There has never been a girl who learned to bring up a child, that she might afterwards marry.”
Concubinage was then and theretofore, as now, also an institution in China and is recognized by Confucius and rules laid down also for its regulation. The relationship was treated as not less regular than that of marriage but it involved lower standing for the concubine and her offspring; notwithstanding which frequently the wife’s younger sister became the concubine, not without the active connivance of the wife, lonely amid unfamiliar surroundings and longing for the companionship of her own kin. The wife had dominion in the home over concubines and their children.
The double standard was therefore known and its consequences openly accepted, though in the majority of homes one wife reigned supreme and, as has been seen, it was such a home the felicity of which Confucius portrayed in his tribute to the marriage relation, quoted at the close of the next preceding subdivision.
Concubinage was deemed not merely permissible but commendable when the wife remained barren or even when there were daughters but no son to perpetuate the name of the husband and maintain the altars of devotion of his ancestors. Had it been otherwise, undoubtedly divorces, with their hardships, would have been more common and would have extended to most cases of infertility, even though no personal incompatibility accompanied it.
The institution of concubinage cast no doubt upon the parentage of any child; no other woman could claim the maternity nor was the paternity of the child of the wife or of the concubine rendered dubious thereby. To this circumstance, perhaps, is attributable the countenance given to this form of the double standard. The contrary condition, i. e., that want of fidelity on the part of the woman exposes her progeny to question as to their paternity, doubtless accounts for the great stress then and ever placed upon fidelity on the part of woman. This applies, of course, to concubine as to wife and for the same reason; but constancy is, notwithstanding, deemed pre-eminently the virtue of a wife.
The dignity of marriage and of procreation is thought by Confucius and his followers to be such that the husband and wife, together with Heaven, form a “ternion,” co-operating to people the earth, in that wherever there is true marriage, there also God is to give the increase. It is thus put in Ku-liang’s Commentary: “The female alone cannot procreate; the male alone cannot propagate; and Heaven alone cannot produce a man. The three collaborating, man is born. Hence any one may be called the son of his mother or the son of Heaven.”
And in “Many Dewdrops of the Spring and Autumn” (bk. lxx.), this passage strongly emphasizes the function of the divine forces in the reproduction of men: “There has never been a birth without the collaboration of Heaven. God is the creator of all men.”
In the “Li Ki,” the sacredness and permanence of marriage are thus inculcated: “Faithfulness is requisite in all service of others and faithfulness is especially the virtue of a wife. Once mated with her husband, all her life she will not change her feeling of duty to him; hence, when the husband dies, she will not marry again.” (Bk. ix., sect. iii., 7.)
Divorce. In the Confucian conception of marriage, based upon the ancient Chinese customs, there seems to be more constraint about entering into wedlock than about continuing in it.
Thus a father might choose the bride for his son, though of course conceivably the son might—but under the Chinese rules of family discipline, seldom would—refuse to accept the choice. The father of the bride was then approached by the father of the prospective bridegroom; his consent was the consent of his daughter. Of course, again, she could refuse to acquiesce and a considerate father would not coerce her choice; but filial obedience and confidence were often the only elements operative in determining that choice.
It was thus, indeed, that the marriage which resulted in the birth of Confucius came about. It was between a widower of seventy years, already the father of nine daughters but of only one son, a hopeless cripple, on the one hand, and a maiden of seventeen years on the other, both of whose older sisters had declined the offer while she followed her father’s counsel.
Once wedded, however, the husband and the wife were free to separate at will and without constraint, save as the authority of the husband’s parents over him—not relaxed upon his marriage—might restrain him. Marriage, therefore, was treated as a contract which was at all times mutual, binding only as the parties continued to consent that it should bind. Either party could with a word dissolve it.
In the “Li Ki” the following account is given of the proper forms to be observed in divorcement: “When a feudal lord sent his wife away, she proceeded on her journey to her own state, and was received there with the observances due a lord’s wife. The messenger accompanying her then discharged his commission, saying: ‘My poor master, from his want of ability, was not able to follow her and to take part in the services at your altars and in your ancestral temple. He has, therefore, sent me, so-and-so; and I venture to inform your officer, appointed for the purpose, of what he has done.’ The officer presiding on this occasion replied: ‘My poor master in his former communication to you did not inform you about her and he does not presume to do anything but to receive your master’s message, respectfully.’ The officers in attendance on the commissioner then set forth the various articles sent with the lady on her marriage and those on the other side received them.
“When the wife went away from her husband, she sent a messenger and took leave of him, saying: ‘So-and-so, through her want of ability, is not able to keep on supplying the vessels of grain for your sacrifices; and has sent me, so-and-so, to presume to announce this to your attendants.’ The principal party on the other side replied: ‘My son, in his inferiority, does not presume to avoid your punishing him, and dares not but respectfully receive your orders.’ The messenger then retired, the principal party bowing to him and escorting him. If the husband’s father were living, he named himself as principal party; if he were dead, an elder brother of the husband acted for him and the message was given as from him; if there were no elder brother, it ran as from the husband, himself.” (Bk. xviii., sect. ii., pt. ii., 34, 35.)
Though this was given in the “Li Ki” or book of the rules of propriety as a description of the customs of the ancients of high rank, it was intended, with such modifications in the matter of greater directness and simplicity as the lowliness and poverty of the parties might require, to supply rules of ceremony for the divorce of all mismated husbands and wives.
The utter absence of recrimination and abuse, due of course to the circumstance that charges of evil conduct were not required as a condition to the divorce being allowed and that, instead, the mere will of either party was enough, contrasts—to the advantage of which need not be said—sharply and strongly with the invasion of family privacy, the exposure of family shame, and the defamation of character which accompany divorce proceedings under the laws of the advanced civilization of Occidental countries; and the contrast evokes the query: Do we thus assure the indissolubility of the marriage tie in a degree that more than offsets the mischief which divorce actions inflict upon society?
There was, and is, even under such a system, much moral restraint upon the wife to continue such, even though not satisfied with her lot. Her prospects of a second and happier marriage are often not alluring. The reception at her own home which she may expect, is not likely to be a warm welcome and it may be cold or even harsh. And if she has children, her lot is even more deplorable for, after very early infancy, they become members of her husband’s family and are lost to her, forever. There is also the prosaic bread-and-butter question in many cases and it is presented in an aggravated form in a country where by general consent a virtuous woman’s place is in a home.
Not the least of the mother’s hardships if she be the mother of the eldest living son, who becomes, after his father’s death, the head of the family, is that after her death he may not go into mourning for her if divorced; for he is too completely identified with the service of the departed ancestors of the family of which he is the head and which she has abandoned.
The hardships inflicted upon the husband by divorce may not be so serious. He must return the dower but he retains the more precious fruits of the marriage, his children. Yet consciousness of this very inequality, coupled with the traditional protective attitude toward the women of one’s own family, must act upon the husband as a powerful deterrent, especially in view of the fact that he may seek through concubinage a more acceptable consort and mother for his children, without thus entirely displacing, humiliating, and perhaps greatly injuring his spouse.
In the Elder Tai’s Record of Rites (bk. lxxx.), recognized causes for divorcing a wife are set forth as follows: “Disobedience to parents-in-law, failure to bear a son, adultery, jealousy of her husband, leprosy, garrulity, theft”; but the husband should not divorce her if she has no home to return to, if she has with him mourned three years for his parents, or if his condition was formerly poor and mean and is now rich and honourable. These rules are found in the code of the Manchu dynasty, also.
But in practice the only restraints upon the husband, other than the requirement that he must return the dower, are, first, that he must obtain the approval of his father, if living, or his elder brother, if the father is dead, and, second, that his wife may, through her ranking male relative, appeal to the court if one of the three conditions under which divorce is not permissible is alleged to exist. The husband and his father or elder brother are sole and final judges whether or not one of the seven causes is present. The wife may divorce her husband with his consent, which means, again, with the consent of his father or elder brother, also; and, since she must return to her father or elder brother, she must of course first obtain their consent and approval. Divorce, then, is by the parties, themselves, and not by a court, though under certain circumstances subject to judicial review. It is not especially common in China; and monogamy is also there the rule. In other words the admonition with which the last chapter closed, is there well heeded, both as to union with but one wife and as to permanence of marriage, though both marriage and divorce are so little limited by law; as is also well said in the “Yi King” (appendix vi., sect. ii., 32): “The rule for the relation of husband and wife is that it should be enduring.”
Parenthood. “Here now is the affection of a father for his sons: He is proud of the meritorious among them and ranks those lower who are not so able. But that of a mother is such that, while she is proud of the meritorious, she cherishes those who are not so able. The mother deals with them on grounds of affection rather than of pride; the father on grounds of pride rather than affection.” (Li Ki, bk. xxix., 29.)
The justice and discrimination which the superior man displays as a father, and without which he would act as an unreasoning animal rather than as a superior man, are tempered, however, by his natural affection for his progeny. Their relations are reciprocal, thus: “As a son he rested in filial piety. As a father he rested in kindness.” (Great Learning, c. iii., v. 3.)
This mutual fondness is given apt expression in this saying: “Everyone calls his son, his son, whether he has talents or has not talents.” (Analects, bk. xi., c. vii., v. 2.)
But its propriety and the extent of its application are better illustrated by this narrative: “The duke of She informed Confucius, saying, ‘Among us here there are those who may be styled upright in conduct. If their father have stolen a sheep, they will bear witness to the fact.’ Confucius said, ‘Among us, in our part of the country, those who are upright are different from this. The father conceals the misconduct of his son and the son conceals the misconduct of the father. Uprightness is to be found in this.’ ” (Analects, bk. xiii., c. xviii.)
In the “Analects,” Confucius says: “A youth, when at home, should be filial, and, abroad, respectful to his elders. He should be earnest and truthful. He should overflow in love to all and cultivate the friendship of the good. When he has time and opportunity, after the performance of these things, he should employ them in polite studies.” (Bk. i., c. vi.)
The cultivation of these qualities is necessary in order that he may be regarded as filial; for while, as will be seen, much stress is placed upon filial observances, the most important thing is to be a worthy son. Thus in the “Li Ki” it runs: “He whom the superior man pronounces filial is he whom the people of the state praise, saying with admiration, ‘Happy are the parents who have such a son as this!’ ” (Bk. xxi., sect. ii., 11.)
The opposite picture is unflinchingly and unsparingly presented in these texts of the “Analects,” already quoted: “In youth, not humble as befits a junior; in manhood, doing nothing worthy of being handed down; and living on to old age:—this is to be a pest.” (Bk. xiv., c. xlvi.) “I observe that he is fond of occupying the seat of a full-grown man; I observe that he walks shoulder to shoulder with his elders. He is not one who is seeking to make progress in learning. He wishes quickly to become a man.” (Bk. xiv., c. xlvii., v. 3.)
Yet the mere shortcomings of youth are to be viewed charitably and judgment is to be suspended until time shall tell. This Confucius puts as follows: “A youth is to be regarded with respect. How do we know that his future will not be equal to our present? If he reach the age of forty or fifty, and has not made himself heard of, then indeed he will not be worth being regarded with respect.” (Analects, bk. ix., c. xxii.)
And one of the three things which he especially enjoins in relations to others is that all deal considerately with the young; he says in the “Analects” that his wishes are: “In regard to the aged, to give them repose; in regard to friends, to show them sincerity; in regard to the young, to treat them tenderly.” (Bk. v., c. xxv., v. 4.)
The responsibilities of the father are of course more serious and grave. They extend even to the avoidance of such comradeship with his son as might be misunderstood and so tend to impair the son’s veneration. Thus, as has already been quoted, it is said: “I have also heard that the superior man maintains a distant reserve towards his son.” (Analects, bk. xvi., c. xiii., v. 5.)
He must keep himself a veritable hero in his son’s eyes, in order that he may command, and may be worthy to command, his admiration and reverence. This also he must achieve in very truth and not by deception; for in the “Li Ki” it is said: “A boy should never be permitted to see an instance of deceit.” (Bk. i., sect. i., pt. ii., c. v., 17.)
Lest the son should thereby come to regard the father otherwise than as an ever-watchful and loving guardian, happy in his son’s well-doing and grieved, rather than wroth, at his misdoings, it was enjoined by Mencius that the father should not be his son’s tutor, for fear the necessary discipline estrange them, thus:
“Kung-sun Chow said, ‘Why is it that the superior man does not himself teach his son?’
“Mencius replied, ‘The circumstances of the case forbid its being done. The teacher must inculcate what is correct. When he inculcates what is correct and his lessons are not practised, he follows them up with being angry. When he follows them up with being angry, then contrary to what should be, he is offended with his son. At the same time the pupil says, “My master inculcates in me what is correct and he himself does not proceed in a correct path.” The result of this is, that father and son are offended with each other. When father and son come to be offended with each other, the case is evil.
“ ‘The ancients exchanged sons, and one taught the son of another.
“ ‘Between father and son, there should be no reproving admonitions to what is good. Such reproofs lead to alienation, and than alienation there is nothing more inauspicious.’ ” (Bk. iv., pt. i., c. xviii.)
And in book v. of Pan Ku, a Confucian writer of the first century, the power of the father over the son was distinctly limited, as a matter of law, on the ground of the universal fatherhood of God, thus: “ ‘Among all the lives given by Heaven and Earth, man is the noblest.’ All men are children of God and are merely made flesh through the spirits of father and mother. . . . Therefore, the father has not absolute power over the son.”
Essentials of Filial Piety. “Our bodies, to every hair and shred of skin, are received from our parents. We must not presume to injure or to wound them. This is the beginning of filial piety. When we have established our character by the practice of this filial course, so as to make our name famous in future ages and thereby glorify our parents, this is the end of filial piety.” (Hsiâo King, “Book of Filial Piety,” c. i.)
It is remarkable and significant that it should in these modern days be necessary to say “filial piety.” “Pietas” originally signified reverent devotion to parents and unflagging service of them. Through this the meaning, “service of the Heavenly Father,” has been derived. Meanwhile the original meaning of the word has been lost—indeed, as a serious duty, the very thing itself is near to have been lost—and it is now requisite to use the tautology, “filial piety,” to express the idea for which “piety” alone once stood.
The Romans and the Greeks, however, scarcely at any time knew filial piety of the same type as this institution of the Chinese; for, though they possessed their “Lares and Penates,” or household divinities, making sacrifices to departed ancestors was probably never erected into a well-established, long-cherished, everywhere honoured practice.
The piety of the ancient Chinese, nevertheless, did not solely or even primarily consist in sacrifices to the spirits of the dead. It called for the greatest reverence and devotion while the parent is yet living. Its most important phase, indeed, was the obligation it imposed to live an honourable and creditable life, that the parents might not have occasion to blush for their offspring.
This feature cannot be overemphasized; for it is the chief sanction for ethical conduct, according to the morals of Confucius, aside from the ambition to become a superior human being as an end in, and of, itself. In the “Li Ki” this view is ascribed directly to Confucius, thus: “I heard from Tsang-Tsze that he had heard the Master say that of all that Heaven produces and Earth nourishes there is none so great as man. His parents give birth to his person all complete and to return it to them complete may be called filial duty.” (Bk. xxi., sec. ii., 14.)
This is enjoined again and again in this book of the rules of propriety, as in the following: “The superior man’s respect extends to all. It is at its greatest when he respects himself. He is but an outgrowth from his parents; dare he do otherwise than preserve his self-respect? If he cannot respect himself, he injures them.” (Bk. xxiv., 12.)
The following more detailed statement from the same book is ascribed to Tsang-Tsze, himself: “The body is that which has been transmitted to us by our parents; dare any one allow himself to be irreverent in the employment of their legacy? If a man in his own house and privacy be not grave, he is not filial; if in serving his ruler he be not loyal, he is not filial; if in discharging the duties of office he be not reverent, he is not filial; if with friends he be not sincere, he is not filial; if on the field of battle he be not brave, he is not filial. If he fail in these five things, the evil will reach his parents; dare he then do otherwise than reverently attend to them?” (Bk. xxi., sect. ii., 11.)
The reverential service, due to parents as an act of filial piety, is not confined to service of the father, though he is the more frequently mentioned; the mother is equally the object of the devotion and love of their offspring. Thus in the “Hsiâo King,” or Book of Filial Piety (c. v.), it is said: “As they serve their fathers, so they serve their mothers, and they love them equally. As they serve their fathers, so they serve their rulers and they reverence them equally. Hence love is what is chiefly rendered to the mother and reverence is what is chiefly rendered to the ruler, while both of these things are given to the father.”
The same book contains also the following statement of the reciprocal and mutual duties of parent and child: “The son derives his life from his parents and no greater gift could possibly be transmitted; his ruler and parent, his father, deals with him accordingly and no generosity could be greater than his.” (C. ix.)
The effectiveness of filial piety as a motive of well-doing and the inspiration which it supplies are well set forth in this passage from the “Li Ki”: “The superior man, going back to his ancient fathers and returning to the authors of his being, does not forget those to whom he owes his life; and therefore he calls forth all his reverence, gives full vent to his feelings, and exhausts his strength in discharging this service—as a tribute of gratitude to his parents he dares not but do his utmost.” (Bk. xxi., sect. ii., 4.)
The following panegyrics of filial piety from the “Hsiâo King” show the exalted regard in which Confucius and his predecessors held this virtue, which indeed they made the foundation for all other virtues:
“There are three thousand offences against which the five punishments are directed; there is none of them greater than to be unfilial.” (C. xi.)
“The disciple Tsang said, ‘Immense, indeed, is the greatness of filial piety!’ The Master replied, ‘Yes, filial piety is the constant requirement of Heaven, the righteousness of earth, and the practical duty of man.’ ” (C. vii.)
“The disciple Tsang said, ‘I venture to ask whether in the virtue of the sages there was not something greater than filial piety?’ The Master replied, ‘Of all creatures produced by Heaven and Earth, man is the noblest. Of all man’s actions there is none greater than filial piety.’ ” (C. ix.)
Pious Regard for Living Parents. “Tsang-Tsze said, ‘There are three degrees of filial piety. The highest is being a credit to our parents; the next is not disgracing them; and the lowest is merely being able to support them.’ ” (Li Ki, bk. xxi., sect. ii., 9.)
Thus in the “Li Ki” the nature of filial piety toward living parents is indicated. Much the same is yet more urgently inculcated in another passage from the same book: “He should not forget his parents in the utterance of a single word and therefore an evil word will not issue from his mouth and an angry word will not react upon himself. Not to disgrace himself and not to cause shame to his parents may be called filial duty.” (Bk. xxi., sect. ii., 14.)
The duty to support parents is in the “Li Ki” enjoined in these sweeping terms: “While his parents are alive, a son should not dare to consider his wealth his own nor hold it for his own use only.” (Bk. xxvii., 30.)
Mencius has it: “I have heard that the superior man will not for all the world be niggardly toward his parents.” (Bk. ii., pt. ii., c. vii., v. 5.)
In the “Hsiâo King” the sacrifice of personal comforts is commanded as necessary for even the lowest order of filial piety: “They are careful in their conduct and economical in their expenditures, in order to nourish their parents. This is the filial piety of the common people.” (C. vi.)
Confucius was not wholly satisfied with this even as a statement of the duty of ordinary people. He deemed reverence, love, and obedience equally necessary in order that there might truly be a sentiment of pious regard and not a mere counterfeit of it. This colloquy taken from the “Analects” illustrates his position: “Tsze-hea asked what filial piety is. The Master said, ‘If, when their elders have burdensome duties, the young take the toil off them, and if, when the young have wine and food, they set them before their elders, is this to be deemed filial piety?’ ” (Analects, bk. ii., c. viii.)
Again, in replying to the inquiry of another disciple, he refers to this as follows: “Tsze-yew asked what filial piety is. The Master said, ‘The filial piety of nowadays means the support of one’s parents. But dogs and horses likewise are able to do something in the way of support; without reverence, what is there to distinguish the one support from the other?’ ” (Analects, bk. ii., c. vii.)
And to the query of yet another disciple he responded: “It is not being disobedient.” (Analects, bk. ii., c. v., v. 1.)
In the “Li Ki” the same idea is put thus, involving both instant obedience and sincere respect: “When his father or his teacher calls, he should not merely say ‘Yes’ but also rise.” (Bk. i., pt. iii., c. iii., v. 14.)
Yet mere obedience is not enough and there are not failing instances when neither obedience nor respect should restrain the son from remonstrating; as it is said in the “Hsiâo King”: “When unrighteous conduct is concerned, a son must by no means refrain from remonstrating with his father nor a minister from remonstrating with his ruler. Since, then, remonstrance is required in the case of unrighteous conduct, how can mere obedience to a father be accounted filial piety?” (C. xv.)
And in the “Analects,” Confucius lays down the true rule of action in the following: “In serving his parents, a son may remonstrate with them, but gently; when he sees that they are not disposed to acquiesce, he should show increased reverence but not give up; and, should they punish him, he ought not to murmur.” (Bk. iv., c. xviii.)
Remonstrance may not, however, be carried to excess and certainly not to such excess as is involved in exposing a father’s shortcomings to the eyes of others or crying aloud his shame; for the “Li Ki” represents Confucius to declare, in conformity also with other sayings elsewhere: “The Master said, ‘The superior man will overlook and not magnify the errors of his father and will show his veneration for his excellences.’ ” (Bk. xxvii., v. 17.)
Mencius, apparently, would yet further limit the right of the son to reprove; indeed, he would all but destroy it for he says: “To urge one another to what is good by reproof is the way of friends. But between father and son reproof is the greatest offence against that tenderness which should subsist.” (Bk. iv., pt. ii., c. xxx., v. 4.)
In the same connexion, Mencius says: “There are five things which are commonly recognized to be unfilial. The first is laziness about employing legs and arms, resulting in failure to support parents. The second, gambling and chess-playing and fondness for wine, with the same result. The third, prizing goods and money and selfish devotion to wife and children, with the same result. The fourth, giving way to the temptations that assail one’s eyes and ears, thus bringing his parents to shame. The fifth, reckless bravery, fighting and quarrelling, endangering thereby the happiness and the support of one’s parents.” (Bk. iv., pt. ii., c. xxx., v. 2.)
Mencius also relates an extravagant but obviously apocryphal story of the filial piety of Shun, who however married without notifying his unforgiving parents, which act Mencius thus defends: “If he had informed them, he would not have been permitted to marry. That male and female should dwell together is the greatest of all human relations. Had he informed his parents, he must have missed this greatest of human relations and thereby have incurred their just resentment. Therefore was it that he did not inform them.” (Bk. v., pt. i., c. ii., v. 1.)
This is also quite in keeping with another clever saying of Mencius, which likewise embodies an ethical principle much insisted upon in China: “There are three things which are unfilial and to have no posterity is the greatest of them.” (Bk. iv., pt. i., c. xxvi., v. 1.)
Even in filial piety, more is not required of any man than he is able to do. Thus in the “Analects” it is related: “Tsze-hea said, ‘If a man . . . in serving his parents exert his utmost strength . . . although men say that he has not learned, I shall certainly say that he has.’ ” (Bk. i., c. vii.)
In another place the test is made this: Does the general judgment of the son’s treatment of his parents coincide with their report—always sure to be favourable, no matter how he wrongs them? It runs thus: “Filial indeed is Min Tsze-K’een! Other people say nothing of him different from the report of his parents and brothers.” (Analects, bk. xi., c. iii.)
King Wu is quoted in the “Shu King” as condemning unfilial and unfraternal behaviour in no uncertain terms as follows: “Oh Fang, such great criminals are greatly abhorred, and how much more the unfilial and unbrotherly! As the son who does not reverently discharge his duty to his father but greatly wounds his father’s heart; and the father who cannot love his son but hates him; as the younger brother who does not regard the manifest will of Heaven and refuses to respect his elder brother and the elder brother who does not think of the toil of their parents in bringing up their children and hates his younger brother.” (Pt. v., bk. ix., 3.)
In the “Analects,” the disciple, Yu Tze, with feeling declares that all generous conduct flows from filial and fraternal sentiments, saying: “Filial piety and fraternal submission, are they not the root of all benevolent actions?” (Bk. i., c. ii., v. 2.)
In the “Hsiâo King” the following encomiums for good and useful traits, flowing plainly out of early training in filial piety, are heaped upon him who has been truly filial: “He who serves his parents, in a high situation will be free from pride; in a low situation, will be free from insubordination; and, among his equals, will not be quarrelsome.” (C. x.)
Mencius bluntly declares that filial piety necessarily results from a benevolent spirit and that one cannot exist without the other: “There never has been a man trained to benevolence who neglected his parents.” (Bk. i., pt. i., c. i., v. 5.)
The assiduous, brooding care, resembling that of a mother for her infant child, which the son is expected to cultivate as regards his aging parents, is nowhere better illustrated than in this saying of Confucius: “The ages of parents may by no means not be kept in the memory, as an occasion at once for joy and for fear.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. xxi.)
It is for this reason, also, i.e., that in the hour of need he may be within call, that this is enjoined by the sage: “While his parents are living, a son must not go abroad to a distance; or, if he should do so, he must have a fixed place to which he goes.” (Analects, bk. iv., c. xix.)
Pious Observances after the Death of Parents. “Filial piety is seen in the skilful carrying out of the wishes of our forefathers and the skilful carrying forward of their undertakings.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xix., v. 2.) “While a man’s father is alive, look at the bent of his will; when his father is dead, look at his conduct. If for three years he does not alter from the way of his father, he may be called filial.” (Analects, bk. i., c. xi.)
These passages from the “Doctrine of the Mean” and the “Analects” enjoin the continuance of filial piety, unabated, after the demise of parents.
The filial piety of the poor may not be more than decent burial, with genuine grief and reverence; for it is not the expenditure or even the wealth of ceremony which constitutes the tribute—though the absence of either, if it can be afforded, is unpardonable—but rather the spirit of real veneration and sorrow. Confucius says of this: “In the ceremonies of mourning it is better that there be deep sorrow than a minute attention to observances.” (Analects, bk. iii., c. iv., v. 3.)
Mencius gives an interesting and reasonable, though scarcely verifiable, account of the origin of burial, in this abiding tenderness for the authors of one’s being: “In the most ancient times there were some who did not inter their parents. When their parents died, they took the bodies up and cast them into some water-channel. Afterwards, when passing by, they saw foxes and wildcats devouring the bodies and flies and insects covering them. The sweat burst forth upon their brows; they looked away, unable to bear the sight. For other people such perspiration did not burst out; but now their hearts’ emotions affected their faces and their eyes. Instantly they hurried home, returned with spades and baskets, and covered the bodies. If this indeed was right, it is obvious that the filial son and virtuous man, in burying his parents, will behave according to propriety.” (Bk. iii., pt. i., c. v., v. 4.)
This was advanced by Mencius in reply to an argument by the philosopher Mih, that there should be economical simplicity in funerals and burials—an argument often renewed to this day, the constant occasion for which shows how universal and deeply seated is the sentiment which provokes expenditure sufficient to afford what is deemed a suitable tribute of affection to the dead.
A stern duty, never to be shirked by a son, is to avenge his father if slain by the hand of an enemy. If the execution of the criminal law does this, well and good; but if not, the responsibility is on the son. In the “Li Ki” it is put thus: “With him who has slain his father, a son should not live under the same sky.” (Bk. i., sect. i., pt. v., c. ii., v. 10.)
Otherwise, however, the immediate duty of the son is fully performed by his grief, by proper burial, and the prescribed period of retirement and mourning; as it is said in the “Hsiâo King”: “The services of love and reverence to parents when alive, and those of grief and sorrow for them when dead—these completely discharge the duty of living men.” (C. xviii.)
This mourning, however, must be the genuine expression of grief, deep and unassuageable; else the slight and feeble character of the son’s piety is apparent. Confucius deems this the severest and most reliable test of the earnestness and depth of filial devotion, saying: “Men may not have shown what is in them to the full extent, and yet they will be found to do so on occasion of mourning for their parents.” (Analects, bk. xix., c. xvii.)
And he comments upon the mere show of it as comparable with two other destructive hypocrisies, as follows: “High station filled without indulgent generosity; ceremonies performed without reverence; mourning conducted without sorrow—wherewith should I contemplate such ways?” (Analects, bk. iii., c. xxvi.)
The period of mourning for a father had been fixed at three years—interpreted as twenty-seven months—before the time of Confucius. The following is his statement about it and the reason for it: “It is not till a child is three years old that it is allowed to leave the arms of its parents. And three years’ mourning is universally observed throughout the empire.” (Analects, bk. xvii., c. xxi., v. 6.)
During this period of mourning the son, if he can afford it, lives retired from the world, leaving the management of his affairs to others and abandoning himself to meditation, spiritual communion with the departed, and grief. He utterly eschews meanwhile every alleviation of his sorrow, including very particularly the solace of music.
But, with the expiration of this long period of retirement, his mourning is by no means at an end. On the contrary it ends only with life itself. His father’s name must not be spoken in his presence, except at the sacrifices upon the anniversary of his death; and never without tears. Thus in the “Li Ki” it is said: “The saying that the superior man mourns all his life for his parents has reference to the recurrence of the day of their death. That he does not do his ordinary work on that day, does not mean that it would be unpropitious to do so; it means that on that day his thoughts are occupied with them and he does not dare occupy himself, as on other days, with his private and personal affairs.” (Bk. xxi., sect. i., 5.)
The greatest of all filial obligations to deceased parents, however, is creditable conduct; for by that only can that which they have created, their son, worthily represent what they have sought to accomplish in the world through him. The consideration of this phase of the Confucian conception of filial piety is most important since it is the sanction most relied upon to enforce all the injunctions, whether directly regarding self-development or its concomitant essential, propriety in relations with other human beings. This devotion both to living and to departed parents—the so-called “ancestor worship” of the Chinese; it scarcely extends beyond three generations in any case, and as regards the lowly, not beyond one—is the chief incentive, other than self-respect and the innate desire to grow and to become and be a superior human being, to which Confucius appeals.
In the “Li Ki” the nature of this appeal is thus revealed: “Although his parents be dead, when a son is inclined to do what is good, he should think that he will thereby transmit the good name of his parents and so carry his wish into effect. When he is inclined to do what is not good, he should think that he will thereby bring disgrace on the name of his parents and in no wise carry his wish into effect.” (Bk. x., sect. i., 17.)
And in yet simpler and stronger terms in this passage: “When his parents are dead and the son carefully watches over his actions so that a bad name involving his parents may not be handed down, he may be said to be able to maintain his piety to the end.” (Li Ki, bk. xxi., sect. ii., 12.)
This union of all the sentiments which compose the piety of a son toward his parents, both while they are living and after their death, is set forth in these words in the same book: “The superior man while his parents are alive, reverently nourishes them; and when they are dead, reverently sacrifices to them. His chief thought is how, to the end of life, not to disgrace them.” (Bk. xxi., sect. i., 5.)
And in the “Shi King,” the Book of Odes, it is thus beautifully phrased:
- “When early dawn unseals my eyes,
- Before my mind my parents rise.”
(Minor Odes, Decade v., Ode 2, quoted also in the Li Ki, bk. xxi., sect. i., 7.)
CHAPTER V
THE STATE
In logical progression Confucius rises from a discussion of duties toward the family to those toward the state, which social organization he regards as only a larger household, having all its ethical principles founded on those of the primary unit.
The Foundation of Government. “This is meant by ‘To rightly govern the state, it is necessary first to regulate one’s own family.’ One cannot instruct others who cannot instruct his own children. Without going beyond the family, the prince may learn all the lessons of statecraft, filial piety by which the sovereign is also served, fraternal submission by which older men and superiors are also served, kindness by which also the common people should be ministered unto.” (Great Learning, c. ix., v. 1.)
“From the loving example of one family, love extends throughout the state; from its courtesy, courtesy extends throughout the state; while the ambition and perverse recklessness of one man may plunge the entire state into rebellion and disorder.” (Great Learning, c. ix., v. 3.)
By these words in “The Great Learning” the position of the family as the foundation of society and of its proper regulation as the basis for government is dwelt upon. The significance of this is perhaps obvious though not too familiar in these days when family ties and family discipline both tend to loosen. In the “Hsiâo King,” the application of these principles is adroitly indicated as follows: “The filial piety with which the superior man serves his parents may be transferred as loyalty to the ruler; the fraternal duty with which he serves his elder brother may be transferred as deference to elders; his regulation of his family may be transferred as good government in any official position.” (C. xiv.)
In the “Li Ki” the same results are deduced from the three primary human functions and duties as there set forth: “Husband and wife have their separate functions; between father and son there should be affection; between ruler and minister there should be strict application to their respective duties. If these three relations be rightly discharged, all other things will follow.” (Bk. xxiv., 8.)
The strictly practical character also of this application is revealed by this saying of Yu Tze concerning the fount of orderly behaviour on the part of the citizen: “They are few who, being filial and fraternal, are fond of offending against their superiors. There have been none who, not liking to offend against their superiors, have been fond of stirring up confusion.” (Analects, bk. i., c. ii., v. 1.)
To support and elucidate this view, also, Confucius cites the Book of Odes saying: “From them you learn the more immediate duty of serving one’s father and the remoter one of serving one’s prince.” (Analects, bk. xvii., c. ix., v. 6.)
And again he cites and even quotes the “Shu King” to show the immediate and causal relation between the exercise of filial and fraternal piety and the establishment of government upon a sound and secure foundation: “What does the ‘Shu King’ say of filial piety? ‘You are filial, you discharge your fraternal duties. These qualities are displayed in government. This, then, also constitutes the exercise of government.’ ” (Analects, bk. ii., c. xxi., v. 2.)
The Function of Government. “To govern means to rectify.” (Analects, bk. xii., c. xvii.)
This from the “Analects” is repeated with greater particularity in the “Li Ki,” accompanied by a lesson which the Chinese sages, who were almost invariably the instructors of princes, never wearied of insisting upon, thus: “Government is rectification. When the ruler does right, all men will imitate his self-control. What the ruler does, the people will follow. How should they follow him in what he does not do?” (Bk. xxiv., 7.)
This also, in the passage from the “Analects” just now quoted from, is similarly explained by Confucius, thus: “Ke K‘ang Tze asked Confucius about government. Confucius replied, ‘To govern means to rectify. If you lead with correctness, who will dare not to be correct?’ ” (Bk. xii., c. xvii.)
In the “Li Ki” the sentiment is expressed: “As men are constituted, the thing most important to them is government.” (Bk. xxiv., 6.)
This refers, of course, to its indispensable office of rectification; and its importance is vividly illustrated by Mencius in the following passage, which also points out the normal play of cause and effect in the operation of government upon men’s characters: “When right government prevails in the empire, men of little virtue submit to those of great virtue and men of little worth to those of great worth. When bad government prevails in the empire, men of little power submit to those of great power and the weak to the strong. Both are in accord with divine law.” (Bk. iv., pt. i., c. vii., v. 1.)
The mode—or, rather, one of the simpler and more obvious modes—by which this may be accomplished, Confucius indicates in this saying: “Employ the upright and put aside the crooked; in this way, the crooked may be made to be upright.” (Analects, bk. xii., c. xxii., v. 3.)
And that, in order that government may be stable, not to say benign, this course must perforce be followed, he inculcates in this colloquy: “The duke Gae asked, saying: ‘What should be done in order to secure the submission of the people?’ Confucius replied, ‘Advance the upright and set aside the crooked, then the people will submit. Advance the crooked and set aside the upright, then the people will not submit.’ ” (Analects, bk. ii., c. xix.)
Government Exists for the Benefit of the Governed. “The duke of She asked about government. The Master said, ‘Good government obtains when those who are near are made happy, and those who are far are attracted.’ ” (Analects, bk. xiii., c. xvi.)
This Mencius reiterated in this direct fashion: “The people are the most important element; . . . the sovereign, least important.” (Bk. vii., pt. ii., c. xiv., v. 1.)
The “Li Ki” quotes the “Book of Poetry” as saying that government is fraternal and parental—rather than paternal, in the offensive sense usually attached to that word when applied to government—thus:
- “The happy and gracious sovereign
- Is the father and mother of the people.”
(Bk. xxvi., 1.)
And perhaps even more strikingly:
- “When among any of the people there was a death,
- I crawled upon my knees to help them.”
(Bk. xxvi., 3.)
This, moreover, is not wholly sentimentalism; for with much practical force Confucius says:
“Therefore, if remoter people are not submissive, all the influences of civil culture and virtue are to be cultivated to attract them to be so; and when they have been so attracted, they must be made contented and tranquil.
“ ‘Now here are you, Yew and K‘ew, assisting your chief. Remoter people are not submissive and, with your help, he cannot attract them to him. In his own territory, there are divisions and downfalls, leavings and separations, and, with your help, he cannot preserve it. And yet he is planning these hostile movements within our state.’ ” (Analects, bk. xvi., c. i., v. 11, 12, 13.)
The hard-headed, severely practical Mencius, who about a century later exemplified in governmental theories so many of the most valuable of the principles laid down by Confucius, gives this yet more concrete form in these words: “If the seasons of husbandry be not interfered with, the grain will be more than can be eaten. If close nets are not allowed to enter the pools and ponds, the fishes and turtles will be more than can be consumed. If the axes and bills enter the hills and forests only at the proper time, the wood will be more than can be used. When the grain and fish and turtles are more than can be eaten and there is more wood than can be used, this enables the people to nourish their living and bury their dead, without any feeling against any. This condition, in which the people nourish their living and bury their dead, is the first step in kingly government.” (Bk. i., pt. i., v. 3.)
The foregoing precedent, more than two thousand years old, for modern agricultural departments and experiment stations and yet more recently instituted and still suspiciously regarded conservation movements is sufficiently startling; but Mencius goes far beyond that, as, for instance, when he says to King Seuen of Ts‘e: “Therefore an intelligent ruler will regulate the livelihood of the people, so as to make sure that they shall have sufficient wherewith to serve their parents and also sufficient wherewith to support their wives and children.” (Bk. i., pt. i., c. vii., v. 21.)
This picture of the blessings of a truly beneficent government and of its attractions, when accompanied by widespread prosperity of families, has been so recently presented in the United States of America, to which within three or four generations the needy and oppressed have thronged to make it one of the greatest of the nations, that it is surely worth while farther to exhibit the views of this later Chinese sage upon this subject: “Now if Your Majesty will institute a government whose action will all be benevolent, this will cause all the officers in the empire to wish to stand in Your Majesty’s court, and the farmers all to wish to plough in Your Majesty’s fields, and the merchants, both travelling and stationary, all to wish to have their goods in Your Majesty’s market-places, and travelling strangers all to wish to make their tours on Your Majesty’s roads, and all throughout the empire who feel aggrieved by their rulers, to wish to come and complain to Your Majesty. And when they are so bent, who can hold them back?” (Bk. i., pt. i., c. vii., v. 18.)
The folly of the contrary policy and the office which it has performed in causing immigration into countries which are well-governed, that is, governed in the interests of the people, Mencius expatiates upon as follows: “Now among the shepherds of men throughout the empire, there is not one who does not find pleasure in killing men. If there were one who did not find pleasure in killing men, all the people in the empire would look towards him with outstretched necks. Such being indeed the case, the people would flock to him, as water flows downward with a rush, which no one can repress.” (Bk. i., pt. i., c. vi., v. 6.)
In “The Great Learning” it is put thus, sententiously: “To centralize wealth is to disperse the people; to distribute wealth is to collect the people.” (C. x., v. 9.)
And in the “Li Ki” Confucius is reported as saying: “With the ancients, in their government the love of men was the great point.” (Bk. xxiv., 9.)
Mencius erected his advanced and detailed propositions concerning good government upon benevolence or the love of men, in an age when discussions concerning first principles, like “Love thine enemies!” over against “Be just to thine enemies and reserve love for friends!” had given way to discussions of applied principles, like Tolstoian individualism or communism. Accordingly Mencius, addressing princes as their tutor, admonished them, saying: “Let benevolent government be put in practice and the people will be delighted with it, as if they were relieved from hanging by their heels.” (Bk. ii., pt. i., c. i., v. 13.)
And with this in another place he coupled an inducement and a promise, thus: “If you will put benevolence in practice in your government, your people will love you and all in authority, and will be ready to die for them.” (Bk. i., pt. ii., c. xii., v. 3.)
This has been said in the “Analects” in another way and with a warning as well as a promise, in these words: “If the people have plenty, their prince will not be left to want alone. If the people are in want, their prince will not be able to enjoy plenty alone.” (Analects, bk. xii., c. ix., v. 4.)
The responsibility for evil conditions, also, Confucius fastens unescapably upon the corrupt or incompetent administrator who seeks to profit and enjoy, not as a reward for genuine service of his people, but because, in effect if not by design, he has despoiled them. This is his scathing denunciation of such rulers: “How can he be used as a guide to a blind man who does not support him when tottering or raise him up when fallen? And further, you speak wrongly. When a tiger or a wild bull escapes from his cage, when a tortoise or gem is injured in its repository—whose is the fault?” (Analects, bk. xvi., c. i., v. 6, 7.)
The heartless suggestions regarding the unfortunate of earth’s children, which are often brought forward on pseudo-scientific grounds, find no welcome in the breast of the sage, as this will show: “Ke K‘ang Tse asked Confucius about government, saying, ‘What do you say to killing the unprincipled for the good of the principled?’ Confucius replied, ‘Sir, in carrying on your government, why should you use killing at all? Let your desires be shown to be for what is good, and the people will be good. The relation between superiors and inferiors is like that between the wind and the grass; the grass must bend when the wind blows across it.’ ” (Analects, bk. xii., c. xix.)
The “Analects” enjoin, instead, infinite mercy and commiseration for the human wrecks into which evil government distorts our common human nature, as in this passage, quoting the philosopher Tsang, with manifest approval: “The chief of the Mang family having appointed Yang Foo to be chief criminal judge, the latter consulted the philosopher Tsang. Tsang said, ‘The rulers have failed in their duties and the people consequently have been disorganized for a long time. When you have found out the truth about any accusation, be grieved over it, pity the malefactor, and take no pride in your superior discernment.’ ” (Analects, bk. xix., c. xix.)
And in the “Shu King,” the ancient worthy, Pan-Kang, is represented to have said: “Do not despise the old and experienced and do not make little of the helpless and young.” (Pt. iv., bk. vii., 2.)
It is to fidelity to this fundamental principle of correct government, i.e., that it was instituted and maintained for the benefit of the governed, and to the correlate principles by which it may be so applied, that Confucius refers when he says: “When right principles prevail in the empire, there will be no controversies among the common people.” (Analects, bk. xvi., c. ii., v. 3.)
The true requisite for the attainment of anti-poverty aspirations, namely, that the poor be not despoiled, and thus all things be turned topsyturvy in the state, Confucius sets forth in the “Analects”: “When the people keep their respective places, there will be no poverty; when harmony prevails, there will be no scarcity of people; when there is repose, there will be no rebellions.” (Analects, bk. xvi., c. i., v. 10.)
The view of the immediate disciples of Confucius as to what a well-governed country would look like, as well as their confidence that their great teacher could have realized it, had he been invested with the sovereignty, are announced in these burning sentences: “Were our Master in the position of the prince of a state or the chief of a family, we should find this description verified: He would plant the people and forthwith they would be established; he would lead them and forthwith they would follow him; he would make them happy and forthwith multitudes would resort to his dominions; he would cheer them and forthwith they would become harmonious. While he lived, he would be glorious. When he died, he would be bitterly lamented.” (Analects, bk. xix., c. xxv., v. 4.)
The Essentials of Good Government. “Tsze-kung asked about government. The Master said, ‘The requisites of government are that there be sufficiency of food, sufficiency of military equipment, and the confidence of the people in their ruler.’
“Tsze-kung said, ‘If it cannot be helped and one of these must be dispensed with, which of the three should be forgone first?’ ‘The military equipment,’ said the Master.
“Tsze-kung again asked, ‘If it cannot be helped and one of the remaining two must be dispensed with, which of them should be forgone?’ The Master answered, ‘Part with the food. From of old death has been the lot of all men; but if the people have not confidence in their rulers, there is no stability for the state.’ ” (Analects, bk. xii., c. vii.)
The manner in which the confidence so discussed in the “Analects” may be gained and held is variously described but perhaps never more aptly than in this passage from “The Great Learning”:
“On this account, the ruler will first take pains about his own virtue. Possessing virtue, he will win the people. Possessing the people, he will win the realm. Possessing the realm, he will command revenue. Possessing revenue, he will have resources for all demands.
“Virtue is the root; ample revenue the fruit.
“If he make the root secondary and the fruit the prime object, he will but wrangle with his people and teach them rapine.” (C. x., v. 6, 7, 8.)
In the “Analects,” also, it is remarked: “The superior man, having obtained their confidence, may impose tasks upon the people. If he have not gained their confidence, they will deem his acts oppressive.” (Bk. xix., c. x.)
Mencius, however, much more circumstantially describes the essentials of a worthy government in a tribute to the glorious rule of King Wan, in these words:
“The king said, ‘May I hear from you what the truly kingly government is?’
“ ‘Formerly,’ was the reply, ‘King Wan’s government of K‘e was as follows: Farmers cultivated one ninth of the land for the government; descendants of government servants were pensioned; at the passes and in the markets, strangers were inspected, but goods were not taxed; there were no prohibitions respecting the ponds and weirs; the wives and children of criminals were not involved in their guilt. There were old widowers, old widows, old bachelors and maidens, fatherless or orphan children;—these four classes are the most destitute of the people and have none to whom they can tell their wants; and King Wan, in the institution of his government with its benevolent influence, made them the first objects of his regard.’ ” (Bk. i., pt. ii., c. v., v. 3.)
The benign consequences of beneficent rule and the confidence and willing obedience of the people when the ruler is worthy of it, Mencius sets forth thus: “It is said in the Book of History, that as soon as Tang began his work of executing justice, he commenced with Ko. The whole empire had confidence in him. When he pursued his work in the east, the rude tribes on the west murmured. So did those on the north when he was engaged in the south. The cry was,—‘Why does he leave us until the last?’ The people looked unto him as when looking in time of severe drought to clouds and rainbows. The men of the markets stopped not, the husbandmen did not turn from their labours. He blessed the people as he punished their rulers. It was like an opportune shower and the people rejoiced.” (Bk. i., pt. ii., c. xi., v. 2.)
How he responded to King Seuen of Ts‘e about the means of securing this limitless confidence of the people is thus recorded: “The King said, ‘What virtue must there be in order to the attainment of imperial sway?’ Mencius replied, ‘The love and protection of the people; with this, there is no power which can prevent a ruler from attaining it.’ ” (Bk. i., pt. i., c. vii., v. 3.)
In “Shuo Yuan” (bk. xi.), Yen Yuan says: “I wish to have a wise king or a sage ruler and to become his minister. I should cause there to be no reason to repair the city walls, the moats and ditches to be crossed by no foeman, and the swords and spears to be melted into tools of agriculture. I should cause the whole world to have no calamity of warfare anywhere for thousands of years,” and Confucius is reported to have said, “What I wish is the plan of the son of Yen.”
In the “Great Model,” however, Confucius yet more clearly sets forth the utilitarian basis of all government, asserting that it is instituted among men to secure for them the five blessings and secure them against the six calamities. The five blessings are: Ample means, long life, health, virtuous character, and an agreeable personal appearance; the six calamities, early death, sickness, misery, poverty, a repulsive appearance, and weakness.
Certainly these, as objects to be attained by civil government, embrace all that even the most enlightened peoples of modern times aim at, hope for, and struggle to achieve.
In the “History of Han” (chap. xci.), Pan Ku gives the following account, strangely applicable to our own day, of the consequences of the perversion of government to the enrichment of the few and the impoverishment of the many: “Under the influence of luxury and extravagance, the students and the common people all disregarded the regulations and neglected the primary occupation. The number of farmers decreased, and that of merchants increased. Grain was insufficient, but luxurious goods were plenty. After the age of Duke Huan of Ch‘i and Duke Wên and Tsin, moral character was greatly corrupted, and social order was confused. Each state had a different political system, and each family had different customs. The physical desires were uncontrolled, and extravagant consumption and social usurpation had no end. Therefore, the merchant transported goods which were difficult to obtain; the artisans produced articles which had no practical use; and the student practised ways which were contrary to orthodoxy; all of them pursued the temporary fashion for the getting of money. The hypocritical people turned away from truth in order to make fame, and guilty men ran risks in order to secure profit. While those who took the states by the deed of usurpation or regicide became kings or dukes, the men who founded their rich families by robbery became heroes. Morality could not control the gentlemen, and punishment could not make the common people afraid. Among the rich, the wood and earth wore embroidery, and the dog and horse had a superabundance of meat and grain. But, among the poor, even the coarsest clothes could not be completed; beans made their food and water was their drink. Although they were all in the same rank of common people, the rich, by the power of wealth, raised themselves to kings, while the others, although their actual condition was slavery and imprisonment, had no angry appearance. Therefore, those who were deceitful and criminal were comfortable and proud in the world, but those who held principles and followed reason could not escape hunger and cold. Such an influence came from the government, because there was no regulation to control the economic life.”
In the “Li Ki” Confucius lays bare the cause which creates such consequences, thus: “The small man, when poor, feels the pinch of his straitened circumstances; and when rich, is liable to become proud. Under the pinch of that poverty, he may proceed to steal; and when proud, he may proceed to deeds of disorder. The social rules recognize these feelings of men, and lay down definite regulations for them, to serve as preventions for the people. Hence, when the sages distributed riches and honours, they made the rich not have power enough to be proud; and kept the poor from being pinched and the honourable men not be intractable to those above them. In this way the causes of disorder would more and more disappear.” (Bk. xxvii., 2.)
And Tung Chung-Shu says of these conditions: “It is said by Confucius, ‘We are not troubled with fears of poverty, but are troubled with fears of a lack of equality of wealth.’ Therefore, when there is here a concentration of wealth, there must be an emptiness there. Great riches make the people proud; and great poverty makes them wretched. When they are wretched, they would become robbers; when they are proud, they would become oppressors; it is human nature. From the nature of the average man, the sages discovered the origin of disorder. Therefore, when they established social laws and divided up the social orders, they made the rich able to show their distinction without being proud, and the poor able to make their living without misery; this was the standard for the equalization of society. In this way, wealth was sufficient, and the high and low classes were peaceful. Hence, society was easily governed well. In the present day, the regulations are abandoned, so that everyone pursues what he wants. As human wants have no limit, the whole society becomes indulgent without end. The great men of the high class, notwithstanding they have great fortune, lament the insufficiency of their wealth; while the small people of the lower classes are depressed. Therefore, the rich increase in eagerness for money, and do not wish to do good with it; while the poor violate the laws every day, and nothing can stop them. Hence, society is difficult to govern well.” (Many Dewdrops of the Spring and Autumn, bk. xxvii.)
The Nourishment of the People. “When a country is well governed, poverty and a mean condition are things to be ashamed of. When a country is ill governed, riches and honours are things to be ashamed of.” (Analects, bk. viii., c. xiii., v. 3.)
The meaning of this passage from the “Analects” is, that the most important function of government is to secure the equitable distribution of the products of human labour to the end that no deserving person shall suffer want. Obviously, also, if the mere acquisition of wealth were, by reason of just conditions, truly a test of desert, the most important step would have been taken toward the rectification of men; for if virtue were the only road to affluence, many are they who would walk therein.
Mencius put this convincingly, thus: “When a sage governs the world, he will cause pulse and grain to be as abundant as water and fire. If pulse and grain were as abundant as water and fire, should the people be otherwise than virtuous?” (Bk. vii., pt. i., c. xxiii., v. 3.)
The first office of the government in this regard is, of course, instruction; and it is interesting to find the most modern of governmental inventions, an agricultural department and its stations, thus forestalled by Mencius: “Let mulberry trees be planted about the homesteads with their five mow and persons of fifty years may be clothed with silk. In keeping fowls, pigs, dogs, and swine, let not their breeding time be neglected and persons of seventy years may eat flesh.” (Bk. i., pt. i., c. iii., v. 4.)
And the yet more recent innovation, conservation, was pronounced a duty in the “Li Ki” in these words: “Where the wide and open country is greatly neglected and uncultivated, it speaks ill for those in authority.” (Bk. i., sect. i., pt. v., c. iii., v. 11.)
Both in its external relations with other states and peoples, and in its internal affairs, Confucius held that the government must frown upon conduct which proceeds from sordid motives. It is put, briefly and pointedly, in this saying: “In a state, gain is not to be considered prosperity, but its prosperity will be found in righteousness.” (Great Learning, c. x., v. 23.)
Mencius dwells upon one phase of the significance of this text, in answering a king who sought gain for his kingdom to the disadvantage of others, in this fashion: “If Your Majesty say, ‘What is to be done to profit my kingdom?’ the great officers will say, ‘What is to be done to profit our families?’ and the inferior officers and the common people will say, ‘What is to be done to profit us?’ Superiors and inferiors will try to snatch this profit the one from the other and the kingdom will be endangered.” (Bk. i., c. i., v. 4.)
The “Li Ki” supplies this picture of the demoralization which reigns when the government does not restrain the powerful and the unscrupulous: “The strong press upon the weak, the many are cruel to the few, the knowing impose upon the dull, the bold make it bitter for the timid, the sick are not nursed, the old and young, the orphans and solitaries are neglected; such is the great disorder that ensues!” (Bk. xvii., sect. i., 12.)
Mencius makes a most pertinent inquiry, the answer to which may well stagger the advocates of unrestricted laissez-faire, in the following colloquy with King Hwuy of Leang:
“ ‘Is there any difference between killing a man with a stick and with a sword?’ The king said, ‘There is no difference.’
“ ‘Is there any difference between doing it with a sword and with the government?’ The reply was, ‘There is no difference.’
“ ‘In your kitchen there is fat meat; in your stables there are fat horses. Your people have the look of hunger, and on the wilds lie those who have died of famine. This is leading on beasts to devour men.’ ” (Bk. i., pt. i., c. iv., v. 2, 3, 4.)
Mencius, however, by no means approved of applying undeservedly harsh epithets even to those who despoil the people, or of intemperately denouncing, by means of false similes, their conduct, however reprehensible: “Wan Chang said, ‘The princes of the present day take from their people just as a robber despoils his victim. Yet if they put a good face of propriety on their gifts, the superior man receives them. I venture to ask how you explain this.’
“Mencius answered: ‘Do you think that if there should arise a truly Imperial sovereign, he would collect the princes of the present day and put them to death? Or would he admonish them and, on their not changing their ways, put them to death? Indeed, to call everyone who takes what does not properly belong to him, a robber, is pushing a point of resemblance to the utmost and insisting on the most refined idea of righteousness.’ ” (Bk. v., pt. ii., c. iv., v. 5.)
The idea of Utopia, where everybody’s desires, however extensive, will be sated, is thus entirely foreign to the conception of Confucius and his followers. It is also said in the “Many Dewdrops of the Spring and Autumn”: “The objects of wants are limitless; the supply can never be adequate. Therefore is there the keen sense of deprivation.” (Bk. xxvii.)
But fair and equitable distribution is necessary, both for the material and the ethical well-being of the community. And in the Commentary of Kung-Yang on “The Spring and Autumn,” Ho Hsiu is represented as saying concerning the deadly destruction of the poor by the competition of the rich and powerful, these words which are so applicable to these modern days of trusts and combinations: “When the rich compete with the poor, even though the law were made by Kau Yau, nothing can prevent the strong from pressing on the weak.”
Confucius warns of the consequences of driving the people to desperation, thus: “The man who is fond of daring and is discontented with his poverty, will proceed to insubordination.” (Analects, bk. viii., c. x.)
Mencius gave much attention to the duty of the ruler to provide for the certain support, comfort, and even pleasure and entertainment of the people,—not the enervating, brutal, degrading, pauperizing largess of ancient Rome, but protection against force, fraud, and fortune, the triad of enemies of the just distribution of the products of labour. These are a few of his aptest statements:
“If Your Majesty loves wealth, let the people be able to gratify the same feeling and what difficulty will there be about your attaining the Imperial sway?” (Bk. i., pt. ii., c. iv., v. 4.)
“If Your Majesty now will make pleasure a thing common to the people and yourself, the Imperial sway awaits you.” (Bk. i., pt. i., c. i., v. 8.)
“The ancients caused the people to have pleasure as well as themselves, and therefore they could enjoy it.” (Bk. i., pt. i., c. i., v. 3.)
“When a ruler rejoices in the joy of his people, they also rejoice in his joy; when he grieves at the sorrow of his people, they also grieve at his sorrow. A common feeling of joy will pervade the empire, a common feeling of sorrow the same. In such a condition, it cannot be but that the ruler will attain to the Imperial dignity.” (Bk. i., pt. ii., c. iv., v. 3.)
The reverse side of the picture this reverent follower of Confucius thus presents: “Their feeling thus (i.e., disaffected and disloyal) is for no other reason than that you do not permit the people to have pleasure as well as yourself.” (Bk. i., pt. ii., c. i., v. 6.)
The establishment of public holidays is also enjoined, in which all classes of the people partake under the guidance of public officials. At these there was the “Rite of District Drinking,” i.e., the custom of liberal alcoholic potations in celebration of the occasion and as a part of the good-fellowship. Wines, brewed and distilled liquors appear to have been known to the ancient Chinese; and Confucius favoured festivals at which, under proper ceremonial restrictions, jollity and merriment were given full rein. The manner of drinking but not the amount was strictly regulated.
Most vividly and in sharp contrast with these days of high prices and dear living, with the growth of luxury, the diminution of the marriage rate, and the yet greater fall of the birth rate, Mencius presents this view of what good government should provide for the citizens and through them for mankind: “At that time, in the seclusion of home there were no pining women, and outside of it no unmarried men.” (Bk. i., pt. ii., c. v., v. 5.)
And here he affirms the consequences of evil government consequences so alarmingly like those over which the great nations are now lamenting as to awaken wonder whether the same causes may not always be at work when such results are again found: “In years of calamity and famine, the weak and old, lying in the ditches and water-courses, and the able-bodied, scattered to the four quarters, have been myriads in number.” (Mencius, bk. i., pt. ii., c. xii., v. 2.)
It has not required physical calamity or famine, also, to bring these demoralizing conditions to the peoples of the most modern and civilized nations!
This worthy apostle of the doctrine of Confucius, however, has yet clearer insight into the causes of the utter demoralization of the despairing and destitute. What a sermon upon the text, “The destruction of the poor is their poverty!” is spoken in these two sentences: “In such circumstances they only try to save themselves from death and are afraid they will not succeed. What opportunity have such to cultivate propriety and righteousness?” (Bk. i., pt. i., c. vii., v. 22.)
Or, indeed, opportunity or inducement to cultivate efficiency as men and workmen?
This involves the germ of the newest truths conceived by modern statesmen, namely: That absolute assurance of freedom from want, for self and dependents, this to be obtainable only by efficient labour but as its sure reward, is the most powerful incentive to efficiency and industry; and that, whenever the conditions created by the government fall short of this, their influence is to this extent demoralizing and destructive to the men, women, and children who form the nation.
Upon this Mencius said to King Seuen of Ts‘e, in a memorable conversation upon the duties of a ruler: “Only men of training can, without a certain livelihood, maintain a fixed heart. As to the people, if they have not a certain livelihood, it follows that they will not have a fixed heart. If they do not have a fixed heart, there is nothing which they will not do in self-abandonment, moral deflection, depravity, and wild license. When they have thus been involved in crime, to pursue them and punish them is to entrap the people.” (Bk. i., pt. i., c. vii., v. 20.)
This light is even now just dawning upon the minds of the pioneers in progress in the most advanced nations. Fortunate that people which first realizes it in its national life and practice, and lamentable the case of that nation and its people who longest sin against that light!
Mencius, following out the Confucian concept of the state as founded upon the family, boldly asserts that good government must be parental. The word “paternal” would have had no terrors, surely, in a land where the most sacred name, next to that of God himself, is father. And if the people, as in a republic, choose them who are to rule over them, this would seem but to increase the obligation to deal in a fatherly and not an unfatherly manner, toward the people who have so displayed their trust.
Accordingly Mencius could find nothing worse to say of a delinquent ruler than this, quoted from Lung Tze: “When the parent of the people causes them to look distressed and, after toiling the entire year, not to be able to support their parents, so that they must borrow to increase their income and so that the old and the little children are found lying in the ditches and streams—where, then, is there anything parental in his relation to the people?” (Bk. iii., pt. i., c. iii., v. 7.)
Confucius fully shared this view as clearly appears from all that he has spoken concerning the character and duties of the great and worthy ruler of his fellow-men. These sayings are scattered throughout this book; but this reply to one of his disciples discloses in few words his conception of the highest qualities attainable by a true servant of the people: “Tsze-kung said: ‘Suppose the case of a man extensively conferring benefits on the people, and able to assist all, what would you say of him? Might he be called perfectly virtuous?’ The Master said: ‘Why speak only of virtue in connection with him? Must he not have the qualities of the sage?’ ” (Analects, bk. vi., c. xxviii., v. 1.)
In the “Li Ki” this parable is told to illustrate the people’s well-grounded terror of misrule: “In passing by the side of Mount Thâi, Confucius came upon a woman who was wailing bitterly by a grave. The Master bowed forward to the crossbar, and hastened to her; and then sent Tsze-loo to question her. ‘Your wailing,’ said he, ‘is altogether like that of one who has suffered sorrow on sorrow.’ She replied, ‘It is so. Formerly my husband’s father was killed here by a tiger. My husband was also killed by one, and now my son has died in the same way.’ The Master said, ‘Why do you not leave this place?’ The answer was, ‘There is no oppressive government here.’ The Master then said to his disciples: ‘Remember this, my little children. Oppressive government is more terrible than tigers.’ ” (Bk. ii., sect. ii., pt. iii., 10.)
The Middle Path in Political Economy. “Hence there is this saying: ‘Some labour with their minds and some with their muscles. They who labour with their minds, govern others; they who labour with their muscles are governed by others. They who are governed by others, support them; they who govern others, are supported by them.’ This is a principle universally recognized.” (Mencius, bk. iii., pt. i., c. iv., v. 6.)
In the time of Confucius, it does not appear that either extreme, anarchism or communism, was so urged upon men’s notice as to compel his attention; but Mencius, from whose sayings this passage is taken and who lived over a century later, was frequently confronted with their specious arguments.
This deliverance was in reply to the following argument in favour of Tolstoian individualism, presented to Mencius by Ch‘in Seang: “Now wise and able princes should cultivate the ground equally and along with their people and eat the fruit of their labours. They should prepare their own meals, morning and evening, while at the same time they carry on the government.” (Mencius, bk. iii., pt. i., c. iv., v. 3.)
The doctrine of the division of labour and of the interchange of services and of the products of labour, Mencius again supported in this passage: “If you do not have an exchange of the products of labour and an interchange of service, so that too much there will make good too little here, then farmers will have a surplus of grain and women of cloth. If you have such an interchange, carpenters and wagon-makers may earn and receive their sustenance.” (Bk. iii., pt. ii., c. iv., v. 3.)
The doctrine of extreme individualism, when presented in another guise, is thus characterized by the Duke King of Ts‘e, as reported by Mencius: “Not to be able to command others and at the same time to refuse to receive their commands, is to cut one’s self off from all intercourse with men.” (Bk. iv., pt. i., c. vii., v. 2.)
At another time he thus showed the destructive and anarchical effects, now only too well known by experience, of the full adoption of either the extreme individualistic or the extreme communistic view: “Yang’s principle is: ‘Every man for himself,’ which does not recognize the superior claim of the sovereign. Mih’s principle is: ‘Equal favour for all,’ which does not acknowledge the superior claim of a father. But to acknowledge neither sovereign nor father is to lapse into barbarism. . . . If the principles of Yang or of Mih were urged and the principles of Confucius were not urged, these perverse reasonings would delude the people and check the course of benevolence and righteousness. When such are checked, beasts will be led forth to devour men and men will devour one another.” (Bk. iii., pt. ii., c. ix., v. 9.)
Provision for the Aged, Widows, Orphans, and Other Unfortunates. “A competent provision was secured for the aged till their death, employment for the able-bodied, and the means of growing up to the young. They showed kindness and compassion to widows, orphans, childless men, and those who were disabled by disease; so that they were all sufficiently maintained. Men had their proper work and women their homes.” (Li Ki, bk. vii., sect. i., 2.)
The foregoing is the description of the blissful consequences of good government, contained in “The Grand Course” as set forth in the “Li Ki.”
Mencius made the support of the old, with reverence and honour, the first care of the state, saying: “If there were a prince in the empire who knew well how to nourish the old, all good men would feel that he was the right one for them to rally around.” (Bk. vii., pt. i., c. xxii., v. 1.)
It is by no means sufficient that the old be supported; they must be supported respectably and, what is more to the point, respectfully. The doctrines of Confucius did not tolerate want of homage to the old. This the following passages from the “Li Ki” abundantly illustrate: “Yü, Hsiâ, Yin, and Kâu produced the greatest kings that have appeared under heaven and there was not one of them who neglected age. Long under heaven has honour been paid to length of years! To do so is next to service of one’s parents.” (Bk. xxi., sect. ii., 15.) “There were five things by means of which the ancient kings secured the good government of the whole kingdom: the honour which they paid to the virtuous, to the noble, and to the old, the reverence which they showed the aged, and their kindness to the young. By these five things they maintained the stability of their kingdom.” (Bk. xxi., sect. i., 13.)
Confucius is quoted in the same book as saying: “When those in authority at their courts show respect for the aged, the people will be filial.” (Bk. xxvii., 24.)
And in another place in the “Li Ki” he supplies this apt test of a good government of a good people: “When they saw an old man, people driving or walking gave him the road. Men who had white hairs mingling with the black did not carry burdens along the highways.” (Bk. xxi., 17.)
But it is not alone the aged who are by the authorities of a well-governed state made the objects of affectionate, prudent care, not as a matter of charity but as a right. Mencius in these words of practical wisdom offered mutual insurance as a solution for this, effectual so far as anything human can equalize inequalities, to ward off disasters that overwhelm a man when standing utterly alone. The following expression of his views has a decidedly twentieth-century, even Bismarckian tang: “In the fields of a district, those who belong to the same nine squares, render all friendly offices to one another in their going out and coming in [i. e., death and birth], aid one another to safeguard life and property, and support one another in sickness.” (Bk. iii., pt. i., c. iii., v. 18.)
Mencius also thus describes another sort of social insurance, already prevalent in those days: “In the spring they examined the ploughing and supplied any deficiency of seed; in the fall they examined the reaping and supplied any deficiency of yield.” (Bk. i., pt. ii., c. iv., v. 5.)
Surely if such a system were now in vogue in China, effective and nation-wide, a famine would be unknown and indeed unthinkable!
Taxation, Innocent and Destructive. “If in the market-place, he levy a ground rent on the shops but do not tax the goods, or enforce proper regulations without levying a ground rent,—then all the merchants of the empire will be pleased and will wish to have their goods in his marketplace. If at his frontier there be an inspection of persons but no import duties, all travellers throughout the empire will be pleased, and wish to make their tours on his roads.” (Mencius, bk. ii., pt. i., c. v., v. 2, 3.)
Mencius, as in the foregoing, considered the question of the proper modes of levying taxes, taking into account their effect upon those who are engaged in agriculture, in commerce, and in the trades. In his day, the question of the proper methods of taxation was evidently a live one, as in these days; and about the same issues arose in all essential particulars. The foregoing quotation from the Book of Mencius favours “ground rent,” i. e., a tax upon the ground, itself, now known as the “single tax” as proposed by Henry George,—or “proper regulations,” by which is doubtless meant licenses for use—but not a tax on goods, i. e., upon personal property. Still less does he favour import duties.
The reasons which he gives for opposition to import duties were undoubtedly valid in China and as between the various states which compose the Chinese empire, as they would be against import duties of one state of the United States against other states. Especially in this day when, by reason of the marvellous improvement of means of communication and transportation, the world has grown so small, they may also seem valid, save in very exceptional circumstances, as regards the entire sisterhood of nations.
Mencius thus describes, in quite a “single tax” fashion, the origin of “ground rents” levied in order to appropriate to the community the value of a superior location: “In olden times in the market men exchanged their wares for the wares of others and merely had certain officers to keep order. It chanced there was a mean fellow who made it a point to find a conspicuous mound and get upon it. Thence he commanded the right and the left, so as to draw into his net all the bargains of the market. All considered his conduct contemptible and so they proceeded to levy a tax upon his wares. The tax upon merchants thus sprang from this fellow’s sordidness.” (Bk. ii., pt. ii., c. x., v. 7.)
Mencius could find no excuse, however, for duties, whether internal or import, as the following conversation shows:
“Tae Ying-che said, ‘I am not able at present to get along at once with the tithes only and so to abolish the duties imposed at the ports of entry and in the markets. With your leave, however, I will reduce both these duties until next year and then will abolish them altogether. What do you think of such a course?’
“Mencius said, ‘Here is a man who every day appropriates some of his neighbour’s strayed fowls. Someone says to him: “Such is not the way of a good man.” He replies: “With your leave, I will diminish my appropriations, and will take but one fowl per month until next year when I will make an end of the practice.” If you know the thing to be wrong, hasten to get rid of it! Why wait until next year?’ ” (Bk. iii., pt. ii., c. viii.)
The system of levies upon the holders of cultivable land, which anciently obtained, is thus described by Mencius: “A square le covers nine squares of land which nine squares contain nine hundred mow. The central square is the public field; and eight families, each having its private hundred mow, cultivate the public field in common; and not until this public work is done, dare they attend to tilling their own fields.” (Bk. iii., pt. i., c. iii., v. 19.)
The change from this to a tithing or income tax system in the more populous districts is thus indicated: “I would ask you, in the remoter districts, observing the nine Squares division, to reserve one division to be cultivated on the system of mutual aid, and in the more central parts of the kingdom, to require the people to pay a tenth part of their produce.” (Bk. iii., pt. i., c. iii., v. 15.)
As has already been quoted in the section on “Nourishment of the People,” Mencius regarded any system of taxation, based upon values, as of land or goods or both, regardless of the product, as destructive and in bad seasons even ruinous, resulting accordingly in the demoralization and pauperization of the people, while the tithe or income tax falls or rises with the ability to respond. This is also enforced by the following from the Book of Mencius: “Lung said, ‘For regulating farms, there is no better system than that of mutual aid and none which is worse than that of taxing. By taxing, the amount to be paid regularly is fixed by taking the average of several years. In good years, when there is grain in abundance, much might be taken without its being oppressive, and the actual detriment would be small; but in bad years, the produce not being sufficient to repay manuring the fields, the tax system requires taking the full amount.’ ” (Bk. iii., pt. i., c. iii., v. 7.)
Military Equipment. “To lead an uninstructed people to war, is to throw them away.” (Analects, bk. xiii., c. xxx.)
Confucius scarcely referred to the subject of war, except in the matter of indicating methods by which both misunderstandings with the peoples of neighbouring states and revolts on the part of classes of the citizens may be avoided. This indicates the relatively peaceful conditions already obtaining there.
Yet the saying quoted above from the “Analects” seems full of insight and of prescience, when applied to the fate of the soldiers and marines of China and of Russia when at different times of late pitted against the trained and disciplined naval and military forces of Japan. May it not also be of some importance to another great people of a hundred million souls which leaves its free citizens without military training? Are the Russians and the Chinese the only fatuous people in the world?
It is also enforced by the sage as follows: “Let a good man teach the people seven years, and they may then be led to war.” (Analects, bk. xiii., c. xxix.)
These texts must have been often in the minds of the people, since the catastrophes of the two Japanese wars; and the long belated seven years’ preparation may now be fairly under way.
Confucius gave some notion of what he deemed the requisites of a great military leader in the following: “Tsze-loo said, ‘If you had the conduct of the armies of a great state, whom would you have to act with you?’ The Master said, ‘I would not have him to act with me, who will unarmed attack a tiger or cross a river without a boat, dying without regret. My associate must be a man who proceeds to action full of solicitude, who is fond of adjusting his plans and then carries them into execution!’ ” (Analects, bk. vii., c. x., v. 2, 3.)
Yet this people, whose great teacher gave so little attention to military subjects, notwithstanding that he ranked it as one of the three essentials of good government, is the only one among the great nations which has maintained real continuity for itself through thousands of years; and the great wall which it constructed to ward off northern invasions is quite the most remarkable line of defences ever constructed.
Mencius also advises this course, duly emphasizing the necessity for the spirit of patriotic devotion among the people, in these words: “If you will have me counsel you, there is one thing I can suggest. Dig deeper your moats; build higher your walls; guard them, you and your people. Be prepared to die if need be, and have the people so attached that they will not desert you!” (Bk. ii., pt. ii., c. xiii., v. 2.)
The great impropriety of maintaining military forces in order to overawe the people, as well as the utter want of need for such under a benevolent government, is plainly indicated by all of the teachings of the sage concerning government, yet quoted or to be quoted. Only the following need be cited: “Duke Hwan assembled all the princes together nine times and did not use weapons of war and chariots. This was through the influence of Kwan Chung. Whose beneficence was like his?” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xvii., v. 2.)
The manner in which benevolent government knits all citizens into a united band of patriots, against whom no force, from within or without, can prevail, is thus described by Mencius: “With a territory which is only a hundred le square, it is possible to attain the Imperial dignity. If Your Majesty will give a benevolent government to your people, be sparing in punishments and fines and make the taxes and levies light, so causing fields to be ploughed deep and weeding to be carefully attended to and the strong-bodied, during their days of leisure, to cultivate filial piety, fraternal respectfulness, sincerity, truthfulness, serving thereby, at home, their fathers and elder brothers and, abroad, their elders and superiors—you will then have a people who can be employed with sticks they have prepared, to oppose the strong mail and sharp weapons of the troops of Ts‘in and Ts‘oo.’ ” (Bk. i., pt. i., c. v., v. 2, 3.)
And with yet more enthusiastic eloquence he celebrates the prowess of a united people under a leader whom all trust to the uttermost and their ability to overcome every foe and resist every assault, in this passage, condemning reliance upon mere strength of fortifications and armament: “With walls of great height, with moats of great depth, with arms, both of offence and defence, trenchant and mighty, with great stores of rice and other food, the city is surrendered and abandoned. This is because material advantages do not compensate for the absence of the spiritual union of men. Therefore is it said, ‘A people is protected, not by bulwarks and ditches; a kingdom is safeguarded, not by rivers and mountains; an empire is conquered, not by the superiority of arms!’ ” (Bk. ii., pt. ii., c. i., v. 3, 4.)
Kingly Qualities. “What is most potent is to be a man. Its influence will be felt throughout the state.” (Shi King, Sacrificial Odes of Káu, decade i., ode 4.)
Confucius makes these words of the “Shi King” more emphatic, when he says: “Let there be men and the government will flourish; but, without men, government decays and dies.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xx., v. 2.)
And it is also remarked in “The Great Learning”: “When the ruler excels as a father, a son, and a brother, then the people imitate him.” (C. ix., v. 8.)
The same is put in illustrative form in this legend of China’s dawn of history: “Shun, being in possession of the empire, selected from among all the people and employed Kaou-yaou, on which all who were devoid of virtue disappeared.” (Analects, bk. xii., c. xxii., v. 6.)
To Shun himself Confucius attributed that perfect poise which commanded because it was commanding and showered benefits because the king with all his heart desired the welfare of his people. Of him it is said in the “Analects”: “May not Shun be instanced as having governed efficiently without exertion? What did he do? He did nothing but gravely and reverently occupy the imperial seat.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. iv.)
In another passage a like majesty is ascribed also to Yu: “How majestic was the manner in which Shun and Yu held possession of the empire as if it were nothing to them!” (Analects, bk. viii., c. xviii.)
In the “Yi King” a much more detailed but somewhat extravagant description of the power of character in enforcing benevolent and beneficent rules of government is given, thus: “The Master said, ‘The superior man occupies his apartment and sends forth his words. If they be good, they will be responded to at a distance of more than a thousand li; how much more will they be so in the nearer circle! He occupies his apartment and sends forth his words. If they be evil they will awaken opposition at a distance of more than a thousand li; how much more will they do so in the nearer circle!’ ” (Appendix iii., sect. i., c. viii., v. 42.)
This subject comes abruptly out of the clouds to the level of practical, everyday life, however, when the following plain-spoken words from the lips of the sage are consulted in the “Analects”:
“If a minister make his own conduct correct, what difficulty will he have about assisting in government? If he cannot rectify himself, what has he to do with rectifying others?” (Bk. xiii., c. xiii.)
Mencius paid his tribute to the power of virtue, as follows: “In the empire there are three things universally acknowledged to be honourable. Nobility is one of them, age is one of them, virtue is one of them. In courts nobility holds first place, in villages age, and for usefulness to one’s generation and controlling the people, neither is equal to virtue.” (Bk. ii., pt. ii., c. ii., v. 6.)
It is difficult, however, even for Confucius to avoid enthusiasm in the statement of this proposition to which he returns again and again, as thus: “He who exercises government by means of his virtue, may be compared to the north polar star which keeps its place and all the stars turn toward it.” (Analects, bk. ii., c. i.)
In two other sayings, are presented different phases of this view: “When rulers love to observe the rules of propriety, the people respond readily to the calls upon them for service.” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xliv.) “The superior man does not use rewards, yet the people are stimulated to virtue. He does not show wrath, yet the people are more awed than by hatchets and battle-axes.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xxxiii., v. 4.)
Mencius also says: “When one subdues men by force, they do not submit to him in heart but because not strong enough to resist. When one subdues men by virtue, they are pleased to the heart’s core and sincerely submit.” (Bk. ii., pt. i., c. iii., v. 2.)
In the “Li Ki” the consequences upon the ruler and his government, of qualities opposite to these, are indicated by this significant question: “If his heart be not observant of righteousness, self-consecration, good faith, sincerity, and guilelessness, though a ruler may try to knit the people firmly to him, will not all bonds between them be dissolved?” (Bk. ii., sect. ii., pt. iii., 11.)
This picture is given by Confucius in the “Analects,” of a worthy and successful ruler: “By his generosity, he won all. By his sincerity, he made the people repose trust in him. By his earnest activity, his achievements were great. By his justice, all were delighted.” (Bk. xx., c. i., v. 9.)
I Yin, as quoted in the “Shu King,” thus eloquently descants upon the earnest aspirations of another ruler: “The former king, before it was light, sought to have large and clear views and then sat waiting for the dawn to put them into practice.” (Pt. iv., bk. v., 2.)
The Duke of Chin, according to the same book, thus defined the qualities that characterize the great minister: “Let me have but one resolute minister, plain and sincere, without other ability but having a straightforward mind, and possessed of generosity, regarding the talents of others as if he possessed them himself, and when he finds accomplished and sage men, loving them in his heart more than his mouth expresses, really showing himself able to bear them; such a minister would be able to preserve my descendants and people and would indeed be a giver of benefits.” (Pt. v., bk. xxx.)
Confucius himself, replying to the question of a disciple, gives an estimate of the most desirable qualifications for an officer of lower rank. It runs:
“Tsze-kung asked, ‘What qualities must a man possess to entitle him to be called an officer?’ The Master said, ‘He who in his own conduct maintains a sense of shame and when sent to any quarter, will not disgrace his prince’s commission, deserves to be called an officer.’
“Tsze-kung went on, ‘I venture to ask who may be placed in the next lower rank,’ and was told, ‘He whom the circle of his relatives pronounces filial, whom his fellow-villagers and neighbours pronounce fraternal.’
“He asked once more, ‘I venture to ask about the class next in order.’ The Master said, ‘They who are determined to be sincere in what they say and to carry out what they do. They are obstinate little men. Yet perhaps they make the next class.’ ” (Analects, bk. xiii., c. xx., v. 1, 2, 3.)
Some of the qualities which are most valuable in a public officer Confucius named in commending a contemporary thus: “The Master said of Tszech‘an that he had four of the characteristics of a superior man: ‘In his own conduct, he was humble; in serving his superiors, he was respectful; in providing for the people’s support, he was kind; in ordering the people, he was just.’ ” (Analects, bk. v., c. xv.)
The following conversation drew from Confucius a distinct statement of what quality in a ruler is most essential, i. e., humility and a deep sense of responsibility, and what quality is most destructive, i. e., a dictatorial, wrong-headed obstinacy, which brooks no advice, remonstrance, or opposition:
“The Duke Ting asked whether there was a single sentence which could make a country prosperous. Confucius replied:
“ ‘Such an effect cannot be expected from one sentence. There is a saying, however, which people have: To be a prince is difficult, to be a minister not easy. If a ruler know this, how difficult it is to be a prince, may there not be expected from this one sentence, that the country be made prosperous?’
“The duke then asked, ‘Is there a single sentence which can ruin a country?’ Confucius replied:
“ ‘Such an effect cannot be expected from one sentence. There is a saying, however, which people have: I have no pleasure in being prince, except that no one offers opposition to what I say. If a ruler’s words be good, is it not also good that no one oppose them? But if not good and no one opposes them, may there not be expected from this one sentence the ruin of the country?’ ” (Analects, bk. xiii., c. xv.)
That to die surrounded by the splendours of absolute sway does not assure, in the face of every evidence of misrule, that one has been successful, Confucius illustrates by this reference to Chinese history: “The Duke King of Ts‘e had a thousand chariots, each drawn by four horses; but on the day of his death the people did not honour him for a single virtue. P‘ih-e and Shu-ts‘e died of hunger at the foot of the Show-yang mountain, and yet the people honour them to this day.” (Analects, bk. xvi., c. xii., v. 1.)
And this glowing and inviting prospect he discloses for the ruler of men who bases his claim upon propriety, righteousness, and good faith: “If a superior love propriety, the people will not dare not to be reverent. If he love righteousness, the people will not dare not to conform to his desires. If he love good faith, the people will not dare not to be sincere. When these things obtain, the people from all quarters will come to him, bearing their children on their backs.” (Analects, bk. xiii., c. iv., v. 3.)
Power of Official Example. “The ruler must first himself be possessed of the qualities which he requires of the people; and must be free from the qualities which he requires the people to abjure.” (Great Learning, c. ix., v. 4.)
Thus Confucius emphasizes the most modern principle of “noblesse oblige”; nor does he leave it doubtful that what he means is that “example speaks louder than words,” especially when he whose conduct is in question stands forth in all men’s sight their chief and leader, for he is quoted by Mencius as saying: “What the superior man loves, his inferiors will be found to love exceedingly. The relation between superiors and inferiors is like that between the wind and the grass. The grass must bend when the wind blows upon it.” (Mencius, bk. iii., pt. i., c. ii., v. 4.)
In the “Li Ki” appears the following concerning the influence of the example set by the ruler: “The Master said, ‘Inferiors, in serving those over them, do not follow what they command, but what they do. When a ruler loves a given thing, his subjects will do so, more than he. Therefore he who is in authority should be careful about what he likes and what he dislikes; for these will be examples in the eyes of the people.’ ” (Li Ki, bk. xxx., 4.)
In the following, also from the “Li Ki,” he connects it with the most powerful sanction for ethical conduct known to the Chinese, i. e., filial piety: “When a man who is over others transgresses in his words, the people will fashion their speech accordingly; when he transgresses in his conduct, the people will imitate him as their model. If in his words he does not go beyond what should be said, nor in his acts beyond what should be done, then the people, without direction so to do, will revere and honour him. When this is so, he has respected himself; and having respected himself, he will have honoured his parents to the utmost.” (Bk. xxiv., 13.)
“The Great Learning” thus derives both the safety and the peril of the state, in this regard, from the observation of filial and fraternal obligations within the family: “From the love within one family, the entire state may be made loving; from its courtesies, the entire state be made courteous; while from the ambition and perverseness of one man, the entire state may be led into rebellion; such is the power of example.” (C. ix., v. 3.)
In the same book it is put thus: “In the Book of Poetry it is said: ‘In his deportment there is nothing wrong; he rectifies all the people of the state.’ When the ruler, as a father, a son, and a brother, is exemplary, the people will imitate him.” (C. ix., v. 8.)
In the “Analects,” Confucius has repeatedly announced this truth, as in these words: “When a prince’s personal conduct is correct, his government is effective without the issuing of orders. When his personal conduct is not correct, he may issue orders but they will not be obeyed.” (Bk. xiii., c. vi.)
One reason that so much greater potency inheres in what he who presides over the destiny of a people does, than in what he says or even commands, Confucius assigns in this saying: “The people may be made to follow a course of action, but they may not be made to understand it.” (Analects, bk. viii., c. ix.)
And Confucius accentuates the lesson in this: “Though a man have abilities as admirable as those of the duke of Chow, yet if he be proud and niggardly, those other things are really not worth being looked at.” (Analects, bk. viii., c. xi.)
Yet not too much, nor that too soon, must be expected even of the most brilliant and efficacious righteousness of the man in command, when for a long time disorder and demoralization have prevailed. In the “Analects” Confucius says of this: “If a truly royal ruler were to arrive, it would require a generation and then virtue would prevail.” (Bk. xiii., c. xii.)
Yet he urged that the ruler rely upon the purity of his desire, his example, and persuasion of the people to love and practise what is good, rather than upon proscription and penalties; and he says: “If the people be led by laws and uniformity sought to be given them by punishments, they will try to avoid the punishment but have no sense of guilt. If they be led by virtue and uniformity sought to be given them by the rules of propriety, they will have the sense of guilt and moreover will become good.” (Analects, bk. ii., c. iii.)
Again he inquires, most significantly: “In carrying on your government, why should you use killing at all? Let your desires be for what is good, and the people will be good.” (Analects, bk. xii., c. xix.)
And in a like spirit he rebukes a prince who complained to him, thus: “Ke K‘ang Tze, distressed about the prevalence of thieves, inquired of Confucius how to suppress them. Confucius replied: ‘If you yourself were not covetous, they would not steal, though you should offer a reward for stealing.’ ” (Analects, bk. xii., c. xviii.)
His disciple, Tsang Tze, thus imposes upon every man who occupies high station the obligation to guard his demeanour, deportment, speech, and conduct to the end that none of those who look up to him shall be corrupted thereby: “There are three principles of conduct which the man of high rank should consider specially important: that in his deportment and manner he keep from violence and heedlessness; that in regulating his countenance he keep near to sincerity; and that in word and tone he keep far from lowness and impropriety.” (Analects, bk. viii., c. iv., v. 3.)
Upon the chief ruler of China, the leader and exemplar for all the people, this responsibility is so made to rest that, were it fully realized in actual government, every emperor would present the touching and edifying picture of an Abraham Lincoln, bending beneath the heavy burdens of the people whom he so loved and so served with conscientious reverence. For these words the sage puts into the prayer of him whom imperial sway makes the servant of all his people: “If, in my own person, I commit offences, they are not to be attributed to you, ye people of the myriad regions. If ye in the myriad regions commit offences, the guilt must rest upon my head.” (Analects, bk. xx., c. i., v. 3.)
Universal Education. “When the man of high station is well instructed, he loves men; when the man of low station is well instructed, he is easily ruled.” (Analects, bk. xvii., c. iv., v. 3.)
Thus Confucius sets forth the necessity for general education of all classes of the people and the benefits in respect of government which flow from it. In another place, he says, even more significantly, of the levelling power of education: “There being instruction, there will be no distinction of classes.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xxxviii.)
This levelling extended also to those of the highest rank and beyond school-days into official life, determining the fitness and title to public office. Thus the “Hsun Tse” (bk. ix.) says of this: “Even among the sons of the emperor, the princes, and the great officials, if they were not qualified to rites and justice, they should be put down to the class of common people; even among the sons of the common people, if they have good education and character and are qualified to rites and justice, they should be elevated to the class of ministers and nobles.”
According to the “Li Ching,” the education of the child commences with its conception, and accordingly explicit instructions are given to secure proper prenatal influences and ward off evil influences. The instructions are as to physical, mental, and moral conduct of the mother during gestation, with the direct object of producing a strong, intelligent, and moral human being.
The value and potency of education are set forth in the same work (bk. xlviii.) as follows: “When a child is trained completely, his education is just as strong as his nature; and when he practises anything constantly, he will do it naturally as a permanent habit.”
Mencius made the following sage and practical remark concerning another aspect of the relation of education to government: “Good government is feared by the people, while good instruction is loved by them. Good government gets the people’s wealth, while good instruction wins their hearts.” (Bk. vii., pt. i., c. xiv., v. 3.)
In this, of course the expression “good government” means much the same as in modern politics, i. e., “business men’s government,” bent upon securing order and economy only, but often utterly disregarding the desires and even the essential well-being of the lowly and oppressed. Real “good government” necessarily includes instruction; and that Mencius fully understood this, the following penetrating remark from his book fully substantiates: “Men possess a moral nature; but if they are well fed, warmly clad, and comfortably lodged, without at the same time being instructed, they become like unto beasts.” (Bk. iii., pt. i., c. iv., v. 8.)
This principle, that education is the great and constant need of all minds and most especially of the mind of him who would lead others, Mencius also applied remorselessly to the princes of his day, as a paramount duty resting upon them, in this passage: “Now, throughout the empire, the jurisdictions of the princes are of equal extent and none excels his fellows in achievement. Not one is able to go beyond the others. This is from no other reason than that they love to make ministers of those whom they teach rather than to make ministers of those by whom they might themselves be taught.” (Bk. ii., pt. ii., c. ii., v. 9.)
And to the burden of this responsibility, i. e., at all times to be earnestly and humbly seeking instruction themselves, he thus added the duty of providing for the education of the people, coupled with the promise of such fulfilment of ambitions as naturally flows from excellence in the performance of obligations already assumed: “Let careful attention be paid to education in schools, inculcating in it especially the filial and fraternal duties, and grey-haired men will not be seen upon the roads, bearing burdens on their backs or on their heads. It never has been that the ruler of a state where such results were seen—persons of seventy wearing silks and eating flesh and the black-haired people suffering neither from hunger nor cold—did not attain to the Imperial dignity.” (Mencius, bk. i., pt. i., c. iii., v. 4.)
That these were not intended as mere platitudes is shown, not merely by the result that in China for thousands of years education has been the test, on a strictly competitive basis, without regard to wealth, social position, and influence of forbears, by which political preferment has been determined; but also by the strictly practical statements concerning popular instruction, such as this from the “Li Ki”: “If he wish to transform the people and to perfect their manners and customs, must he not start with the lessons of the school?” (Bk. xvi., 1.)
The established public means of education are thus described in the same book: “According to the system of ancient teaching, for the families of a hamlet (25) there was the village school; for a neighbourhood (500 families) there was the academy; for a larger district (2500 families), the college; and in the capitals, a university.” (Bk. xvi., 4.)
That there may be no question that the competitive examination was already the essential for political appointment or advancement, this is also quoted from the “Li Ki”: “Every year some entered the college and every second year there was a competitive examination.” (Bk. xvi., 5.)
The accepted and approved purpose of instruction, as laid down in the “Li Ki,” is also most progressive and may to advantage, perhaps, be contrasted with the insistence, now happily subsiding, in Occidental nations that “the three R’s,” i. e., reading, writing, and arithmetic, if indeed so much as that, are quite sufficient and all that, or more than, the government should concern itself to secure for the people. This passage illustrates the view in China, even before Confucius came to instruct his people for all time: “Teaching should be directed to develop that in which the pupil excels, and correct the defects to which he is prone.” (Li Ki, bk. xvi., 14.)
Modern courses in psychology for the instruction of teachers were anticipated also in the olden times, centuries before the Christian era; and the whole matter had been clearly and discriminatingly put, as in this from the “Li Ki”: “Among pupils there are four defects with which the teacher must make himself acquainted. Some err by assuming too many branches of study; some, too few; some in over-facility; some, in want of persistence. These four defects arise from the differences of their minds. When the teacher understands the character of his pupil’s mind, he can rescue him from the fault to which he is prone.” (Bk. xvi., 14.)
It is also said upon this interesting topic: “When a man of talents and virtue understands the stupidity of one pupil and the precocity of another in the attainment of knowledge and also comprehends the good and bad qualities of his pupils, he can vary his methods of teaching accordingly. When he can vary his methods of teaching, he is indeed a master. When so fitted to be a teacher, he is qualified for administrative office; and when so qualified for administrative office, he is even fitted to be chosen as ruler of the state. Therefore is it that from a teacher one learns how to be a ruler; and therefore that in the choice of a teacher the greatest care should be exercised. As it is said in the History: ‘The three kings and the four dynasties were what they were, by reason of their teachers.’ ” (Li Ki, bk. xvi., 16.)
This also, from the same source, bears upon the psychology of the problem of teaching and also shows that the true meaning of “to educate” was already apprehended: “When a superior man knows the causes which make instruction successful and those which make it of no effect, he can become a teacher of others. Thus, in his teaching, he draws out and does not merely carry along; he encourages and does not discourage; he opens up the subject but does not exhaust it, leaving the student nothing to do. Drawing out and not merely dragging along produces concert of effort. Encouraging and not restraining makes it easy to go forward. Opening up the subject and not exhausting it forces the student himself to think. He who brings about this concert of action, this ready advancement, and this independent initiative of thought may be pronounced a skilful teacher.” (Bk. xvi., 13.)
Confucius, in the “Analects,” twice gives expression to the same fundamental principle: “With one like Tsze, I can commence talking about the Odes. I told him one point and he knew its proper sequence.” (Bk. vii., c. viii.) “I do not open up the truth to one who is not eager for knowledge, nor help out any one who is not himself anxious to explore causes. When I have presented one corner of a subject to any one and he cannot learn from it the other three, I do not repeat my lesson.” (Bk. xii., c. viii.)
In its entirety this was a course necessary for Confucius with his great work to do, but scarcely practicable for all teachers for the reason that all must be instructed, whether bright or dull, whether studious or indolent; the sage’s impatience with sluggishness and dulness, the ordinary teacher could not imitate, except by utterly destroying his usefulness. In consequence, therefore, the sage nowhere recommends such procedure to teachers, whether of the young or of the mature.
In the “Li Ki,” the correct view of this aspect of teaching is thus set forth with considerable fulness: “The skilful student, though his teacher seems indifferent, yet attains double as much as another and in the sequel ascribes the credit to his teacher. The unskilful, though his teacher be diligent with him, makes but half the progress and in the sequel blames his teacher. The skilful inquirer is like a workman addressing himself to deal with a hard log: first he attacks the easy parts and then the knotty. After applying himself a good while, he talks with his teacher and all is plain. The unskilful does the contrary.” (Bk. xvi., 18.)
The popular impression among Occidental peoples—so far as they have any impression—concerning the instruction of Chinese children is well illustrated by what the “Li Ki” condemns in this passage: “Under the system of instruction now in use the teachers hum over the tablets which they have before them and ask many questions. They then speak of their pupils making rapid progress but pay no attention to whether they retain what they have been taught. They are not earnest in imposing burdens upon their pupils nor do they put forth all their power to instruct them. The habits they thus cause the pupils to form are not good and the students are disappointed about attaining what they seek. Accordingly, they find their studies onerous and despise their teachers; they are embittered by the difficulties they encounter and realize but poor results of their toil. They may appear to do their work but they quickly lose what they acquire. That there are no stable results of their instruction, is it not due to these defects in their teacher?” (Bk. xvi., 10.)
That the good teacher is to be regarded as an important member of the community and must be treated with respect and veneration, in order that he may best perform his useful function, is inculcated also in the “Li Ki” in these terms: “In providing a system of education, one trouble is to secure proper respect for the teacher; when such is assured, what he teaches will also be regarded with respect; when that is done, the people will know how to respect learning. Therefore is it that there are two of his subjects whom the ruler does not treat as such: him who is personating his ancestor at the sacrifice, he does not so treat, nor yet his own teacher.” (Bk. xvi., 17.)
The same book names the following as the objects to be sought in education: “In all learning, for him who would be an officer, the first thing is the knowledge of business; for scholars, the first thing is the directing of the mind.” (Bk. xvi., 6.)
And it thus urges the desirability of class-work, as affording abundant opportunity for companionship, a just estimate of one’s acquirements and true culture: “To study alone and without friends makes one feel solitary, uncultivated, and but little informed.” (Bk. xvi., 12.)
In the same book, this brief description of the method of Confucius is to be found: “The Master taught them by means of current events; and made them understand what was virtuous.” (Bk. vi., sect. i., 17.)
The following are a few of the passages in the “Analects,” some of which have already been quoted in other connections, that shed light upon the methods of teaching followed by Confucius and the subjects which he taught:
“The subjects on which the Master did not talk were extraordinary things, feats of strength, disorder, and spiritual beings.” (Bk. vii., c. xx.)
“There are four things which the Master taught: letters, ethics, devotion of soul, and truthfulness.” (Bk. vii., c. xxiv.)
“The Master said, ‘Hwuy gives me no assistance. There is nothing that I say in which he does not delight.’ ” (Bk. xi., c. iii.)
“The Master said, ‘To those whose talents are above mediocrity the highest subjects may be announced. To those who are below mediocrity the highest subjects may not be announced.’ ” (Bk. vi., c. xvii.)
“There was Yen Hwuy; he loved to learn. He did not transfer his anger; he did not repeat a fault.” (Bk. vi., c. ii.)
“I have talked with Hwuy for a whole day and he has not made any objection—quite as if he were stupid. He has retired and I have examined his conduct while out of my sight and found him able to illustrate my teaching. Hwuy? He is not stupid.” (Bk. ii., c. ix.)
“The Master said to Tsze-Kung, ‘Which do you consider superior, yourself or Hwuy?’ Tsze-Kung replied, ‘How dare I compare myself with Hwuy? Hwuy hears one point and understands the whole subject; I hear one point and understand the next.’ The Master said, ‘You are not equal to him. I grant you, you are not equal to him.’ ” (Bk. v., c. viii.)
“The Master’s frequent themes of discourse were the Odes, the History, and the observance of the rules of propriety. On all these he frequently discoursed.” (Bk. vii., c. xvii.)
The importance and indeed the necessity of popular education Confucius often dwelt upon, placing it next after mere physical sustenance for the people, as in this passage:
“When the Master went to Wei, Yen Yew acted as driver of his carriage.
“The Master observed, ‘How numerous are the people!’
“Yew said, ‘Since they are thus numerous, what more shall be done for them?’ ‘Make them prosperous’ was the reply.
“ ‘And when they are prosperous, what then shall be done?’ The Master said, ‘Instruct them.’ ” (Analects, bk. xiii., c. ix.)
Law and Order. “The Duke King, of Ts‘e, asked Confucius about government. Confucius replied, ‘It is when the prince is prince, the minister is minister, the father is father, the son is son.’ ” (Analects, bk. xii., c. xi.)
Thus Confucius in the “Analects” enjoins the necessity for order in the state. Both the things requisite for the maintenance of good order and the conditions that lead to disorder, he thus describes in another place: “When good government prevails in the empire, ceremonies, music, and punitive military expeditions proceed from the emperor. When bad government prevails in the empire, ceremonies, music, and punitive expeditions proceed from the princes. When they proceed from the princes, as a rule the cases will be few in which they do not lose their power in ten generations. When they proceed from the great officers of the princes, as a rule the cases will be few in which they do not lose their power in five generations. When the subsidiary ministers of the great officers hold in their grasp the orders of the kingdom, as a rule the cases will be few in which they do not lose their power in three generations.” (Analects, bk. xvi., c. ii., v. 1.)
The peril to the state within which, in the words of the English poet, “wealth accumulates and men decay” was vividly present in the sage’s mind, as this saying from the “Li Ki” abundantly witnesses: “The Master said, ‘Under heaven the cases are few in which the poor have enjoyment, the rich love the rules of propriety, and families that are powerful remain quiet and orderly.’ ” (Bk. xxvii., c. iii.)
In the “Shu King,” the following declaration of King Khang is to be found: “Families which have for generations enjoyed places of emolument seldom observe the rules of propriety.” (Pt. v., bk. xxiv., 3.)
And, also in the “Shu King,” the Duke of Kau is represented as saying of the evil effects sometimes witnessed, when even a moderate amount of unearned wealth passes to untutored youth: “I have observed among the lower people that, where the parents have diligently laboured in sowing and reaping, their sons often do not understand this painful toil, but abandon themselves to ease and to village slang and become quite disorderly.” (Pt. v., bk. xv., 1.)
King Wu, however, one of the almost mythical monarchs and heroes of the earlier period of Chinese history, yet more powerfully portrays in the same book the depths to which disorder and demoralization may descend: “All who themselves commit crimes, robbing, stealing, practising villainy and treachery, and who kill men or violently assault them to take their property, being reckless and defiant of death—these are abhorred by all.” (Pt. v., bk. ix., 3.)
The course of one who restored order in the kingdom was thus warmly commended by Confucius in the “Analects”: “He carefully attended to the weights and measures, examined the body of the laws, restored those who had been unjustly removed from office; and the good government of the empire took its course.” (Bk. xx., c. i., v. 6.)
The duty of care in the selection of administrative officers is particularly enjoined by him as in the following: “Employ first the services of your various officers, pardon small faults, and raise to office men of virtue and talents. Chung-kung said, ‘How shall I know the men of virtue and talents, so that I may raise them to office?’ He was answered, ‘Raise to office those whom you know. As to those whom you do not know, will others neglect them?’ ” (Analects, bk. xiii., c. ii., v. 2.)
This is the sage’s characterization of the course of a wise king in the selection and discharge of officers: “He does not cause the great ministers to repine at his not employing them. Without some great cause, he does not dismiss from their offices the members of old families. He does not seek in one man talents for every employment.” (Analects, bk. xviii., c. x.)
Due consideration of whether one’s friends and even, indeed especially, one’s relatives may not be fit for office, is not discouraged but instead insisted upon in the same passage: “The Duke of Chow addressed his son, the Duke of Loo, saying, ‘The virtuous prince does not neglect his relatives.’ ” (Analects, bk. xviii., c. x.)
In favour of this course, he urges the following arguments: “When those who are in high stations perform well their duties to their relatives, the people are aroused to virtue. When old friends are not neglected by them, the people are preserved from meanness.” (Analects, bk. viii., c. ii., v. 2.)
The acceptance of office for “what there is in it” or otherwise than as a sacred trust, he thus denounces: “Heen asked what is shameful. The Master said, ‘When good government prevails in a state, to be thinking only of one’s salary; and when bad government prevails, to be thinking, in the same way, only of one’s salary. This is shameful.’ ” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. i.)
In the “Li Ki,” Confucius is quoted as saying that it is safer and better in every way to wait until a man’s death to confer any special honour upon him, thus: “The Master said, ‘When honours and rewards are first conferred upon the dead and afterward upon the living, people will not depart from the course of the honoured dead.’ ” (Bk. xxvii., 10.)
That both the ruler and his ministers are subject to and should be governed by the elemental principles of right and wrong, which are of universal obligation, he here affirms: “A prince should employ his ministers according to the rules of propriety; ministers should serve their prince with faithfulness.” (Analects, bk. iii., c. xix.)
In the “Li Ki,” this caution to ministers and public officers is given: “Affairs of state should not be privately discussed.” (Bk. i., sect. iii., pt. i.)
In the “Shu King” are found these instructions, among others, for the judges of the criminal courts: “It is not persons with crafty tongues who should try criminal cases, but persons who are really good, whose judgments will exemplify the due mean. Watch carefully for discrepancies in statements; the view you intended not to adopt, you may find reason to adopt. With pity and reverence determine the issues; painstakingly consult the penal code; give ear to all respecting the matter—to the end that your judgment may exemplify the due mean, whether in imposing a fine or another punishment, by careful investigation and the solution of every difficulty. When the trial has such an event, all will acknowledge that the judgment is just; and so likewise will the sovereign do, when the report reaches him.” (Pt. v., bk. xxvii., 5.)
The same book lays down this discriminating fundamental for the administration of justice, recognizing that criminality consists in intent: “You pardon inadvertent faults, however great; and punish purposed crimes, however small.” (Pt. ii., bk. ii., 2.)
Another passage of this ancient book asserts in words ascribed to Kau-Yau, speaking to Shun, a maxim of criminal justice which many suppose to be peculiar to its administration in Anglo-Saxon countries: “Rather than put an innocent person to death, you will run the risk of irregularity and error.” (Pt. ii., bk. ii., 2.)
In the “Li Ki,” the following passage describes the emoluments of public officers, indicating the use of “standards of value” much less subject to fluctuation than the precious metals: “The officers of the lowest grade in the feudal states received salary sufficient to feed nine individuals; those of the second grade, enough to feed eighteen; and those of the highest, enough for thirty-six. A great officer could feed 72 individuals, a minister 288, and the ruler 2880. In a state of the second class, a minister could feed 216, and the ruler 2160. A minister of a small state could feed 144 individuals and the ruler 1440.” (Bk. iii., sect. v., 24.)
There were also restrictions in those days upon the military defence and equipment of states and cities, intended to keep down the spirit of domination and to avoid revolt. The “Li Ki” thus describes these laws: “Hence it was made the rule that no state should have more than 1000 chariots, no chief city’s wall more than 100 embrasures, no family more than 100 chariots, however opulent. These regulations were intended for the protection of the people; yet some of the governors of states rebelled against them.” (Bk. xxvii., 3.)
The foregoing are some of the more important of the things which Confucius and the ancients before him deemed prerequisite to the maintenance of good order throughout the nation. The breadth and depth of statesmanship required are even better set forth in this saying of Confucius: “The superior man governs men according to their nature, with what is proper to them.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xiii., v. 21.)
With greater circumstantiality, yet in a very brief compass, he sets forth the prerequisites anew in this sentence: “To rule a country of a thousand chariots, there must be reverent attention to business, and sincerity; economy in expenditure, and love for men; and the employment of the people at the proper seasons.” (Analects, bk. i., c. v.)
The course of wisdom when there is not good government, he marks out as follows: “When good government prevails in a state, language may be lofty and bold, and actions the same. When bad government prevails, the actions may be lofty and bold, but the language may be with some reserve.” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. iv.)
The manner in which a state may crumble and decay and therefore succumb to superior force and pass away, Mencius thus describes: “A man must first despise himself and then others will despise him. A family must first destroy itself and then others will destroy it. A kingdom must first strike down itself and then others will strike it down.” (Bk. iv., pt. i., c. viii., v. 4.)
Duty Respecting Acceptance of Office. “When right principles of government prevail in the empire, he will show himself; when they are prostrated, he will keep retired.” (Analects, bk. viii., c. xiii., v. 2.)
In the “Analects,” Confucius thus described the duty of the superior man as regards accepting office and retiring from it. The following, to like effect, is attributed, in the “Analects,” to Tsze-chang: “The minister, Tsze-wan, thrice took office and manifested no joy in his countenance. Thrice he retired from office and manifested no displeasure. He made it a point to inform the new minister of the way in which he had conducted the government.” (Bk. v., c. xviii., v. 1.)
Confucius again gave voice to the same sentiment in this: “When good government prevails in the state, he is to be found in office. When bad government prevails, he can roll his principles up and keep them in his breast.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. xi., v. 2.)
Indeed, he proclaimed it the part of a wise and prudent man to quit a badly governed state forthwith: “Such an one will not enter a tottering state nor dwell in a disorganized one.” (Analects, bk. viii., c. xiii., v. 2.)
Yet he quoted with warm approval the following reply of Hwuy, when reproved for remaining in a state which had dismissed him for acting the part of a righteous judge: “Hwuy of Lew-hea, being chief criminal judge, was thrice dismissed from office. Someone said to him, ‘Is it not time for you, sir, to quit the country?’ He replied, ‘Serving men in an upright way, where shall I go and not experience such a thrice-repeated dismissal? If I chose to serve men in a crooked way, what need would there be that I leave the country of my parents?’ ” (Analects, bk. xviii., c. ii.)
The border-warden at E, having interviewed Confucius after the latter had been deprived of office, announced: “My friends, why are you distressed by your Master’s loss of office? The empire has long been without principles; Heaven is going to use your Master as a wooden-tongued bell.” (Analects, bk. iii., c. xxiv.)
Confucius, however, held it to be no part of the duty of an officer who has been discharged, to air his grievances and criticize his successor, as witness these words, spoken to Yen Yuen: “The Master said to Yen Yuen, ‘When called to office, to undertake its duties; when not so called, to lie retired,—it is only I and you who have attained to this!’ ” (Analects, bk. vii., c. x., v. 1.)
And at another time he spoke even more to the point in this fashion: “He who is not in a particular office has nothing to do with the plan for the administration of its duties.” (Analects, bk. viii., c. xiv.)
Acceptance of retirement from office, absolute acquiescence in it, even warm welcome of it and refusal to accept even the most exalted official station were warmly commended, as in this: “The Master said, ‘T’ao-pih may be said to have reached the highest point in virtuous action. Thrice he declined the empire, and the people could not express their approbation of his conduct.’ ” (Analects, bk. viii., c. i.)
Yet service and even ambition to be called to public service were recommended to his disciples, as in this: “When you are living in any state, take service with the most worthy among its great officers and make friends with the most virtuous among its scholars.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. ix.)
And his disciple, Tsze-Loo, holds that, when called to office and conscious of ability to render valuable service, the superior man is obliged to respond, albeit both against his inclination and against his judgment, in that the conditions will not permit thorough reform: “Not to take office is wrong. If the relations between old and young may not be neglected, how is it that he sets aside the duties that should be observed between the sovereign and the minister? Wishing to maintain his personal purity, he allows that great relation to come to confusion. A superior man takes office and performs the righteous duties belonging to it. As to the failure of right principles to make progress, he is aware of that.” (Analects, bk. xviii., c. vii., v. 5.)
Government Is by the Consent of the Governed. “By winning the people, the kingdom is won; by losing the people, the kingdom is lost.” (Great Learning, c. x., v. 5.)
This statement taken from “The Great Learning” is characteristic of the view of Confucius concerning government. It was already old in his time, however; for in the “Shu King,” the following is quoted among the most ancient “Cautions of the Great Yu”: “The people are the root of a country.” (Pt. iii., bk. iii.)
And in the same book, the great ruler, Shun, is reported as saying: “Of all who are to be feared, are not the people the chief?” (Pt. ii., bk. ii., 2.)
Mencius gives much fuller and more detailed expression to the view in this passage: “That Kee and Chow lost the empire arose from their losing the people; to lose the people means to lose their hearts. There is a way to get the empire—get the people and it is yours. There is a way to get the people—win their hearts and they are yours. There is a way to win their hearts—simply procure for them what they like and lay not upon them what they do not like. The people turn to a benevolent government as water flows down hill and as wild beasts flee to the wilderness.” (Bk. iv., pt. i., c. ix., v. 1, 2.)
The following concerning the truly royal ruler is quoted in “The Great Learning”: “When he loves what the people love and hates what the people hate, then is a ruler what is called the parent of his people.” (C. x., v. 3.)
That the sage did not mean thereby to commend the acts of the demagogue, which are also vain, Mencius indicates in this brief saying: “If a governor will please everyone, he will find the days not sufficient.” (Bk. iv., pt. ii., c. ii., v. 5.)
Yet to King Hwuy, of Leang, he thus presents the reward for protecting and serving the people: “Those rulers, as it were, drive their people into pitfalls and drown them. Your Majesty will go to punish them. In such a case, who will oppose Your Majesty?” (Bk. i., pt. i., c. v., v. 5.)
Ch‘êng Tang, in the “Shu King,” thus attributes all wisdom to the people and invariable correctness to their deliberate choice: “The great God has conferred on the common people a moral sense, compliance with which would show their nature invariably right.” (Pt. iv., bk. iii., 2.)
In the “Shi King” the same view is expressed in these words: “Heaven, in giving birth to the multitude of the people, to every faculty and relationship annexed its law. The people possess this normal nature, and they love normal virtue.” (Major Odes, ode 6, decade iii.)
And in the “Shu King” I Yin expatiates upon it more at length as follows: “There is no invariable model of virtue; a supreme regard for what is good makes a model for it. There is no invariable characteristic of what is good that is to be supremely regarded; it is found where there is a conformity with the common consciousness as to what is good.” (Pt. iv., bk. vi., 3.)
Mencius unhesitatingly applied this in the most democratic manner, as in this: “If the people of Yen will be pleased at your taking possession of it, do so. Among the ancients one acted upon this principle, King Wu. If the people of Yen will not be pleased at your taking possession of it, do not do so. Among the ancients one acted upon this principle, King Wan.” (Bk. i., pt. i., c. x., v. 3.)
But he does not content himself merely with citing precedents in the conduct of the half-mythical fathers; instead, as in his conversation with King Seang, of Leang, he boldly affirmed the fundamental principle that the people are the sole source of power:
“ ‘How can the empire be settled?’
“ ‘It will be settled by being united under one sway.’
“ ‘Who can so unite it?’
“ ‘He who has no pleasure in killing men can so unite it.’
“ ‘Who can give it to him?’
“ ‘All the people of the empire will unanimously give it to him.’ ” (Mencius, bk. i., c. vi., v. 2, 3, 4, 5, 6.)
That merit produces the confidence of the people in their ruler and thereby secures for him his throne, Mencius asserts in this conversation, which has come down to us:
“Wan Chang asked, ‘Is it true that Yaou gave the empire to Shun?’
“Mencius answered: ‘No. The emperor cannot give the empire to another.’
“ ‘Yes, but Shun got the empire. Who gave it to him?’
“ ‘Heaven gave it to him.’
“ ‘Heaven gave it to him? Did Heaven confer this appointment upon him in express terms?’
“ ‘No. Heaven does not speak. It simply showed its will by his personal behaviour and his management of affairs.’ ” (Bk. v., pt. i., c. v., v. 1, 2, 3, 4.)
The divine right of kings he did not deny; instead he proclaimed it, but only with this explanation, taken from an ancient source: “This sentiment is expressed in the words of the Great Declaration: ‘Heaven sees as my people see; Heaven hears as my people hear.’ ” (Bk. v., pt. i., c. v., v. 8.)
In the “Li Ki,” it is even related that in earlier days all was democratic, thus: “There was nowhere such a thing as being born noble. . . . Anciently, there was no rank in birth and no honorary title after death.” (Bk. ix., sect. iii., 5.)
In the same book, the existence of a hereditary monarchy is deplored as a sign of degeneration, in these words: “Now that the Grand Course has fallen into disuse and obscurity, the kingdom is a family inheritance.” (Bk. vii., sect. i., 3.)
The Right to Depose the Ruler. “Tsze-loo asked how a sovereign should be served. The Master said: ‘Do not impose on him, and, moreover, withstand him to his face.’ ” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xxiii.)
In another place in the “Analects,” however, the disciple, Tsze-hea, explains the requisite foundation for such boldness of conduct, thus: “Having obtained the confidence of his prince, he may then remonstrate with him. If he have not gained his confidence, the prince will think that he is vilifying him.” (Bk. xix., c. x.)
Mencius thus characterizes this friendly, though perilous action: “It was then that the Che-shaou and Keo-shaou were made, in the poetry of which it was said: ‘What blame is there for restraining one’s prince? He who restrains his prince is his friend.’ ” (Bk. i., pt. ii., c. iv., v. 10.)
In the “Li Ki” this duty of the minister is yet more circumstantially described, as follows: “One in the position of a minister and inferior might remonstrate with his ruler, but not speak ill of him; might withdraw but not remain and hate; might praise but not flatter; might remonstrate but not give himself haughty airs when his advice is followed. If the ruler were idle and indifferent, he might arouse and assist him; if the government were going to wreck, he might sweep it away and institute a new one.” (Bk. xv., 21.)
Neither Confucius nor Mencius avoided this duty of protest and of rebuke. The following from Mencius is an instance:
“ ‘Suppose the chief criminal judge could not regulate the officers; how would you deal with him?’
“The king said: ‘Dismiss him.’
“ ‘If within the four borders of your kingdom there is not good government, what is to be done?’
“The king looked to the right and left, and spoke of other matters.” (Bk. i., pt. ii., c. vi., v. 2, 3.)
Yet in the “Analects” this is found, by way of warning: “Tsze-Yew said: ‘In serving one’s prince, frequent remonstrances lead to disgrace.’ ” (Bk. iv., c. xxvi.)
The estimate which the people, however, place upon the contrary course is well set forth in this: “The Master said: ‘The full observance of the rules of propriety in serving one’s prince [i.e., by himself, Confucius] is accounted by the people to be flattery.’ ” (Analects, bk. iii., c. xviii.)
Confucius offers this counsel to the great minister who finds his mild persuasion and counsel rejected: “What is called a great minister is one who serves his prince according to what is right, and when he finds he cannot do so, retires.” (Analects, bk. xi., c. xxiii., v. 3.)
Mencius advises a more Spartan course on the part of a monarch’s relatives if he proves impracticable, thus:
“The king said: ‘I beg to ask about the chief ministers who are noble and related to the prince.’
“Mencius answered: ‘If the prince have great faults, they ought to remonstrate with him; and, if he do not listen to them after they have done so again and again, they ought to depose him.’ ” (Bk. v., pt. ii., c. ix., v. 1.)
Mencius thus justified even regicide, when the circumstances call for it:
“King Seuen of Ts‘e asked: ‘Is it true that T‘ang banished Kee and that King Wu slew Chow?’
“Mencius replied: ‘History tells us so.’
“The king asked: ‘May a minister put his sovereign to death?’
“Mencius said: ‘He who outrages benevolence is called a robber; he who outrages righteousness, is called a ruffian. The robber and ruffian we call a mere fellow. I have heard of the execution of the fellow, Chow, but I have not so heard of one’s sovereign being put to death.’ ” (Bk. i., pt. ii., c. viii.)
CHAPTER VI
CULTIVATION OF THE FINE ARTS
Confucius held that the encouragement of the fine arts was no less a duty of the state than the protection of the people from foreign foes and the suppression of internal disorder.
The Fine Arts in General. “When good government prevails in the empire, ceremonies, music, and punitive military expeditions proceed from the emperor.” (Analects, bk. xvi., c. ii., v. 1.)
This saying of Confucius, recorded in the “Analects” and suggesting that wise patronage and encouragement of art by the government which has distinguished the most enlightened governments of ancient and of modern times, was reenforced without ceasing by Mencius when he rebuked princes who indulged themselves, but failed to share their pleasures with the meanest citizen. Thus he said: “If the people are not able to enjoy themselves, they condemn them that are over them. Thus to condemn their superiors when they cannot enjoy themselves is wrong; but when they that are over the people do not make pleasure a thing common to all as to themselves, they also do wrong.” (Bk. i., pt. ii., c. iv., v. 1, 2.)
And again, speaking of beauty in woman: “If Your Majesty loves beauty, let the people be able to gratify the same feeling!” (Bk. i., pt. ii., c. v., v. 5.)
Confucius repeatedly emphasized the importance of the cultivation of the arts, as when he said of himself: “When I had no official employment, I acquired many arts.” (Analects, bk. ix., c. vi., v. 4.) Among these were, of course, letters in which he excelled all others, ceremonies in which he had no peer, and music in which he was also trained, both as a critic and as a performer.
To others he gave this counsel: “Let relaxation and enjoyment be found in the polite arts!” (Analects, bk. vii., c. vi., v. 4.) “It is by the Odes that the mind is aroused. It is by the rules of propriety that the character is established.” (Analects, bk. viii., c. viii., v. 1, 2.)
In the “Li Ki” is this admonition: “A scholar should constantly pursue what is virtuous and find recreation in the arts.” (Bk. xv., v. 22.)
His disciples related of him: “The Master’s frequent themes of discourse were: the Odes, History, and the maintenance of the rules of propriety.” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xvii.) “There were four things which the Master taught: letters, ethics, devotion of soul, and truthfulness.” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xxiv.)
The following disjointed passages, apropos of nothing else in common, indicate the appreciation by the sage of æsthetic values of the most varied character: “I have not seen one who loves virtue as he loves beauty.” (Analects, bk. ix., c. xvii., and bk. xv., c. xii.) “The Master, standing by a stream, remarked: ‘It flows on like this, never ceasing, day and night!’ ” (Analects, bk. ix., c. xvi.) “Is it not delightful to have friends coming from distant quarters?” (Analects, bk. i., c. i., v. 2.) “The wise find pleasure in water, the virtuous find pleasure in hills.” (Analects, bk. vi., c. xxi.) “I hate the manner in which purple takes away the lustre of vermilion. I hate the way in which the songs of Ch‘ing confound the music of the Gna.” (Analects, bk. xvii., c. xviii.)
The foregoing reference to colour implies appreciation of painting which, however, is seldom, if ever, referred to and seems to have been in an undeveloped state, compared, for instance, with poetry or music. The following from the “Analects” appears to refer to it, however: “Tsze-hea asked, saying, ‘What is the meaning of the passage: “The pretty dimples of her artful smile! The well-defined black and white of her eye! The plain ground for the colours!”?’ The Master answered: ‘The business of laying on the colours follows the preparation of the plain ground.’ ” (Bk. iii., c. viii., v. 1, 2.)
The value of beauty for beauty’s sake, even though it be but the beauty of ornament or of accomplishments, was enforced by Tsze-kung, one of his disciples, in this colloquy: “Kih Tsze-shing asked: ‘In a superior man it is only the substantial qualities that are wanted; why should we seek for ornamental accomplishments?’ Tsze-kung replied: ‘Alas! your words, sir, show you to be a superior man; but four horses cannot overtake the tongue. Ornament is as substance; substance is as ornament. The hide of a tiger or leopard stripped of its hair is like the hide of a dog or goat stripped of its hair.’ ” (Analects, bk. xii., c. vii.)
That it will be beneficial for a state to encourage and foster the arts, because of their civilizing effect upon the people, these words from the “Li Ki” may be quoted to illustrate: “Confucius said: ‘When you enter a state you can know what subjects have been taught. If they show themselves men who are mild and gentle, sincere and good, they have been taught from the Book of Poetry. . . . If they be big-hearted and generous, bland and honest, they have been taught from the Book of Music.’ ” (Bk. xxiii., 1.)
Poetry and Letters. “In the Book of Poetry are three hundred pieces, but the design of them all may be embraced in one sentence: ‘Have no depraved thoughts!’ ” (Analects, bk. ii., c. ii.)
The importance of poetry and of good literature in general was frequently emphasized as in this passage from the “Analects” by Confucius who on one occasion addressed his disciples, saying: “My children, why do you not study the Book of Poetry? The Odes serve to stimulate the mind. They may be used for purposes of self-contemplation. They teach the art of companionship. They show how to moderate feelings of resentment. From them you learn the more immediate duty of serving one’s father and the remoter duty of serving one’s prince.” (Bk. xvii., c. ix.)
Mencius seems to have been the earliest to make use of this metaphor in describing the delights and benefits of reading: “When a scholar feels that his friendship with all the virtuous scholars of the empire is not sufficient, he proceeds to ascend to consider the men of antiquity. He repeats their poems and reads their books and, as he does not know what they were as men, to ascertain this, he considers the conditions of their time. This is to ascend and make them his friends.” (Bk. v., pt. ii., c. viii., v. 2.)
The manner in which Confucius enjoined the study of poetry upon his eldest son is told in this conversation with Ch‘in K‘ang: “Ch‘in K‘ang asked Pih-yu, saying, ‘Have you had any lessons from your father different from what we have all heard?’ Pih-yu replied: ‘No. He was standing alone once, when I passed below the hall with hasty steps, and said to me: ‘Have you learned the Odes?” On my replying, “Not yet,” he added: “If you do not learn the Odes, you will not be fit to converse with.” I retired and studied the Odes.’ ” (Analects, bk. xvi., c. xiii., v. 1, 2.)
That learning should not be merely by rote, that the sentiments and thoughts of the poet must be made a part of a man’s self, and that all training should be with a view to use as well as ornament, Confucius set forth in these words: “Though a man may be able to recite the three hundred Odes, yet if, when intrusted with a governmental charge, he knows not how to act or if, when sent to any quarter on a mission, he cannot give his replies unassisted, then notwithstanding the extent of his learning, of what practical use is it?” (Analects, bk. xiii., c. v.)
The finely discriminating literary taste of Confucius was the marvel of his time and his canons are yet generally accepted. He is even represented as saying of himself, in all modesty: “In letters I am perhaps equal to other men.” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xxxii.) Still his views were of the simplest, the most naïve. Thus, for instance, he says, tersely: “Of language, it is sufficient that it convey the meaning.” (Analects, bk., xv., c. xl.)
Yet, well pondered, this saying is both true and discerning; for comprehensive and accurate conveyance of the precise meaning in its every shade and distinction is the office of the most consummate literary art.
When Confucius was in Wei and was asked, by Tsze-loo, his pupil, what he would consider the first thing to do in administering the government of Wei, he replied: “What is first necessary is to correct names,” i. e., the names of things, and said in explanation: “If names be not correct, language is not in accordance with the truth of things.” (Analects, bk. viii., c. iii.)
The mischiefs which arise from miscomprehension, due to the inexact use of language, he painted in strong colours, and then said: “Therefore the superior man considers it necessary that the names he uses may be rightly spoken, so that what he says may be fulfilled to the letter. What the superior man requires is just that in his language there may be nothing inaccurate.” (Analects, bk. xiii., c. iii., v. 7.)
That a man’s diction should also be guarded against inelegance and coarseness, the disciple Tsang declares in this: “There are three principles of conduct which the man of high rank should consider especially important: that in his deportment and manner he keep from violence and heedlessness; that in regulating his countenance he keep near to sincerity; that in his words and tones he keep far from lowness and impropriety.” (Analects, bk. viii., c. iv., v. 3.)
The emphasis upon “far” is worthy of special note.
Certainly Confucius was so completely removed from ignoring the beauties and even the subtleties of style, that he was the most eminent of all the Chinese ancients for simplicity, purity, elegance, and exactitude of language, both spoken and written. He had, also, the conception that it is only he who can discriminate finely between expressions that can divine the thought from the spoken or written word or even from the act, fully, accurately, and clearly; and therefore he says: “Without knowing words, it is impossible to know men.” (Analects, bk. xx., c. iii., v. 3.)
In the “Li Ki” is thus described the accepted manner of elegant speech: “The style prized in conversation is that it should be grave and distinct.” (Bk. xv., 23.)
The usefulness of letters and of association with men of literary taste, in forming character and confirming it, the disciple Tsang set forth as follows: “The superior man on literary grounds meets with his friends and by their friendship helps his virtue.” (Analects, bk. xii., c. xxiii.)
And the inadequacy of both the written and the spoken word to express the highest, noblest, and sublimest thought, is set forth in this saying of Confucius, taken from the “Yi King” (appendix iii., sect. i., c. xii., 76): “The written characters are not the full exponent of speech and speech is not the full expression of ideas.”
Music. “Music produces pleasure which human nature cannot be without.” (Li Ki, bk. xvii., sect. iii.) “Virtue is the strong stem of human nature and music is the blossoming of virtue.” (Li Ki, bk. xvii., sect. ii., 21.)
These eloquent tributes to both the charm and the usefulness of music are from the “Li Ki,” in which much attention is given to this fascinating art, which seems to have been developed in ancient China far beyond any other of the fine arts.
This is the more remarkable since in these days Chinese music is rightly regarded of a poor sort. The disappearance of the old, worthy, classical music is ascribed, singularly enough, to the Chinese scholastics. The work of Confucius, “The Book of Music,” was wholly lost during the Han dynasty together with the old operas, choruses, songs, and instrumental pieces. Later, the antiquarian scholars found it impossible to discover and restore these; and, influenced by the word but not by the spirit of Confucius, they ignored the music of the common people which, accordingly, became and continues degraded. This is the tradition offered to explain the absence of noble melodies and harmonies in a country where, by the testimony of one of the world’s greatest, it was in full development more than two thousand years ago.
In the “Analects,” also, Confucius has said: “If a man be without the virtues proper to humanity, what has he to do with music?” (Analects, bk. iii., c. iii.)
Its development was already ancient in his day; and, according to the “Li Ki,” the tradition ran: “It was by music that the ancient kings gave appropriate expression to their joy.” (Bk. xvii., sect. iii., 30.) It was also said in this book of the olden days: “He [the emperor] had music at his meals.” But the most significant of the traditions there found was this: “In music the sages found pleasure and that it could be used to make the hearts of the people good. Because of the deep influence which it exerts on a man and the change which it produces in manners and customs, the ancient kings appointed it as one of the subjects of instruction.” (Bk. xvii., sect. ii., 7.)
Of singing it was there said: “All the modulations of the voice arise from the mind, and the various affections of the mind are produced by things external to it. . . . Music is the production of the modulations of the voice and its source is in the affections of the mind as it is influenced by external things.” (Bk. xvii., sect. i., 1, 2.)
That music is not merely an expression of what may be in the mind, be it good or bad, but also a powerful influence upon it, for weal or ill, is affirmed by Tsze-hsia in the “Li Ki” in these words: “The airs of Kang go to wild excess and debauch the mind; those of Sung speak of slothful indulgence and of women, and submerge the mind; those of Wei are strenuous and fast and perplex the mind; and those of Khi are violent and depraved and make the mind arrogant. The airs of these four states all stimulate libidinous desire and are injurious to virtue.” (Bk. xvii., sect. iii., 11.) That such may be is accounted for by ascribing to music the property of universal speech open to all the intelligences of the universe, as follows: “Whenever notes that are evil and depraved affect men, a corresponding evil spirit responds to them; and when this evil spirit accomplishes its manifestations, licentious music is the result. Whenever notes that are correct affect men, a corresponding good spirit responds to them; and when this good spirit accomplishes its manifestations, sublime music is the result.” (Li Ki, bk. xvii., sect. ii., 14.)
The labours of Confucius in editing, pruning, and perfecting the poetry and music extant in his day were among his most celebrated feats. Of it he himself says: “I returned from Wei to Loo, and then the music was reformed and the pieces in the Imperial Songs and Songs of Praise all found their proper places.” (Analects, bk. ix., c. xiv.)
In the “Li Ki” it is also said: “In an age of disorder, ceremonies and music are forgotten and neglected, and music becomes licentious.” (Bk. xvii., sect. ii., 12.)
But this need for reform did not apply to all music. “The Shaou” was famous in his day as a noble piece of music, and “The Woo” scarcely second to it. Between these he is said to have distinguished, discriminatingly, thus: “The Master said of ‘The Shaou’ that it was perfectly beautiful and also perfectly good. He said of ‘The Woo’ that it was perfectly beautiful but not perfectly good.” (Analects, bk. iii., c. xxv.)
Of his appreciation of “The Shaou” this is related: “When the Master was in Ts‘e, he heard ‘The Shaou’; and for three months he did not know the taste of flesh. ‘I did not think,’ he said, ‘that music could have been made so excellent as this!’ ” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xiii.)
Of the performance of another piece, “The Kwan Ts‘eu,” he said: “When the music-master, Che, first entered upon his office, the finish of ‘The Kwan Ts‘eu’ was magnificent. How it filled the ears!” (Analects, bk. viii., c. xv.)
Of this piece he elsewhere said: “The Kwan Ts‘eu is expressive of enjoyment without being licentious and of grief without being hurtfully excessive.” (Analects, bk. iii., c. xx.)
Obviously there were already performances of the oratorio or even the opera type, for in the “Li Ki” this is found: “Poetry gives the thought expression; singing prolongs the notes of the voice; pantomime puts the body into action. These three spring from the mind and musical instruments accompany them.” (Bk. xvii., sect. ii., 21.)
“The Shaou” was evidently something akin to opera. Confucius indicates as much when he speaks its praise in the following, commingled with dispraise of certain other songs: “Let the music be Shaou with its pantomimes! Banish the songs of Ch‘ing and keep aloof from specious orators! The songs of Ch‘ing are licentious; specious orators are dangerous.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. x., v. 5, 6.)
That “The Woo” was operatic is plainly shown by this description of it, given in the “Li Ki”: “Regarding the music of Woo, in the first scene, the pantomimes proceed towards the north to imitate the marching of Wu Wang against Shang (or the Yin dynasty). In the second scene, they show the extinction of Shang. In the third scene, they exhibit the victorious return to the south. In the fourth scene, they play the annexation of the southern states. In the fifth scene, they manifest the division of labour of the dukes of Chou and Shao, one on the left and the other on the right, in charge of the empire. In the sixth scene, they return to the point of starting to show that the work of the emperor is complete and that the whole empire recognizes him as the supreme ruler.” (Bk. xvii., sect. iii., 18.)
The condemnation of the sage was visited in action as well as in words upon the following occasion: “The people of Ts‘e sent to Loo a present of female musicians, which Ke Hwan Tze accepted; and for three days no court was held. Confucius took his departure.” (Analects, bk. xviii., c. iv.)
Loo, it is to be recalled, was the very state where Confucius afterwards revised and harmonized the music of the realm. Of mere jingle, he spoke disparagingly, thus: “ ‘It is music!’ they say, ‘It is music!’ Are bells and drums all that is meant by music?” (Analects, bk. xvii., c. xi.)
In the “Li Ki” it is said, likewise: “What you ask about is music, what you like is sound. Now music and sound are akin but they are not the same.” (Bk. xvii., sect. iii., 9.)
And yet greater purity of taste is indicated by this saying from the same book: “In music, more than aught else, there should be nothing showy or false.” (Bk. xvii., sect. ii., 22.)
To his eldest son, Pih-yu, he said: “Give yourself to the Chow-nan and the Chaou-nan. The man who has not studied the Chow-nan and the Chaou-nan is like one who stands with his face against a wall.” (Analects, bk. xvii., c. x.)
Confucius was himself a musical performer upon many instruments, according to tradition. In the “Analects” is found this account of his skill upon “the musical stone”: “The Master was playing one day on a musical stone in Wei, when a man carrying a straw basket passed the door of the house where Confucius was and said, ‘His heart is full who beats the musical stone!’ ” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xlii., v. 1.)
That he had comprehensive knowledge of the art is obvious, not merely from what he did for the music of Loo but also from the fact that this saying of his was deemed worthy to be handed down: “How to play music may be known. At the commencement of the piece, all the parts should sound together. As it proceeds, they should be in harmony, severally distinct and flowing, without break, and thus on to the conclusion.” (Analects, bk. iii., c. xxiii.)
That Chinese music had already progressed far beyond mere melodies is sufficiently plain, no doubt, from what has already been said. Yet it is germane to quote this from the “Li Ki”: “Harmony is the thing principally sought in music.” (Bk. xvii., sect. i., 29.)
The following also indicates the reverence and respect in which Confucius was held even by the most accomplished singers of his time, both as a man and an expert on matters of taste, and perhaps as a musician also: “When the Master was in company with a person who was singing, if he sang well, he would make him repeat the song while he accompanied it with his own voice.” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xxxi.)
His preference for classical music is voiced in this saying: “The men of former times, in the matters of ceremonies and music, were rustics, it is said, while the men of these later times, in ceremonies and music, are accomplished artists. If I have occasion to use those things, I follow the men of former times!” (Analects, bk. xi., c. i.)
He included among the “three things men find enjoyment in, which are advantageous,” this: “The discriminating study of ceremonies and music.” (Analects, bk. xvi., c. v.)
The method by which music is conceived of, as profoundly affecting the moral nature of man, is thus circumstantially and persuasively delineated in the “Li Ki”: “Hence the superior man returns to the good affections proper to his nature, in order to bring his will into harmony with them, and compares the different qualities of actions in order to perfect his conduct. Notes that are evil and depraved and sights leading to disorder and licentiousness are not allowed to affect his ears and eyes. Licentious music and corrupted ceremonies are not admitted into the mind to affect its powers. The spirit of idleness, indifference, depravity, and perversity finds no exhibition in his person.” (Bk. xvii., sect. ii., 15.)
These most desirable results, however, by no means exhaust the conception of Confucius, of the benefits to the heart and mind which a full knowledge and appreciation of music can impart. The highest possibilities are set forth in these words of most enthusiastic eloquence, also in the pages of the “Li Ki”: “When one has mastered music completely and regulates his heart and mind accordingly, the natural, correct, gentle, and sincere heart is easily developed and joy attends its development. This joy proceeds into a feeling of calm. This calm continues long. In this unbroken calm the man is Heaven within himself. Like unto Heaven, he is spiritual. Like unto Heaven, though he speak not, he is accepted. Spiritual, he commands awe, without displaying anger.” (Bk. xvii., sect. iii., 23.)
Ceremonies. “Ceremonies and music should not for a moment be neglected by any one.” (Li Ki, bk. xvii., sect. iii., v. 23.)
In this passage from the “Li Ki” and in many other sayings of Confucius and his followers, music and ceremonies are mentioned together. This is particularly true in the “Li Ki” in which both subjects are most discussed and from which all the quotations under this head have been taken.
It is partly explained, as follows: “The sphere in which music manifests, is within; the sphere of ceremonies is without.” (Li Ki, bk. xvii., sect. iii., v. 25.)
This is repeated in another place with emphasis and with apposite deductions therefrom, thus: “Music springs from the inner motions of the soul; ceremonies are the outward motions of the body. Therefore do men make ceremonies as few and short as possible but give free range to music.” (Li Ki, bk. xvii., sect. iii., v. 26.)
That Chinese ceremonies are, or were, few and short, none will perhaps credit, especially after looking through the portions relating to them in the works of Confucius. But it must be recalled—and it requires a distinct effort for the Occidental mind to conceive and to realize the thought—that ceremonies constitute a language,—a language, also, very erudite, richly expressive, ornate and comprehensive when developed as in China. This language, indeed, in its difficulties, as in many other respects, no doubt, is comparable only with a written language such as the ideographs of China constitute; and perhaps, like them, has within it the possibilities of a universal means of symbolical communication as by a printed text, entirely independent of the speech of men.
It must have been with somewhat of this sentiment that the ancient sage viewed ceremonies, else his praise would be extravagant, indeed. It is said of those whose work was even then traditional: “The sages made music in response to Heaven and framed ceremonies in correspondence with Earth.” (Li Ki, bk. xvii., sect. i., v. 29.)
Of good taste in manners as in music, the “Li Ki” well says: “The highest style of music is sure to be distinguished by its ease; the highest style of elegance, by its undemonstrativeness.” (Bk. xvii., sect. i., v. 17.)
And it unites them with the real things of character and of life in these words: “Benevolence is akin to music and righteousness to ceremonies.” (Bk. xvii., sect. i., v. 28.)
This also, is not a mere commonplace or abstraction in the mind of this wisest of the Orientals; for the book returns to it as follows: “He who has understood both ceremonies and music may be pronounced to be a possessor of virtue; virtue means self-realization.” (Li Ki, bk. xvii., sect. i., v. 8.)
This work even indicates the method by which these practical results may flow from an art so simple and apparently so void of deep significance: “Perform ceremonies and music perfectly in all their outward manifestation and application, and all else under heaven will be easy.” (Li Ki, bk. xvii., sect. iii., v. 25.)
This is more definitely and clearly said in the following: “The instructive and transforming power of ceremonies is subtle. They check depravity before it has taken form, causing men daily to move toward what is good and to keep themselves far from wrong-doing, without being conscious of it. It was on this account that the ancient kings set so high a value on them.” (Li Ki, bk. xxiii., 9.)
Confucius, however, does not think of music as merely a human art, but also as the common speech of all intelligences of the universe; and he desires that ceremonies become and be to the eyes of men just such a delicate, graceful, and expressive mode of communication. Therefore their interrelationship with the seen and the unseen is asserted in the “Li Ki” in these terms, in no respect uncertain: “In music of the grandest style there is the same harmony that prevails between Heaven and Earth; in ceremonies of the grandest form there is the same graduation that exists between Heaven and Earth.” (Bk. xvii., sect. i., v. 19.)
Yet more explicit is this language, all the more significant in that Confucius did not often discuss, or even refer to, spiritual beings: “In the visible there are ceremonies and music; in the invisible, the spiritual agencies.” (Li Ki, bk. xvii., sect. i., v. 19.)
And in the same book he even asserted the psychical power of ceremonies, as of music,—of both of these, united—to summon the intelligences of the universe for communion with minds imprisoned in human bodies, in these burning phrases: “Ceremonies and music in their nature resemble Heaven and Earth, penetrate the virtues of the spiritual intelligences, bring down spirits from above and lift the souls that are abased.” (Bk. xvii., sect. iii., v. 2.)
CHAPTER VII
UNIVERSAL RELATIONS
The views of Confucius on man’s relations to the universe are singularly in line with the cosmic philosophy of the ancient Greeks and Romans.
Death and Immortality. “The body and the animal soul go downwards; and the intelligent spirit is on high.” (Li Ki, bk. vii., sect. i., 7.)
Thus in the “Li Ki” is voiced the belief of the ancient Chinese, which was accepted by Confucius and his disciples, not as a saving article of creed, but merely as a fact. It is again stated in the “Li Ki” in this manner: “That the bones and flesh should return to earth is what is appointed. But the soul in its energy can go everywhere; it can go everywhere.” (Bk. ii., sect. ii., pt. iii., 13.)
How fully this was accepted by Confucius, may be seen, not merely from the fact that by editing the “Li Ki” and permitting these apothegms to stand, he gave them his approval, but by this saying, much more explicit on this point, attributed to him by the same book: “The Master said: ‘The intelligent spirit is of the Shan nature and shows that in fullest measure; the animal soul is of the Kwei nature and shows that in fullest measure. . . . All who live, must die and, dying, return to the earth; this is what is called Kwei. The bones and flesh moulder below and, hidden away, become the earth of the fields. But the spirit issues forth and is displayed on high in a condition of glorious brightness.’ ” (Bk. xxi., sect. ii., 1.)
That scientific investigation would show this to be true, is indicated by the “Yi King” (appendix iii., sect. i., c. iv., v. 2) thus: “He traces things to their beginning and follows them to their end; thus he knows what can be said about death and life.”
His disciple, Tsang, in speaking thus of a man about to die, signified his view that death is but an awakening: “When a bird is about to die, its notes are mournful; when a man is about to die, his words are good.” (Analects, bk. viii., c. iv., v. 2.)
The following account of the sanitary precautions to be taken when one is about to die, is given in the “Li Ki”: “When the illness was extreme, all about the establishment was swept clean, inside and out.” (Bk. xix., sect. i., 1.)
And this of the precaution to assure that death has really taken place: “Fine floss was laid over to make sure that breathing had stopped.” (Bk. xix., sect. i., 1.)
And yet another passage exhibits the same care which has long been taken in Occidental countries to avoid the possibility of burial alive: “Therefore when it is said that the body is not clothed in its last raiment until after three days, it signifies that it is so delayed to see if the father may not come to life.” (Li Ki, bk. xxxii., 4.)
The following from the same book which devotes more attention to the subject than any other of the books upon which Confucius wrought or in which his sayings are recorded, is an apt and even illuminating statement of the peculiar horror with which the dead body has ever been regarded: “When a man dies, there arises a feeling of repugnance; the impotence of his body causes one to revolt from it.” (Bk. ii., sect. ii., pt. ii., 8.)
Khang-Tsze Kâo, in the “Li Ki,” is reported as saying the following upon the ethics of burial, urging that the disposition of the bodies of the dead should not interfere with the welfare of the living: “I have heard that in life we should be useful to others and in death do them no harm. Though I may not have been useful to others in life, shall I in death do them harm? When I am dead, choose a piece of barren ground and bury me there.” (Bk. ii., sect. i., pt. iii.)
In the same book Confucius is credited with having inaugurated, or, if not, with having confirmed, a departure from the ancient custom of levelling the earth over the grave, so that it would become indistinguishable: “When Confucius had buried his mother in the same grave [i. e., in which his father was interred], he said: ‘I have heard that the ancients, in making graves, raised no mound over them. But I am a man who will be east, west, south, and north.’ On this he raised a mound, four feet high.” (Bk. ii., sect. i., pt. i., 6.)
After the fact of death is assured, however, and before any other ceremony or duty relative to the departed is performed, there is the “calling back” of the soul to reoccupy the garments he has quitted. The “Li Ki” describes it thus: “At calling back the soul . . . an officer of low rank performed the ceremony. All who co-operated, used court robes of the deceased. . . . In all cases they ascended the east wing to the middle of the roof, where the footing was perilous. Facing the north, they gave three loud calls for the deceased; after which they rolled up the garment they had used and cast it down in front where the wardrobe-keeper received it.” (Bk. xix., sect. i., 3.)
The garments used in calling back the soul were not available to array the corpse; upon this the same book says: “The robe which was used in calling the soul back was not used to cover or to clothe the corpse.” (Bk. xix., sect. i., 4.)
The appellation used in summoning the soul to return appears from this passage: “In all cases of calling back the soul, a man was called by his name and a woman by her designation.” (Li Ki, bk. xix., sect. i., 4.)
The levelling of rank by the unrelenting hand of death is typified by this feature of this ancient ceremony: “In summoning the dead to return and in writing the inscription, the language was the same for all, from the son of Heaven to the ordinary officer.” (Li Ki, bk. xiii., sect. ii., 7.)
The purpose and significance of the ceremony, which, when the dead is a parent, is but the commencement of lifelong veneration for his spirit and attempted communion with it, are revealed in this passage from the same book: “Calling the soul back is the way love receives its consummation, and contains the expression of the mind in prayer.” (Bk. ii., sect. ii., pt. i., 22.)
Communion with Departed Ancestors. “They served the dead as they would have served them when living; they served the departed as they would have served them, had they continued with them.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xix., v. 5.)
In these words from the “Doctrine of the Mean” Confucius set forth the conception of the observances of filial piety toward parents and other nearly related ancestors which should be continued unbroken throughout life, even after they depart this life—a conception which pervaded his own conduct, as is thus described in the “Analects”: “He sacrificed to the dead as if they were present. He sacrificed to the spirits, as if the spirits were present.” (Bk. iii., c. xii.)
The central idea is that the disembodied soul of this ancestor is yet interested in the conduct of his family in the world of flesh and, if given an opportunity to do so by the due observance of sacrificial rites, watches over and communes with his descendants, in order to warn, counsel, rebuke, and even to correct them. This he does, not merely for their sake but also for his own, to the end that the good name of the family may become more illustrious, thus redounding to his own credit, as well as to the credit of the living.
This idea of “accumulating goodness” by means of serried generations of men who acquit themselves well in all the offices of life, is an important feature of the sanction which the pious reverence for ancestors, both when living and after death, gives for correct moral conduct throughout life.
Upon this, the “Yi King” (appendix iv., sect. ii., c. iii., 5) says: “The family that accumulates goodness is sure to have superabundant happiness, and the family that accumulates evil, to have superabundant misery. The murder of a ruler by his minister or of a father by his son, is not the result of the events of one morning or one evening. The causes of it have gradually accumulated, through the absence of early discrimination.”
And it thus presents yet another view of the lamentable consequences of neglect of this law of what we moderns term “heredity”: “If acts of goodness be not accumulated, they are not sufficient to give its finish to one’s name; if acts of evil be not accumulated, they are not sufficient to destroy one’s life. The inferior man thinks that small acts of goodness are of no benefit and does not do them, and that small deeds of evil do no harm and does not abstain from them. Hence his wickedness becomes great till it cannot be covered and his guilt becomes great till it cannot be pardoned.” (Yi King, appendix iii., sect. ii., c. v., 38.)
The general view of the filial duty of the progeny both toward living ancestors and toward the dead, so far as concerns avoiding acts which will disgrace them and cultivating conduct which will do them credit, has, however, been fully set forth in the chapters upon the subject of filial piety. Here we have to do only with the reverent ceremonies in the ancestral temples, by means of which veneration for the souls of the departed was exhibited and communion with them was sought. To these ceremonies the “Hsiâo King” (c. viii.) thus refers: “In such a state of things, parents while living reposed in their sons; and when dead and offered sacrifices, their disembodied spirits enjoyed the offerings.”
The mode of effecting this was by offering sacrifices of food and drink, accompanied with ceremonies, more or less elaborate according to the rank and estate of the son. The eldest living son in these august ceremonies impersonated the deceased father and presided at the sacrifice.
Only the emperor sacrifices to his ancestors generally; the king, only to ancestors to the fourth removal; feudal princes and great officers to those of the third degree; high officers to parents and grandparents; subordinate administrative officers and the common people to the immediate parent only. All ancestors further removed were said to “remain in the ghostly state,” i.e., presumably, to interest themselves not at all in matters of this earth. In the “Li Ki,” this is described thus: “The death of all creatures is spoken of, as their dissolution; but man, when dead, is said to be in the ghostly state.” (Bk. xx., 4.)
Recurring to the statement that sacrifices should be offered to the dead as if they were living, we find that the “Li Ki” offers a necessary qualification of this in the following caution: “In dealing with the dead, if we treat them as if they were entirely dead, that would show want of affection and should not be done; if we treat them as if they were entirely living, that would show want of wisdom and should not be done.” (Bk. ii., sect. i., pt. iii., 3.)
Something of the manner of offering these sacrifices and also of the purpose of it is set forth in this passage from the same book: “The ruler and his wife take alternate parts in presenting these offerings, all being done to please the souls of the departed and constituting a union with the disembodied and unseen.” (Bk. vii., sect. i., 11.)
And the purpose, spiritual communion, in this: “It was thus that they maintained their intercourse with spiritual intelligences.” (Bk. ix., sect. i., 5.)
Confucius thus rebukes attempts to secure free communion with spirits of men with whom one is not connected by ancestral ties: “For a man to sacrifice to a spirit which does not belong to him, is flattery.” (Analects, bk. ii., c. xxiv., v. 1.)
The mischief of such miscellaneous seeking after communications from departed spirits is so familiar a thing in all ages that it is both a relief and also reassuring to find it thus set forth by the sage who apparently fully recognized both the continuance of conscious life after the change, called death, and the possibility of intercommunication between intelligences yet in this world and intelligences that have departed from it.
In view of his primary injunction to investigate all phenomena, it seems improbable that he would have condemned scientific research in such matters; but mere idle promiscuity of such communion was to his mind an impertinence, a peril, and even an act of impiety; yet in “Shuo Yüan,” he is reported as saying: “If I were to say that the dead have consciousness, I am afraid that filial sons and dutiful grandsons would impair their substance in paying their last offices to the departed; and if I were to say that the dead have not consciousness, I am afraid that unfilial sons and undutiful grandsons would leave their parents unburied. If you wish to know whether the dead have consciousness or not, you will know it when you die. There is no need to speculate upon it now.” (Bk. xviii.)
This, however, appears to be of dubious authenticity as a statement by Confucius, and certainly is not in harmony with his general teaching upon this subject.
General sacrifices, also inviting such communion, might however be offered, according to the prescriptions of the “Li Ki,” to a few who had served their fellow-men with thoroughness and distinction. The following passage illustrates the nature of these exceptions: “According to the institutes of the sage kings about sacrifices, they should be offered to him who gave just laws to the people; to him who laboured unto death in the discharge of his duties; to him who by indefatigable industry strengthened the state; to him who with courage and success faced great calamities; and to him who warded off great evils.” (Bk. xx., 9.)
It was not in the least the ancient conception of sacrifice to ancestors that it should be a season of recreation or often be repeated. It should take place at least once each year, upon the anniversary of the departure of the ancestor, and sacrifices might also be held in the spring and autumn, in accordance with these instructions in the “Li Ki”: “Sacrifices should not be frequently repeated. Such frequency is indicative of importunateness, and importunateness is inconsistent with reverence. Nor should they be at distant intervals. Such infrequency is indicative of indifference; and indifference leads to forgetting them altogether. Therefore, the superior man, in harmony with the course of Heaven, offers the spring and autumn sacrifices. When he treads the dew which has descended as hoar-frost, he cannot help a feeling of sadness which arises in his mind and cannot be ascribed to the cold. In spring, when he treads upon the ground, wet with the rains and dews that have fallen heavily, he cannot avoid being moved by a feeling as if he were seeing his departed friends. We greet the approach of our friends with music and escort them away with sadness, and hence at the spring sacrifice we use music but not at the autumn sacrifice.” (Bk. xxi., sect. i., 1.)
This, from the same book, cautions against over-indulgence in this regard: “Do not take liberties with or weary spiritual beings!” (Li Ki, bk. xv., 22.)
The following injunctions against attempting to make of the sacrifice a time of rest or recreation are also from the “Li Ki”: “In maintaining intercourse with spiritual, intelligent beings, there should be nothing like an extreme desire for rest and ease for our personal gratification.” (Bk. ix., sect. ii., 16.)
“The idea which leads to intercourse with spiritual beings is not interchangeable with that which finds its realization in rest and pleasure.” (Bk. ix., sect. ii., 15.)
And earnest efforts to attain the purposes of the sacrifice are pronounced indispensable in the following passage: “When they had reverently done their utmost, they could serve the spiritual intelligences.” (Li Ki, bk. xxii., 5.)
The following more particularly describes what is necessary in this regard: “Therefore there was the milder discipline of the mind for seven days, to bring it to a state of singleness of purpose; and the fuller discipline of it for three days, to concentrate all the thoughts. That concentration is called purification; its final attainment is when the highest order of pure intelligence is reached. Then only is it possible to enter into communion with the spiritual intelligences.” (Li Ki, bk. xxii., 6.)
The nature of this earnest concentration is sufficiently indicated in the following account of the procedure of the ancients: “When the time came for offering a sacrifice, the man wisely gave himself to the work of purification. That purification meant concentration and singleness, rendering all uniform until the thoughts were all focussed upon one object.” (Li Ki, bk. xxii., 6.)
Or as more briefly said in another place, thus: “Sacrificing means ‘directing one’s self to.’ The son directs his thoughts and then he can offer up the sacrifice.” (Li Ki, bk. xxi., 6.)
The absolute necessity for this single-minded sincerity is asserted in these words ascribed by the “Shu King” to I Yin: “The spirits do not always accept the sacrifices that are offered to them; they accept only the sacrifices of the sincere.” (Pt. iv., bk. v., sect. iii., 1.)
In the “Li Ki” the subjective character of true sacrifice or seeking for spiritual communion is thus set forth: “Sacrifice comes not to a man from without; it issues from him and flows from his heart.” (Bk. xxii., 1.)
Its subjective benefits are also thus portrayed: “Only men of ability and character can give complete expression to the concept of sacrifice. The sacrifices of such men have their reward, not indeed what the world calls reward. Their reward is the perfecting of self; this also means the full and normal discharge of all one’s duties.” (Li Ki, bk. xxii., 2.)
It must not for a moment be supposed, however, that such was the only or indeed the chief purpose in performing the arduous ceremonies of devotion for departed ancestors. Instead, actual, perceptible, realized communion and communication, resulting in counsel, warning, commendation, or reproof, and, in general, assistance in directing his course so that it will be creditable both to his ancestors and to himself, were expected and intended. The “Li Ki” does not leave this for a moment in doubt; for it says: “The object of all the ceremonies is to bring down the spirits from above, even their ancestors.” (Bk. vii., sect. i., 10.)
It will be recalled that in the following passage regarding the influence of ceremonies and music, already quoted from the “Li Ki,” this idea of summoning the spirits of the departed is involved: “Ceremonies and music in their nature resemble Heaven and Earth, penetrate the virtues of spiritual intelligences, bring down spirits from above, and lift the souls that are abased.” (Bk. xvii., sect. iii., 2.)
And also pertinent to the subject, is this passage: “In the visible sphere, there are ceremonies and music; in the invisible, the spiritual agencies.” (Li Ki, bk. xvii., sect. i., 19.)
And of one who is completely under the spell of music, this, also, already quoted: “In this unbroken calm the man is Heaven within himself. Like unto Heaven, he is spiritual. Like unto Heaven, though he speaks not, he is accepted. Spiritual, he commands awe, without displaying anger.” (Li Ki, bk. xvii., sect. iii., 23.)
These are recognized means of producing psychical phenomena in these days of scientific investigation, as also are the following, likewise from the “Li Ki,” save that fixing the mind upon that which it desires to behold would be shunned as tending to self-delusion: “The severest vigil and purification are maintained and carried on inwardly, while a scarcely looser vigil is maintained outwardly. During the days of such vigil, the mourner thinks of his departed, how and where they sat, how they smiled and spoke, what were their aims and views, what they delighted in, what they desired and enjoyed. On the third day of such discipline, he will see those for whom it has been exercised.” (Bk. xxi., sect. i., 2.)
Spiritual Beings and Spiritual Power. “The rites to be observed by all under heaven were intended to promote the return of the mind to the source of all things, the honouring of spiritual beings, the harmonious utilization of government, righteousness, and humility.” (Li Ki, bk. xxi., sect. i., 20.)
The broader purpose of sacrifices to ancestors, viz.: to make men conscious and aware at all times of the existences of spiritual beings and of their powers, is well set forth in the foregoing, from the “Li Ki.”
The following passage from the “Yi King,” already quoted in another connection, refers to the same process of scientific inquiry: “When we minutely investigate the nature and reasons of things till we have entered into the inscrutable and spiritual in them, we attain to the largest practical application of them; when that application becomes quickest and readiest and personal poise is secured, our virtue is thereby exalted. Proceeding beyond this, we reach a point which it is hardly possible to comprehend; we have thoroughly mastered the inscrutable and spiritual and understand the processes of transformation. This is the fulness of virtue.” (Appendix iii., sect. ii., c. v., 33, 34.)
Yet, in order to enforce the very necessary lesson that in this life it is the duties here and now with which a man should concern himself, Confucius often rebuked over-insistent curiosity concerning disembodied spirits and the future life. Several of these sayings have been quoted elsewhere; and of them these only are reproduced here: “To give one’s self earnestly to the duties due to men, and while respecting spiritual beings to keep aloof from them, may be called wisdom.” (Analects, bk. vi., c. xx.)
“Ke Loo asked about serving the spirits of the dead. The Master said: ‘While you are not able to serve men, how can you serve their spirits?’ Ke Loo then said: ‘I venture to ask about death.’ He was answered: ‘While you do not know life, how can you know about death?’ ” (Analects, bk. xi., c. xi.)
In the “Analects,” it is also related of Confucius by his disciples: “The subjects on which the Master did not talk, were: extraordinary things, feats of strength, disorder, and spiritual beings.” (Bk. vii., c. x.)
Yet in the “Doctrine of the Mean” he is quoted as declaring: “How abundantly do spiritual beings display the powers that belong to them! We look for them but we do not see them; we listen but we do not hear them. Yet they permeate all things and there is nothing without them.” (C. xvi., v. 1, 2.)
In the “Yi King” much more is said about the general subject and this definition of spirit is given: “When we speak of spirit, we mean the subtle element of all things.” (Appendix v., c. vi., 10.)
The author of this conceived of the universe as the field of operations and the result of operations of force and substance, of static and dynamic powers, in the phenomena produced by which he recognized the activities of spirit, thus: “That which is unfathomable in the movement of the passive and active operations, is the presence of a spiritual power.” (Yi King, appendix iii., sect. i., c. v., 32.)
The close similarity of this view with the most recent views of modern scientists is illustrated yet more startlingly in this passage, also from the “Yi King” (appendix iii., c. v., 24): “The successive interaction of the passive and active forces constitutes what is called the flow of phenomena.”
The “Yi King” is a book, written for the most part in highly symbolical language,—it is often utilized by the Chinese for purposes of divination as will be seen,—which had even for Confucius himself already become so difficult to master and at the same time so fascinating, that the sage once said of it: “If some years were added to my life, I would give fifty to the study of the Yi and then I might come to be without great faults.” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xvi.)
In this book, i. e., the “Yi King,” Confucius said of the clear perception of the spiritual activities underlying phenomena: “He who knows the method of change and transformation, may be said to know what is done by spiritual power.” (Appendix iii., sect. i., c. ix., 58.)
And again, in this illustrative manner: “Does not he who knows the causes of things, possess spirit-like wisdom? The superior man, in his intercourse with the exalted, uses no flattery; and in his intercourse with the humble, no coarse freedom—does not this show that he knows the causes of things?” (Appendix iii., sect. ii., c. v., 41.)
And yet more eloquently in this passage of the “Li Ki” are the essential spirituality and prescience of the pure and sincere mind set forth: “When the personal character is pure and clean, the spirit and mind are like those of a spiritual being. When what such an one desires is about to come to pass, he is sure to have premonitions of it, as when Heaven sends down the rains in due season and the hills condense the vapours into clouds.” (Li Ki, bk. xxvi., 8.)
This is yet more concisely said in this passage from the “Doctrine of the Mean” (c. xxiv.), already quoted: “When calamities or blessings are about to befall, the good or the evil will surely be foreknown to him. He, therefore, who is possessed of the completest sincerity, is like a spirit.”
Heaven. “In order to know men, he may not dispense with a knowledge of Heaven.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xx., v. 7.)
In the foregoing from the “Doctrine of the Mean” is announced both the view of the disciples of Confucius that there is a divinity “that shapes our ends, rough hew them how we will,” and also that, through His works, He may be known of men. This saying is only another version of this passage of the “Yi King” (appendix i., c. liv., 1): “If Heaven and Earth were to have no intercommunication, things would not grow and flourish as they do.”
The expression “Heaven” seems to stand rather for all the spiritual beings, if more than one, that hold sway over the universe. Earlier, it undoubtedly signified this; for in the “Shu King,” Mu is credited with this most extraordinary statement: “Then he [i. e., Yao] commissioned Khung and Li to make an end of the communications between Earth and Heaven; and the descents of spirits ceased.” (Pt. v., bk. xxvii., 2.)
By the days of Confucius in any event, the recognition of an unimaginably great universe of spirit was firmly coupled in the minds of sages with the principle that man’s duties here are with his fellow-men and that he will but fail in their performance if he continually seeks communion with intelligences of the spirit universe.
Confucius does not present the view that Heaven so communicates with Earth that there may be complete revelation of its purposes and processes, by verbal inspiration or otherwise. Instead, he says: “Does Heaven speak? The four seasons pursue their courses, and all things are continually being produced; but does Heaven say anything?” (Analects, bk. xvii., c. xix., v. 3.)
This is further expatiated upon in “The Doctrine of the Mean” (c. xvi., v. 1, 2) as follows: “The Master said: ‘How abundantly do spiritual beings display the powers that belong to them! We look for them but do not see them; we listen for them but do not hear them. Yet they enter into all things and there is nothing without them.’ ”
And in the “Shi King” the continual presence of these invisible witnesses is thus cited as abundant reason for virtuous conduct when in the privacy of one’s chamber: “Looked at in your chamber, you ought to be equally free from shame before the light which shines in. Do not say: ‘This place is not public; no one can see me here.’ The approaches of spiritual beings cannot be foretold; the more, therefore, should they not be left out of the account.” (Major Odes, decade iii., ode 2.)
Confucius also says: “But there is Heaven—it knows me!” (Analects, bk. xiv., c. xxxvii., v. 2.)
The “Yi King” thus describes the greatest of the joint offices of Heaven and Earth: “The great attribute of Heaven and Earth is the giving and maintaining life.” (Appendix iii., c. i., 10.)
And again in the following, already quoted in another connection: “Heaven and Earth are separate and apart, but the work which they do is the same. Male and female are separate and apart, but with a common will they seek the same object.” (Appendix i., c. xxxviii., v. 3.)
This idea is again put forward in the “Li Ki” in this fashion: “Man is the product of the attributes of Heaven and of Earth through the interaction of the dual forces of nature, the union of animal and intelligence, the finest and most subtle matter of the five elements.” (Bk. vii., sect. iii., 1.)
This theory is developed further in this passage from the same book: “This [i. e., the Grand Unity] separated and became Heaven and Earth. It revolved and became the dual force in nature. It changed and became the four seasons. It was distributed and became the breathings, thrilling in the universal frame. Its lessons, transmitted to men, are called its orders; the law and authority of them are in Heaven.” (Bk. vii., sect. iv., 4.)
Thinking of Heaven as the creator of man apparently caused it soon to be addressed in prayer by poor humanity; and accordingly we find this in the “Yi King” (appendix ii., sect. ii., c. xlii., 6): “There is the misery of having none upon whom to call.”
Confucius stated it in even stronger terms, when he said: “He who offends against Heaven, has none to whom he can pray.” (Analects, bk. iii., c. xiii., v. 2.)
Such prayer, continually offered by means of a virtuous and useful life, Confucius commended and practised. As much appears from this: “The Master being very sick, Tsze-loo asked leave to pray for him. He said: ‘May such a thing be done?’ Tsze-loo replied: ‘It may. In the Prayers it is said: “Prayer has been made to the spirits of the upper and lower worlds.” ’ The Master said: ‘My prayer has been for a long time.’ ” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xxxiv.)
That man, even before his transition, may become the co-worker, however, with the spiritual forces which constitute Heaven and even of equal dignity with them, the “Doctrine of the Mean” (c. xxii.,) thus declares: “Able to assist the transforming and nourishing powers of Heaven and Earth, he may with Heaven and Earth form a ternion.”
And again of the man of the completest sincerity, i. e., Chinese scholars assert, Confucius: “Hence it is said: ‘He is the peer of Heaven!’ ” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xxxi., v. 3.)
This is much more explicitly set forth in this passage from the same book; also considered by Chinese scholars to refer to Confucius: “It is only the individual possessed of the most entire sincerity that can exist under Heaven, who can adjust the great, unvarying relations of mankind, establish the great, fundamental virtues of humanity, and comprehend the transforming and nourishing processes of Heaven and Earth. Shall such an one have any being or anything beyond himself on which he depends?” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xxxii., v. 1.)
Providence. “Without recognizing the ordinances of Heaven, it is impossible to be a superior man.” (Analects, bk. xx., c. iii., v. 1.)
Thus in the “Analects” Confucius gives expression to the necessity for full recognition of the unchanging laws of the universe and their operation.
In the “Yi King,” the blessed consequences of knowledge of these laws and of trust in the beneficent purposes of the powers that are the universe, are thus portrayed: “He acts according to the exigency of circumstances without being carried away by their current. He rejoices in Heaven and knows its ordinances; and hence he has no anxieties.” (Appendix iii., sect. i., c. v., 22.)
The same sentiment and conception are voiced in these words from the “Doctrine of the Mean” (c. xiv., v. 4): “Thus it is that the superior man is grave and calm, waiting for the appointments of Heaven, while the inferior man walks in dangerous paths, looking for lucky occurrences.”
The ancients of China had evolved from this, the idea of a just Providence, rewarding for good deeds and punishing for evil. Thus in the “Shu King,” I Yin is represented as saying: “Good and evil do not wrongly befall men, but Heaven sends down misery or happiness according to their conduct.” (Pt. iv., bk. vi., 2.)
And Ch‘êng Tang in the same book, as follows: “The way of Heaven is to bless the good and make the bad miserable.” (Pt. iv., bk. iii., 2.)
And the Duke of Kau also in the same book: “Heaven gives length of days to the just and the intelligent.” (Pt. v., bk. xvi., 2.)
And King Wu: “I clearly consider that, severe as are the inflictions of Heaven on me, I dare not murmur.” (Pt. v., bk. ix., 4.)
The “Doctrine of the Mean” says of the superior man: “He does not murmur against Heaven.” (C. xiv., v. 3.)
Confucius also said of himself in the “Analects”: “I do not murmur against Heaven.” (Bk. xiv., c. xxxvii., v. 2.)
That this is a universe of law, however, and not of special interpositions of Providence, is everywhere insisted on.
In the “Li Ki,” Confucius is recorded as saying: “Heaven covers all without partiality; earth sustains and embraces all without partiality; the sun and the moon shine upon all without partiality.” (Bk. xxvi., 6.)
In the “Shu King,” Mu is reported to have said: “It is not Heaven that does not deal impartially with men, but men ruin themselves.” (Pt. v., bk. xxvii., 6.)
And Zu Ki, as speaking in this fashion: “It is not Heaven that cuts short men’s lives; they themselves bring them to an end.” (Shu King, pt. iv., bk. ix.)
This saying of Tai Chai in the same book certainly has a most modern sound: “Calamities sent by Heaven may be avoided, but from calamities brought on by one’s self there is no escape.” (Shu King, pt. iv., bk. v., sect. ii., 2.)
Confucius himself sets forth the conception of the protection of Providence, thus: “Heaven produced the virtue that is in me. Hwan Tuy—what can he do to me?” (Analects, bk. vii., c. xxii.)
And this, also from the “Analects,” is yet more to the point: “The Master was put in apprehension in K‘wang. He said: ‘Since the death of King Wan, has not the cause of truth been lodged here in me? If Heaven had wished to let this cause of truth perish, then I, a mortal yet to be born, should not have got such a relation to that cause. While Heaven does not let this cause of truth perish, what can the people of K‘wang do to me?’ ” (Analects, bk. ix., c. v.)
This subject is so extremely important and all that is found in the Confucian classics so little, relatively, that the following passages, which have already been quoted in other connexions, are again given: “Riches and honours depend upon Heaven.” (Analects, bk. xii., c. v., v. 3.)
“What Heaven confers, when once lost, will not be regained.” (Shi King, Minor Odes of the Kingdom, decade v., ode 2.)
“When Heaven is about to confer a great office on any man, it first disciplines his mind with suffering and his bones and sinews with toil. It exposes him to want and subjects him to extreme poverty. It confounds his undertakings. By all these methods, it stimulates his mind, hardens him, and supplies his shortcomings.” (Mencius, bk. vi., pt. ii., c. xv., v. 2.)
“Filial piety is the constant requirement of Heaven.” (Hsiâo King, c. vii.)
“Sincerity is the path of Heaven.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xx., v. 18.)
“Awful though Heaven be, it yet helps the sincere.” (Shu King, pt. v., bk. ix., 2.)
In the “Doctrine of the Mean” this last thought is much more thoroughly worked out—indeed into a theory of intimate co-operation with Heaven, actually of ability to transform. This, to which reference has already been made in the preceding section, is set forth with some fulness in this passage, deemed by Chinese scholars to refer to Confucius: “It is only he who is possessed of the completest sincerity that can exist under Heaven, who can give its full development to his nature. Able to give its full development to his own nature, he can do the same to the nature of other men. Able to give its full development to the nature of other men, he can give their full development to the natures of animals and things. Able to give their full development to the natures of animals and things, he can assist the transforming and nourishing powers of Heaven and Earth.” (Doctrine of the Mean, c. xxii.)
One of the most fervent commendations of music and ceremonies, already quoted from the “Li Ki,” runs: “In music of the grandest style, there is the same harmony that prevails between Heaven and Earth; in ceremonies of the grandest form there is the same graduation that exists between Heaven and Earth.” (Bk. xvii., sect. i., 19.)
The following somewhat cryptic passage from the “Yi King” illustrates the view of Confucius concerning the opposite tendencies of things spiritual and of things material: “Notes of the same pitch respond to one another; creatures of the same nature seek one another; water flows toward the marsh; fire catches upon what is dry; . . . the sage makes his appearance and all men look to him. Things that have their origin in Heaven, tend upward; things that have their origin in Earth, cling to what is below.” (Appendix iv., sect. i., c. ii., 8.)
The following from the same great book of mystery, relative to the harmony that must subsist in order that man be truly great, is perhaps more clearly and surely comprehensible: “The great man is he who is in harmony, in his attributes, with Heaven and Earth; in his brightness, with sun and moon; in his orderly procedure, with the four seasons; in his relations with good and evil fortune, with the spiritual operations of Providence.” (Yi King, appendix iv., sect. i., c. vi.)
God. “There is the great God; does He hate any one?” (Shi King, Minor Odes, decade iv., ode 8.)
The number of times in all the Confucian classics that the appellation for Deity occurs which indicates personality and not something impersonal or multi-personal, like Heaven, and which may accordingly properly be translated, “God,” instead of “Heaven,” is exceedingly few. The similarity of the use of words, one singular and the other plural in form, to the “Jehovah” and “Elohim” of the Hebrews is worthy of remark. The foregoing saying, Christian, even Christ-like in its spirit, occurs in one of the Odes of the “Shi King.” In the same book are found the only passages in all these classics which affirm that God has spoken to any man. There are three of them, of which this is the only one of general application: “God said to King Wan: ‘Be not like them who reject this and cling to that. Be not like them who are ruled by their likes and desires.’ ” (Shi King, Major Odes, decade i., ode 7.)
If this were indeed the word of God and His only revelation to man, this command to be free and impartial and not to be ruled by mere desire could not be deemed unworthy.
In the “Li Ki” the following circumstantial account is given of the rise from primitive barbarity, reaching its acme in the worship—not of gods—but of God: “Formerly the ancient kings had no houses. In winter they lived in caves which they had excavated, and in summer in nests which they had framed. They knew not the transforming power of fire, but ate the fruit of plants and trees and the flesh of birds and beasts, drinking their blood and swallowing hair and feathers. They knew not yet the use of flax and silk, but clothed themselves with feathers and skins.
“The later sages then arose, and men learned to utilize the blessing of fire. They moulded metals and fashioned clay, so as to rear towers with structures on them and houses with windows and doors. They toasted, grilled, broiled, and roasted. They produced must and sauces. They dealt with the flax and silk, so as to form linen and silken fabrics. They were thus able to nourish the living and to make offerings to the dead, to serve the spirits of the departed and God.” (Li Ki, bk. vii., sect. i., 9.)
The exalted conception which these ancients, so chary about using His name or claiming a knowledge of Him which mortal may not attain, really had of God, and of the qualifications required in order to worship Him in spirit and in truth, is indicated in this text from the “Li Ki”: “It is only the sage who can sacrifice to God.” (Bk. xxi., sect. i., 6.)
To this, also, may be referred with greatest emphasis this other saying in the “Li Ki”: “Do not take liberties with or weary spiritual beings.” (Bk. xv., 22.)
The shock with which this idea of remoteness and even exclusiveness must needs be received by a people who have so lately emerged—if, indeed, we have emerged—from the most violent controversies as to which man or group of men knew all about the Almighty, His designs, His will, His purposes with His creature, man, may possibly be relieved a little by the reflection that this aloofness would at least be unfavourable to the development of that levity and jocose blasphemy concerning the Great Spirit to which somehow our over-familiarity has conduced.
The ancient Chinese had the same conception of the possibility of ascertaining the future from the Divine Mind, by oracular utterances or divination, which was also common to the Greeks, the Romans, and other peoples in ancient times. The following passage from the “Yi King” charges the superior man to engage in no important undertaking without thus seeking Divine enlightenment and guidance: “Therefore, when a superior man is about to take action of a more private or of a public character, he asks the Yi, making his inquiry in words. It receives his order and the answer comes as the echo’s response. Be the subject remote or near, mysterious or deep, he forthwith knows of what kind will be the coming result.” (Appendix iii., sect. i., c. x., 60.)
The foregoing has striking similarity to the consultation of the oracle in the days of classic Greece. The “Li Ki” gives the following description, however, of divining by the use of the “Yi King,” which shows that a most peculiar and indeed singular custom of divining had sprung up among the Chinese: “Anciently the sages, having determined the phenomena of Heaven and Earth in states of rest and activity, made them the basis for the Yi. The diviner held the tortoise-shell in his arms, with his face toward the south, while the son of Heaven, in his dragon-robe and square-topped cap, stood with his face toward the north. The latter, however, discerning his mind, felt it necessary to proceed to obtain a decision upon what he purposed, thus showing that he dared not pursue his own course and deferred to the will of Heaven.” (Li Ki, bk. xxi., sect. ii., 25.)
Though nowhere in the “Analects” or “The Great Learning,” all or most of the text of which is attributed to Confucius though handed down by his disciples, is there mention of the personal name, God, as distinguished from the impersonal one, Heaven, which is several times used, in the “Li Ki” the following is found: “These were the words of the Master, ‘The ancient and wise kings of the three dynasties served the spiritual intelligences of Heaven and Earth. They invariably consulted the tortoise-shells and divining stalks; and did not presume to use their private judgment in serving God.’ ” (Bk. xxix., 52.)
And in the “Doctrine of the Mean,” the following: “By the ceremonies of the sacrifices to Heaven and Earth they served God.”
It is but a step, to be sure,—and one which was frequently taken in all parts of the world,—from trust in Providence to a belief that God determines all fortuitous events and accordingly that by observation of them His will may be known.
In another place, however, the “Li Ki” seems pointedly to disapprove attempts to penetrate the mysteries of the future: “Do not try . . . to fathom what has not yet arrived.” (Bk. xv., 22.)
It is, perhaps, sufficiently obvious from all that is in this book—and yet more from all of the text of the Confucian classics, that is ascribed to Confucius, or apparently emanates from him—that the sage did not intend to dogmatize concerning the personality, the identity, the nature, the purposes of God, nor to limit the earnest seekers after Him, whatever path they were destined to pursue in this so bootless quest for that which is unknowable. He was but a sage, seeking to make of his fellow-men spiritual seers, apprehending clearly and sincerely the truths that would guide them aright along the simple, but far from easy, path which mortals should tread. Should he guide them, indeed, into the mental morass of mere theological speculation upon the unknown and unknowable?
Yet withal his own view was once clearly enunciated: “I seek unity, all pervading.” (Analects, bk. xv., c. ii., v. 2.)
APPENDIX
THE “GREAT PRINCIPLE” OF CONFUCIUS
Dr. Chen Huan Chang in his work “The Economic Principles of Confucius and His School” gives the following version of a passage in the “Li Ki” (bk. vii., sect. i., 2, 3):
“When the Great Principle (of the Great Similarity) prevails, the whole world becomes a republic; they elect men of talents, virtue, and ability; they talk about sincere agreement, and cultivate universal peace. Thus men do not regard as their parents only their own parents, nor treat as their children only their own children. A competent provision is secured for the aged till their death, employment for the middle-aged, and the means of growing up for the young. The widowers, widows, orphans, childless men, and those who are disabled by disease, are all sufficiently maintained. Each man has his rights, and each woman her individuality safeguarded. They produce wealth, disliking that it should be thrown away upon the ground, but not wishing to keep it for their own gratification. Disliking idleness, they labour, but not alone with a view to their own advantage. In this way selfish schemings are repressed and find no way to arise. Robbers, filchers, and rebellious traitors do not exist. Hence the outer doors remain open, and are not shut. This is the state of what I call the Great Similarity.
“Now that the Great Principle has not yet been developed, the world is inherited through family. Each one regards as his parents only his own parents, and treats as his children only his own children. The wealth of each and his labour are only for his self-interest. Great men imagine it is the rule that their estates should descend in their own families. Their object is to make the walls of their cities and suburbs strong and their ditches and moats secure. Rites and justice are regarded as the threads by which they seek to maintain in its correctness the relation between ruler and minister; in its generous regard that between father and son; in its harmony that between elder brother and younger; and in a community of sentiment that between husband and wife; and in accordance with them they regulate consumption, distribute land and dwellings, distinguish the men of military ability and cunning, and achieve their work with a view to their own advantage. Thus it is that selfish schemes and enterprises are constantly taking their rise, and war is inevitably forthcoming. In this course of rites and justice, Yü, T‘ang, Wên, Wu, Ch‘êng Wang, and the Duke of Chou are the best examples of good government. Of these six superior men, every one was attentive to the rites, thus to secure the display of justice, the realization of sincerity, the exhibition of errors, the exemplification of benevolence, and the discussion of courtesy, showing the people all the constant virtues. If any ruler, having power and position, would not follow this course, he should be driven away by the multitude who regard him as a public enemy. This is the state of what I call the Small Tranquillity.”
Dr. Chen identifies “The Small Tranquillity” with “The Advancing Peace Stage,” into which men proceed in the form of nations out of the primitive “Disorderly Stage,” and “The Great Similarity” with “The Extreme Peace Stage,” i. e., with what Tennyson meant in “Locksley Hall”:
- “When the war drums throb no longer and the battle-flags are furled
- In the parliament of man, the federation of the world.”
Proceeding with this interpretation, Dr. Chen says: “This is the most important statement of all Confucius’ teachings. The stage of Great Similarity or Extreme Peace is the final aim of Confucius; it is the golden age of Confucianism. If we make a comparison between the Great Similarity and the Small Tranquillity, we may get a clear view. Everyone knows that Confucianism has five social relations and five moral constants: ruler and subject, father and son, elder and younger brothers, husband and wife, friend and friend, make up the five social relations; love, justice, rite, wisdom, and sincerity make up the five moral constants. But, according to the statement of Confucius himself, they belong only to the Small Tranquillity. Everyone knows that Confucianism is in favour of monarchical government and of filial piety. But they are good only in the Small Tranquillity. In the Great Similarity, the whole world is the only social organization, and the individual is the independent unit; both socialistic and individualistic characters reach the highest point. There is no national state, so that there is no war, no need of defence, nor of men of military ability and cunning. Men of talents, virtue, and ability are chosen by the people, so that the people themselves are the sovereign, and the relation between ruler and subject does not exist. Man and woman are not bound by the tie of marriage, so that the relations between husband and wife, between father and son, and between brothers do not exist. The only relation that remains is friendship. There is no family, so that there is no inheritance, no private property, no selfish scheme. There is no class, so that the only classification is made either by age or by sex; but whether old, middle-aged, or young, whether man or woman, each satisfies his needs. The Great Principle of the Great Similarity prevails, so that everyone is naturally as good as everyone else and the distinction of the five moral constants is gone. Each has only natural love toward others, regardless of artificial rites and justice. Speaking of the Small Tranquillity, Confucius gives six superior men as examples, but for the Great Similarity, he does not mention any one, because it has never existed. In the Canon of History, Confucius takes up Yao and Shun to represent the stage of Great Similarity as they did not hand down their thrones to their sons, yet he does not mention them here. The principle of the Three Stages is the principle of progress; we must look for the golden age in the future; the Extreme Peace or the Great Similarity is the goal.”
The similarity of this conception to the social scheme of Socrates, as set forth in Plato’s “Republic,” is remarkable, as also its similarity to the views of advanced socialists nowadays. It is indeed significant and weighty if these two greatest intellects of the ancients and perhaps of all mankind saw this ultimate goal alike. But the interpretation may in some regards be deemed doubtful; and certainly others have interpreted it otherwise. Thus Legge translates the passage, using the past tense throughout, as follows:
“When the Grand Course was pursued, a public and common spirit ruled all under the sky; they chose men of talents, virtue, and ability; their words were sincere, and what they cultivated was harmony. Thus men did not love their parents only, nor treat as children only their own sons. A competent provision was secured for the aged till their death, employment for the able-bodied, and the means of growing up to the young. They showed kindness and compassion to widows, orphans, childless men, and those who were disabled by disease, so that they were all sufficiently maintained. Males had their proper work, and females had their homes. (They accumulated) articles (of value) disliking that they should be thrown away upon the ground, but not wishing to keep them for their own gratification. (They laboured) with their strength, disliking that it should not be exerted, but not exerting it (only) with a view to their own advantage. In this way (selfish) schemings were repressed and found no development. Robbers, filchers, and rebellious traitors did not show themselves, and hence the outer doors remained open, and were not shut. This was (the period of) what we call the Grand Union.
“Now that the Grand Course has fallen into disuse and obscurity, the kingdom is a family inheritance. Everyone loves (above all others) his own parents and cherishes (as) children (only) his own sons. People accumulate goods and exert their strength for their own advantage. Great men imagine it is the rule that their estates should descend in their own families. Their object is to make the walls of their cities and suburbs strong and their ditches and moats secure. The rules of propriety and of what is right are regarded as the threads by which they seek to maintain in its correctness the relation between ruler and minister; in its generous regard that between father and son; in its harmony that between elder brother and younger; and in a community of sentiment that between husband and wife; and in accordance with them they frame buildings and measures; lay out the fields and hamlets (for the dwellings of the husbandmen); adjudge the superiority to men of valour and knowledge; and regulate their achievements with a view to their own advantage. Thus it is that (selfish) schemes and enterprises are constantly taking their rise, and recourse is had to arms; and thus it was (also) that Yu, Thang, Wan, and Wu, King Khâng, and the Duke of Kâu obtained their distinction. Of these six great men everyone was very attentive to the rules of propriety, thus to secure the display of righteousness, the realization of sincerity, the exhibition of errors, the exemplification of benevolence, and the discussion of courtesy, showing the people all the normal virtues. Any rulers who did not follow this course were driven away by those who possessed power and position, and all regarded them as pests. This is the period of what we call Small Tranquillity.”
But whether past or future is intended, undoubtedly it is the “golden age,” or ideal state, which is meant. The open question as to whether the Grand Course is past or yet to come, is of course due to the ideographic form of the language; owing to his standing as a Confucian scholar, Dr. Chen is certainly entitled to have his interpretation preferred, if all else is equal.
The statement concerning safeguarding the individuality of women would perhaps scarcely seem to warrant the notion that the idea of the family, upon which Confucius built his entire superstructure of personal and governmental relations, should be abandoned; Legge translated this, it should be noted, “Males had their proper work, and females had their homes.”
[1 ]Mencius said of himself: “Although I could not be a disciple of Confucius myself, I have endeavoured to cultivate my virtue by means of others who were.” (Bk. iv., pt. ii., c. xxii., v. 2.)
[1 ]I have been much concerned about the word which should be given for the Chinese word appearing here. Legge renders it “mean,” meaning thereby “average.” I discard his word as ambiguous and choose “ordinary” as nearest to the idea, which is “the average among men who are not superior.” This expression must not, however, be taken as a term describing the common people; as will be seen, Confucius reverenced them, as in our age did Abraham Lincoln.
6: Sir Ernest Alfred Wallis Budge, The Babylonian Story of the Deluge and the Epic of Gilgamesh [1920]
Sir Ernest Alfred Wallis Budge, The Babylonian Story of the Deluge and the Epic of Gilgamesh, with an Account of the Royal Libraries of Ninevah (London: Harrison and Sons, 1920).
Accessed from oll.libertyfund.org/title/1268 on 2011-05-14
The text is in the public domain.
7: Old Testament (Various Authors), The Book of Job (KJV) [1885]
Old Testament (Various Authors), The Parallel Bible. The Holy Bible containing the Old and New Testaments translated out of the Original Tongues: being the Authorised Version arranged in parallel columns with the Revised Version (Oxford University Press, 1885). The Book of Job.
Accessed from oll.libertyfund.org/title/998 on 2011-05-14
The text is in the public domain.
THE BOOK OF JOB. (A. V.)
1
1There was a man in the land of Uz, whose name was Job; and that man was * perfect and upright, and one that feared God, and eschewed evil.
2 And there were born unto him seven sons and three daughters.
3 His ∥ substance also was seven thousand sheep, and three thousand camels, and five hundred yoke of oxen, and five hundred she asses, and a very great ∥ household; so that this man was the greatest of all the † men of the east.
4 And his sons went and feasted in their houses, every one his day; and sent and called for their three sisters to eat and to drink with them.
5 And it was so, when the days of their feasting were gone about, that Job sent and sanctified them, and rose up early in the morning, and offered burnt offerings according to the number of them all: for Job said, It may be that my sons have sinned, and * cursed God in their hearts. Thus did Job † continually.
6 ¶ Now there was a day when the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, and † Satan came also † among them.
7 And the Lord said unto Satan, Whence comest thou? Then Satan answered the Lord, and said, From * going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it.
8 And the Lord said unto Satan, † Hast thou considered my servant Job, that there is none like him in the earth, a perfect and an upright man, one that feareth God, and escheweth evil?
9 Then Satan answered the Lord, and said, Doth Job fear God for nought?
10 Hast not thou made an hedge about him, and about his house, and about all that he hath on every side? thou hast blessed the work of his hands, and his ∥ substance is increased in the land.
11 But put forth thine hand now, and touch all that he hath, † and he will curse thee to thy face.
12 And the Lord said unto Satan, Behold, all that he hath is in thy † power; only upon himself put not forth thine hand. So Satan went forth from the presence of the Lord.
13 ¶ And there was a day when his sons and his daughters were eating and drinking wine in their eldest brother’s house:
14 And there came a messenger unto Job, and said, The oxen were plowing, and the asses feeding beside them:
15 And the Sabeans fell upon them, and took them away; yea, they have slain the servants with the edge of the sword; and I only am escaped alone to tell thee.
16 While he was yet speaking, there came also another, and said, ∥ The fire of God is fallen from heaven, and hath burned up the sheep, and the servants, and consumed them; and I only am escaped alone to tell thee.
17 While he was yet speaking, there came also another, and said, The Chaldeans made out three bands, and † fell upon the camels, and have carried them away, yea, and slain the servants with the edge of the sword; and I only am escaped alone to tell thee.
18 While he was yet speaking, there came also another, and said, Thy sons and thy daughters were eating and drinking wine in their eldest brother’s house:
19 And, behold, there came a great wind † from the wilderness, and smote the four corners of the house, and it fell upon the young men, and they are dead; and I only am escaped alone to tell thee.
20 Then Job arose, and rent his ∥ mantle, and shaved his head, and fell down upon the ground, and worshipped,
21 And said, * Naked came I out of my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return thither: the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.
22 In all this Job sinned not, nor ∥ charged God foolishly.
2
1 Again there was a day when the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan came also among them to present himself before the Lord.
2 And the Lord said unto Satan, From whence comest thou? And * Satan answered the Lord, and said, From going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it.
3 And the Lord said unto Satan, Hast thou considered my servant Job, that there is none like him in the earth, * a perfect and an upright man, one that feareth God, and escheweth evil? and still he holdeth fast his integrity, although thou movedst me against him, † to destroy him without cause.
4 And Satan answered the Lord, and said, Skin for skin, yea, all that a man hath will he give for his life.
5 But put forth thine hand now, and touch his bone and his flesh, and he will curse thee to thy face.
6 And the Lord said unto Satan, Behold, he is in thine hand; ∥ but save his life.
7 ¶ So went Satan forth from the presence of the Lord, and smote Job with sore boils from the sole of his foot unto his crown.
8 And he took him a potsherd to scrape himself withal; and he sat down among the ashes.
9 ¶ Then said his wife unto him, Dost thou still retain thine integrity? curse God, and die.
10 But he said unto her, Thou speakest as one of the foolish women speaketh. What? shall we receive good at the hand of God, and shall we not receive evil? In all this did not Job sin with his lips.
11 ¶ Now when Job’s three friends heard of all this evil that was come upon him, they came every one from his own place; Eliphaz the Temanite, and Bildad the Shuhite, and Zophar the Naamathite: for they had made an appointment together to come to mourn with him and to comfort him.
12 And when they lifted up their eyes afar off, and knew him not, they lifted up their voice, and wept; and they rent every one his mantle, and sprinkled dust upon their heads toward heaven.
13 So they sat down with him upon the ground seven days and seven nights, and none spake a word unto him: for they saw that his grief was very great.
3
1 After this opened Job his mouth, and cursed his day.
2 And Job † spake, and said,
3* Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was said, There is a man child conceived.
4 Let that day be darkness; let not God regard it from above, neither let the light shine upon it.
5 Let darkness and the shadow of death ∥ stain it; let a cloud dwell upon it; ∥ let the blackness of the day terrify it.
6As for that night, let darkness seize upon it; ∥ let it not be joined unto the days of the year, let it not come into the number of the months.
7 Lo, let that night be solitary, let no joyful voice come therein.
8 Let them curse it that curse the day, who are ready to raise up ∥ their mourning.
9 Let the stars of the twilight thereof be dark; let it look for light, but have none; neither let it see † the dawning of the day:
10 Because it shut not up the doors of my mother’s womb, nor hid sorrow from mine eyes.
11 Why died I not from the womb? why did I not give up the ghost when I came out of the belly?
12 Why did the knees prevent me? or why the breasts that I should suck?
13 For now should I have lain still and been quiet, I should have slept: then had I been at rest,
14 With kings and counsellers of the earth, which built desolate places for themselves;
15 Or with princes that had gold, who filled their houses with silver:
16 Or as an hidden untimely birth I had not been; as infants which never saw light.
17 There the wicked cease from troubling; and there the † weary be at rest.
18There the prisoners rest together; they hear not the voice of the oppressor.
19 The small and great are there; and the servant is free from his master.
20 Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, and life unto the bitter in soul;
21 Which † long for death, but it cometh not; and dig for it more than for hid treasures;
22 Which rejoice exceedingly, and are glad, when they can find the grave?
23Why is light given to a man whose way is hid, * and whom God hath hedged in?
24 For my sighing cometh † before I eat, and my roarings are poured out like the waters.
25 For † the thing which I greatly feared is come upon me, and that which I was afraid of is come unto me.
26 I was not in safety, neither had I rest, neither was I quiet; yet trouble came.
4
1 Then Eliphaz the Temanite answered and said,
2If we assay † to commune with thee, wilt thou be grieved? but † who can withhold himself from speaking?
3 Behold, thou hast instructed many, and thou hast strengthened the weak hands.
4 Thy words have upholden him that was falling, and thou hast strengthened † the feeble knees.
5 But now it is come upon thee, and thou faintest; it toucheth thee, and thou art troubled.
6Is not this thy fear, thy ‡ confidence, thy hope, and the uprightness of thy ways?
7 Remember, I pray thee, who ever perished, being innocent? or where were the righteous cut off?
8 Even as I have seen, * they that plow iniquity, and sow wickedness, reap the same.
9 By the blast of God they perish, and ∥ by the breath of his nostrils are they consumed.
10 The roaring of the lion, and the voice of the fierce lion, and the teeth of the young lions, are broken.
11 The old lion perisheth for lack of prey, and the stout lion’s whelps are scattered abroad.
12 Now a thing was † secretly brought to me, and mine ear received a little thereof.
13 In thoughts from the visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth on men,
14 Fear † came upon me, and trembling, which made † all my bones to shake.
15 Then a spirit passed before my face; the hair of my flesh stood up:
16 It stood still, but I could not discern the form thereof: an image was before mine eyes, ∥there was silence, and I heard a voice, saying,
17 Shall mortal man be more just than God? shall a man be more pure than his maker?
18 Behold, he * put no trust in his servants; ∥ and his angels he charged with folly:
19 How much less ‡in them that dwell in * houses of clay, whose foundation is in the dust, which are crushed before the moth?
20 They are † destroyed from morning to evening: they perish for ever without any regarding it.
21 Doth not their excellency which is in them go away? they die, even without wisdom.
5
1 Call now, if there be any that will answer thee; and to which of the saints wilt thou ∥ turn?
2 For wrath killeth the foolish man, and ∥ envy slayeth the silly one.
3 I have seen the foolish taking root: but suddenly I cursed his habitation.
4 His children are far from safety, and they are crushed in the gate, neither is there any to deliver them.
5 Whose harvest the hungry eateth up, and taketh it even out of the thorns, and the robber swalloweth up their substance.
6 Although ∥ affliction cometh not forth of the dust, neither doth trouble spring out of the ground;
7 Yet man is born unto ∥ trouble, as † the sparks fly upward.
8 I would seek unto God, and unto God would I commit my cause:
9* Which doeth great things † and unsearchable; marvellous things † without number:
10 Who giveth rain upon the earth, and sendeth waters upon the † fields:
11* To set up on high those that be low; that those which mourn may be exalted to safety.
12* He disappointeth the devices of the crafty, so that their hands ∥ cannot perform their enterprise
13* He taketh the wise in their own craftiness: and the counsel of the froward is carried headlong.
14* They ∥ meet with darkness in the daytime, and grope in the noonday as in the night.
15 But he saveth the poor from the sword, from their mouth, and from the hand of the mighty.
16* So the poor hath hope, and iniquity stoppeth her mouth.
17* Behold, happy is the man whom God correcteth: therefore despise not thou the chastening of the Almighty:
18* For he maketh sore, and bindeth up: he woundeth, and his hands make whole.
19* He shall deliver thee in six troubles: yea, in seven there shall no evil touch thee.
20 In famine he shall redeem thee from death: and in war † from the power of the sword.
21 Thou shalt be hid ∥ from the scourge of the tongue: neither shalt thou be afraid of destruction when it cometh.
22 At destruction and famine thou shalt laugh: neither shalt thou be afraid of the beasts of the earth.
23* For thou shalt be in league with the stones of the field: and the beasts of the field shall be at peace with thee.
24 And thou shalt know ∥ that thy tabernacle shall be in peace; and thou shalt visit thy habitation, and shalt not ∥ sin.
25 Thou shalt know also that thy seed shall be∥ great, and thine offspring as the grass of the earth.
26 Thou shalt come to thy grave in a full age, like as a shock of corn † cometh in in his season.
27 Lo this, we have searched it, so it is; hear it, and know thou it† for thy good.
6
1 But Job answered and said,
2 Oh that my grief were throughly weighed, and my calamity † laid in the balances together!
3 For now it would be heavier than the sand of the sea: therefore ∥ my words are swallowed up.
4* For the arrows of the Almighty are within me, the poison whereof drinketh up my spirit: the terrors of God do set themselves in array against me.
5 Doth the wild ass bray † when he hath grass? or loweth the ox over his fodder?
6 Can that which is unsavoury be eaten without salt? or is there any taste in the white of an egg?
7 The things that my soul refused to touch are as my sorrowful meat.
8 Oh that I might have my request; and that God would grant me† the thing that I long for!
9 Even that it would please God to destroy me; that he would let loose his hand, and cut me off!
10 Then should I yet have comfort; yea, I would harden myself in sorrow: let him not spare; for I have not concealed the words of the Holy One.
11 What is my strength, that I should hope? and what is mine end, that I should prolong my life?
12Is my strength the strength of stones? or is my flesh † of brass?
13Is not my help in me? and is wisdom driven quite from me?
14† To him that is afflicted pity should be shewed from his friend; but he forsaketh the fear of the Almighty.
15 My brethren have dealt deceitfully as a brook, and as the stream of brooks they pass away;
16 Which are blackish by reason of the ice, and wherein the snow is hid:
17 What time they wax warm, † they vanish: † when it is hot, they are † consumed out of their place.
18 The paths of their way are turned aside; they go to nothing, and perish.
19 The troops of Tema looked, the companies of Sheba waited for them.
20 They were confounded because they had hoped; they came thither, and were ashamed.
21∥ For now ye are † nothing; ye see my casting down, and are afraid.
22 Did I say, Bring unto me? or, Give a reward for me of your substance?
23 Or, Deliver me from the enemy’s hand? or, Redeem me from the hand of the mighty?
24 Teach me, and I will hold my tongue: and cause me to understand wherein I have erred.
25 How forcible are right words! but what doth your arguing reprove?
26 Do ye imagine to reprove words, and the speeches of one that is desperate, which are as wind?
27 Yea, † ye overwhelm the fatherless, and ye dig a pit for your friend.
28 Now therefore be content, look upon me; for it is† evident unto you if I lie.
29 Return, I pray you, let it not be iniquity; yea, return again, my righteousness is∥ in it.
30 Is there iniquity in my tongue? cannot † my taste discern perverse things?
7
1Is there not ∥ an appointed time to man upon earth? are not his days also like the days of an hireling?
2 As a servant † earnestly desireth the shadow, and as an hireling looketh for the reward of his work:
3 So am I made to possess months of vanity, and wearisome nights are appointed to me.
4 When I lie down, I say, When shall I arise, and † the night be gone? and I am full of tossings to and fro unto the dawning of the day.
5 My flesh is clothed with worms and clods of dust; my skin is broken, and become loathsome.
6* My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle, and are spent without hope.
7 O remember that my life is wind: mine eye † shall no more ∥ see good.
8 The eye of him that hath seen me shall see me no more: thine eyes are upon me, and ∥ I am not.
9As the cloud is consumed and vanisheth away: so he that goeth down to the grave shall come up no more.
10 He shall return no more to his house, neither shall his place know him any more.
11 Therefore I will not refrain my mouth; I will speak in the anguish of my spirit; I will complain in the bitterness of my soul.
12Am I a sea, or a whale, that thou settest a watch over me?
13 When I say, My bed shall comfort me, my couch shall ease my complaint;
14 Then thou scarest me with dreams, and terrifiest me through visions:
15 So that my soul chooseth strangling, and death rather † than my life.
16 I loathe it; I would not live alway: let me alone; for my days are vanity.
17* What is man, that thou shouldest magnify him? and that thou shouldest set thine heart upon him?
18 And that thou shouldest visit him every morning, and try him every moment?
19 How long wilt thou not depart from me, nor let me alone till I swallow down my spittle?
20 I have sinned; what shall I do unto thee, O thou preserver of men? why hast thou set me as a mark against thee, so that I am a burden to myself?
21 And why dost thou not pardon my transgression, and take away mine iniquity? for now shall I sleep in the dust; and thou shalt seek me in the morning, but I shall not be.
8
1 Then answered Bildad the Shuhite, and said,
2 How long wilt thou speak these things? and how long shall the words of thy mouth be like a strong wind?
3* Doth God pervert judgment? or doth the Almighty pervert justice?
4 If thy children have sinned against him, and he have cast them away † for their transgression;
5* If thou wouldest seek unto God betimes, and make thy supplication to the Almighty;
6 If thou wert pure and upright; surely now he would awake for thee, and make the habitation of thy righteousness prosperous.
7 Though thy beginning was small, yet thy latter end should greatly increase.
8* For enquire, I pray thee, of the former age, and prepare thyself to the search of their fathers:
9 (For * we are but of yesterday, and know † nothing, because our days upon earth are a shadow:)
10 Shall not they teach thee, and tell thee, and utter words out of their heart?
11 Can the rush grow up without mire? can the flag grow without water?
12* Whilst it is yet in his greenness, and not cut down, it withereth before any other herb.
13 So are the paths of all that forget God; and the * hypocrite’s hope shall perish:
14 Whose hope shall be cut off, and whose trust shall be† a spider’s web.
15 He shall lean upon his house, but it shall not stand: he shall hold it fast, but it shall not endure.
16 He is green before the sun, and his branch shooteth forth in his garden.
17 His roots are wrapped about the heap, and seeth the place of stones.
18 If he destroy him from his place, then it shall deny him, saying, I have not seen thee.
19 Behold, this is the joy of his way, and out of the earth shall others grow.
20 Behold, God will not cast away a perfect man, neither will he † help the evil doers:
21 Till he fill thy mouth with laughing, and thy lips with † rejoicing.
22 They that hate thee shall be clothed with shame; and the dwelling place of the wicked † shall come to nought.
9
1 Then Job answered and said,
2 I know it is so of a truth: but how should * man be just ∥ with God?
3 If he will contend with him, he cannot answer him one of a thousand.
4He is wise in heart, and mighty in strength: who hath hardened himself against him, and hath prospered?
5 Which removeth the mountains, and they know not: which overturneth them in his anger.
6 Which shaketh the earth out of her place, and the pillars thereof tremble.
7 Which commandeth the sun, and it riseth not; and sealeth up the stars.
8* Which alone spreadeth out the heavens, and treadeth upon the † waves of the sea.
9* Which maketh † Arcturus, Orion, and Pleiades, and the chambers of the south.
10* Which doeth great things past finding out; yea, and wonders without number.
11 Lo, he goeth by me, and I see him not: he passeth on also, but I perceive him not.
12* Behold, he taketh away, † who can hinder him? who will say unto him, What doest thou?
13If God will not withdraw his anger, the † proud helpers do stoop under him.
14 How much less shall I answer him, and choose out my words to reason with him?
15 Whom, though I were righteous, yet would I not answer, but I would make supplication to my judge.
16 If I had called, and he had answered me; yet would I not believe that he had hearkened unto my voice.
17 For he breaketh me with a tempest, and multiplieth my wounds without cause.
18 He will not suffer me to take my breath, but filleth me with bitterness.
19 If I speak of strength, lo, he is strong: and if of judgment, who shall set me a time to plead?
20 If I justify myself, mine own mouth shall condemn me: if I say, I am perfect, it shall also prove me perverse.
21Though I were perfect, yet would I not know my soul: I would despise my life.
22 This is one thing, therefore I said it, He destroyeth the perfect and the wicked.
23 If the scourge slay suddenly, he will laugh at the trial of the innocent.
24 The earth is given into the hand of the wicked: he covereth the faces of the judges thereof; if not, where, and who is he?
25 Now my days are swifter than a post: they flee away, they see no good.
26 They are passed away as the †∥ swift ships: as the eagle that hasteth to the prey.
27 If I say, I will forget my complaint, I will leave off my heaviness, and comfort myself:
28 I am afraid of all my sorrows, I know that thou wilt not hold me innocent.
29If I be wicked, why then labour I in vain?
30 If I wash myself with snow water, and make my hands never so clean;
31 Yet shalt thou plunge me in the ditch, and mine own clothes shall ∥ abhor me.
32 For he is not a man, as I am, that I should answer him, and we should come together in judgment.
33 Neither is there † any ∥ daysman betwixt us, that might lay his hand upon us both.
34 Let him take his rod away from me, and let not his fear terrify me:
35Then would I speak, and not fear him; † but it is not so with me.
10
1 My soul is ∥ weary of my life; I will leave my complaint upon myself; I will speak in the bitterness of my soul.
2 I will say unto God, Do not condemn me; shew me wherefore thou contendest with me.
3Is it good unto thee that thou shouldest oppress, that thou shouldest despise † the work of thine hands, and shine upon the counsel of the wicked?
4 Hast thou eyes of flesh? or seest thou as man seeth?
5Are thy days as the days of man? are thy years as man’s days,
6 That thou enquirest after mine iniquity, and searchest after my sin?
7† Thou knowest that I am not wicked; and there is none that can deliver out of thine hand.
8 Thine hands † have made me and fashioned me together round about; yet thou dost destroy me.
9 Remember, I beseech thee, that thou hast made me as the clay; and wilt thou bring me into dust again?
10* Hast thou not poured me out as milk, and ‡ curdled me like cheese?
11 Thou hast clothed me with skin and flesh, and hast † fenced me with bones and sinews.
12 Thou hast granted me life and favour, and thy visitation hath preserved my spirit.
13 And these things hast thou hid in thine heart: I know that this is with thee.
14 If I sin, then thou markest me, and thou wilt not acquit me from mine iniquity.
15 If I be wicked, woe unto me; and if I be righteous, yet will I not lift up my head. I am full of confusion; therefore see thou mine affliction;
16 For it increaseth. Thou huntest me as a fierce lion: and again thou shewest thyself marvellous upon me.
17 Thou renewest ∥ thy witnesses against me, and increasest thine indignation upon me; changes and war are against me.
18* Wherefore then hast thou brought me forth out of the womb? Oh that I had given up the ghost, and no eye had seen me!
19 I should have been as though I had not been; I should have been carried from the womb to the grave.
20*Are not my days few? cease then, and let me alone, that I may take comfort a little,
21 Before I go whence I shall not return, even to the land of darkness and the shadow of death;
22 A land of darkness, as darkness itself; and of the shadow of death, without any order, and where the light is as darkness.
11
1 Then answered Zophar the Naamathite, and said,
2 Should not the multitude of words be answered? and should † a man full of talk be justified?
3 Should thy ∥ lies make men hold their peace? and when thou mockest, shall no man make thee ashamed?
4 For thou hast said, My doctrine is pure, and I am clean in thine eyes.
5 But oh that God would speak, and open his lips against thee;
6 And that he would shew thee the secrets of wisdom, that they are double to that which is! Know therefore that God exacteth of thee less than thine iniquity deserveth.
7 Canst thou by searching find out God? canst thou find out the Almighty unto perfection?
8It is† as high as heaven; what canst thou do? deeper than hell; what canst thou know?
9 The measure thereof is longer than the earth, and broader than the sea.
10 If he ∥ cut off, and shut up, or gather together, then † who can hinder him?
11 For he knoweth vain men: he seeth wickedness also; will he not then consider it?
12 For † vain man would be wise, though man be born like a wild ass’s colt.
13 If thou prepare thine heart, and stretch out thine hands toward him;
14 If iniquity be in thine hand, put it far away, and let not wickedness dwell in thy tabernacles
15 For then shalt thou lift up thy face without spot; yea, thou shalt be stedfast, and shalt not fear:
16 Because thou shalt forget thy misery, and remember it as waters that pass away:
17 And thine age † shall be clearer than the noonday; thou shalt shine forth, thou shalt be as the morning.
18 And thou shalt be secure, because there is hope; yea, thou shalt dig about thee, and thou shalt take thy rest in safety.
19* Also thou shalt lie down, and none shall make thee afraid; yea, many shall † make suit unto thee.
20 But the eyes of the wicked shall fail, and † they shall not escape, and * their hope shall be as∥ the giving up of the ghost.
12
1 And Job answered and said,
2 No doubt but ye are the people, and wisdom shall die with you.
3 But I have † understanding as well as you; † I am not inferior to you: yea, † who knoweth not such things as these?
4 I am as one mocked of his neighbour, who calleth upon God, and he answereth him: the just upright man is laughed to scorn.
5 He that is ready to slip with his feet is as a lamp despised in the thought of him that is at ease.
6 The tabernacles of robbers prosper, and they that provoke God are secure; into whose hand God bringeth abundantly.
7 But ask now the beasts, and they shall teach thee; and the fowls of the air, and they shall tell thee:
8 Or speak to the earth, and it shall teach thee: and the fishes of the sea shall declare unto thee.
9 Who knoweth not in all these that the hand of the Lord hath wrought this?
10 In whose hand is the ∥ soul of every living thing, and the breath of † all mankind.
11* Doth not the ear try words? and the † mouth taste his meat?
12 With the ancient is wisdom; and in length of days understanding.
13∥ With him is wisdom and strength, he hath counsel and understanding.
14 Behold, he breaketh down, and it cannot be built again: he * shutteth † up a man, and there can be no opening.
15 Behold, he withholdeth the waters, and they dry up: also he sendeth them out, and they overturn the earth.
16 With him is strength and wisdom: the deceived and the deceiver are his.
17 He leadeth counsellers away spoiled, and maketh the judges fools.
18 He looseth the bond of kings, and girdeth their loins with a girdle.
19 He leadeth princes away spoiled, and overthroweth the mighty.
20* He removeth away † the speech of the trusty, and taketh away the understanding of the aged.
21 He poureth contempt upon princes, and ∥ weakeneth the strength of the mighty.
22 He discovereth deep things out of darkness, and bringeth out to light the shadow of death.
23 He increaseth the nations, and destroyeth them: he enlargeth the nations, and † straiteneth them again.
24 He taketh away the heart of the chief of the people of the earth, and causeth them to wander in a wilderness where there is no way.
25 They grope in the dark without light, and he maketh them to † stagger like a drunken man.
13
1 Lo, mine eye hath seen all this, mine ear hath heard and understood it.
2 What ye know, the same do I know also: I am not inferior unto you.
3 Surely I would speak to the Almighty, and I desire to reason with God.
4 But ye are forgers of lies, ye are all physicians of no value.
5 O that ye would altogether hold your peace! and it should be your wisdom.
6 Hear now my reasoning, and hearken to the pleadings of my lips.
7 Will ye speak wickedly for God? and talk deceitfully for him?
8 Will ye accept his person? will ye contend for God?
9 Is it good that he should search you out? or as one man mocketh another, do ye so mock him?
10 He will surely reprove you, if ye do secretly accept persons.
11 Shall not his excellency make you afraid? and his dread fall upon you?
12 Your remembrances are like unto ashes, your bodies to bodies of clay.
13† Hold your peace, let me alone, that I may speak, and let come on me what will.
14 Wherefore do I take my flesh in my teeth, and put my life in mine hand?
15 Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him: but I will † maintain mine own ways before him.
16 He also shall be my salvation: for an hypocrite shall not come before him.
17 Hear diligently my speech, and my declaration with your ears.
18 Behold now, I have ordered my cause; I know that I shall be justified.
19 Who is he that will plead with me? for now, if I hold my tongue, I shall give up the ghost.
20 Only do not two things unto me: then will I not hide myself from thee.
21 Withdraw thine hand far from me: and let not thy dread make me afraid.
22 Then call thou, and I will answer: or let me speak, and answer thou me.
23 How many are mine iniquities and sins? make me to know my transgression and my sin.
24 Wherefore hidest thou thy face, and holdest me for thine enemy?
25 Wilt thou break a leaf driven to and fro? and wilt thou pursue the dry stubble?
26 For thou writest bitter things against me, and * makest me to possess the iniquities of my youth.
27 Thou puttest my feet also in the stocks, and † lookest narrowly unto all my paths; thou settest a print upon the † heels of my feet.
28 And he, as a rotten thing, consumeth, as a garment that is moth eaten.
14
1 Man that is born of a woman is† of few days, and full of trouble.
2* He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down: he fleeth also as a shadow, and continueth not.
3 And dost thou open thine eyes upon such an one, and bringest me into judgment with thee?
4† Who * can bring a clean thing out of an unclean? not one.
5* Seeing his days are determined, the number of his months are with thee, thou hast appointed his bounds that he cannot pass;
6 Turn from him, that he may † rest, till he shall accomplish, as an hireling, his day.
7 For there is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, and that the tender branch thereof will not cease.
8 Though the root thereof wax old in the earth, and the stock thereof die in the ground;
9Yet through the scent of water it will bud, and bring forth boughs like a plant.
10 But man dieth, and † wasteth away: yea, man giveth up the ghost, and where is he?
11As the waters fail from the sea, and the flood decayeth and drieth up:
12 So man lieth down, and riseth not: till the heavens be no more, they shall not awake, nor be raised out of their sleep.
13 O that thou wouldest hide me in the grave, that thou wouldest keep me secret, until thy wrath be past, that thou wouldest appoint me a set time, and remember me!
14 If a man die, shall he live again? all the days of my appointed time will I wait, till my change come.
15 Thou shalt call, and I will answer thee: thou wilt have a desire to the work of thine hands.
16* For now thou numberest my steps: dost thou not watch over my sin?
17 My transgression is sealed up in a bag, and thou sewest up mine iniquity.
18 And surely the mountain falling † cometh to nought, and the rock is removed out of his place.
19 The waters wear the stones: thou † washest away the things which grow out of the dust of the earth; and thou destroyest the hope of man.
20 Thou prevailest for ever against him, and he passeth: thou changest his countenance, and sendest him away.
21 His sons come to honour, and he knoweth it not; and they are brought low, but he perceiveth it not of them.
22 But his flesh upon him shall have pain, and his soul within him shall mourn.
15
1 Then answered Eliphaz the Temanite, and said,
2 Should a wise man utter † vain knowledge, and fill his belly with the east wind?
3 Should be reason with unprofitable talk? or with speeches wherewith he can do no good?
4 Yea, † thou castest off fear, and restrainest ∥ prayer before God.
5 For thy mouth † uttereth thine iniquity, and thou choosest the tongue of the crafty.
6 Thine own mouth condemneth thee, and not I: yea, thine own lips testify against thee.
7Art thou the first man that was born? or wast thou made before the hills?
8* Hast thou heard the secret of God? and dost thou restrain wisdom to thyself?
9 What knowest thou, that we know not? what understandest thou, which is not in us?
10 With us are both the grayheaded and very aged men, much elder than thy father.
11Are the consolations of God small with thee? is there any secret thing with thee?
12 Why doth thine heart carry thee away? and what do thy eyes wink at,
13 That thou turnest thy spirit against God, and lettest such words go out of thy mouth?
14* What is man, that he should be clean? and he which is born of a woman, that he should be righteous?
15* Behold, he putteth no trust in his saints; yea, the heavens are not clean in his sight.
16 How much more abominable and filthy is man, which drinketh inquity like water?
17 I will shew thee, hear me; and that which I have seen I will declare;
18 Which wise men have told from their fathers, and have not hid it:
19 Unto whom alone the earth was given, and no stranger passed among them.
20 The wicked man travaileth with pain all his days, and the number of years is hidden to the oppressor.
21† A dreadful sound is in his ears: in prosperity the destroyer shall come upon him.
22 He believeth not that he shall return out of darkness, and he is waited for of the sword.
23 He wandereth abroad for bread, saying, Where is it? he knoweth that the day of darkness is ready at his hand.
24 Trouble and anguish shall make him afraid; they shall prevail against him, as a king ready to the battle.
25 For he stretcheth out his hand against God, and strengtheneth himself against the Almighty.
26 He runneth upon him, even on his neck, upon the thick bosses of his bucklers:
27 Because he covereth his face with his fatness, and maketh collops of fat on his flanks.
28 And he dwelleth in desolate cities, and in houses which no man inhabiteth, which are ready to become heaps.
29 He shall not be rich, neither shall his substance continue, neither shall he prolong the perfection thereof upon the earth.
30 He shall not depart out of darkness; the flame shall dry up his branches, and by the breath of his mouth shall he go away.
31 Let not him that is deceived trust in vanity. for vanity shall be his recompence.
32 It shall be ∥ accomplished before his time, and his branch shall not be green.
33 He shall shake off his unripe grape as the vine, and shall cast off his flower as the olive.
34 For the congregation of hypocrites shall be desolate, and fire shall consume the tabernacles of bribery.
35* They conceive mischief, and bring forth ∥ vanity, and their belly prepareth deceit.
16
1 Then Job answered and said,
2 I have heard many such things: ∥* miserable comforters are ye all.
3 Shall † vain words have an end? or what emboldeneth thee that thou answerest?
4 I also could speak as ye do: if your soul were in my soul’s stead, I could heap up words against you, and shake mine head at you.
5But I would strengthen you with my mouth, and the moving of my lips should asswage your grief.
6 Though I speak, my grief is not asswaged: and though I forbear, † what am I eased?
7 But now he hath made me weary: thou hast made desolate all my company.
8 And thou hast filled me with wrinkles, which is a witness against me: and my leanness rising up in me beareth witness to my face.
9 He teareth me in his wrath, who hateth me: he gnasheth upon me with his teeth; mine enemy sharpeneth his eyes upon me.
10 They have gaped upon me with their mouth; they have smitten me upon the cheek reproachfully; they have gathered themselves together against me.
11 God † hath delivered me to the ungodly, and turned me over into the hands of the wicked.
12 I was at ease, but he hath broken me asunder: he hath also taken me by my neck, and shaken me to pieces, and set me up for his mark.
13 His archers compass me round about, he cleaveth my reins asunder, and doth not spare; he poureth out my gall upon the ground.
14 He breaketh me with breach upon breach, he runneth upon me like a giant.
15 I have sewed sackcloth upon my skin, and defiled my horn in the dust.
16 My face is foul with weeping, and on my eyelids is the shadow of death;
17 Not for any injustice in mine hands: also my prayer is pure.
18 O earth, cover not thou my blood, and let my cry have no place.
19 Also now, behold, my witness is in heaven, and my record is† on high.
20 My friends † scorn me: but mine eye poureth out tears unto God.
21 O that one might plead for a man with God, as a man pleadeth for his ∥ neighbour!
22 When † a few years are come, then I shall go the way whence I shall not return.
17
1 My ∥ breath is corrupt, my days are extinct, the graves are ready for me.
2Are there not mockers with me? and doth not mine eye † continue in their provocation?
3 Lay down now, put me in a surety with thee; who is he that will strike hands with me?
4 For thou hast hid their heart from understanding: therefore shalt thou not exalt them.
5 He that speaketh flattery to his friends, even the eyes of his children shall fail.
6 He hath made me also a byword of the people; and ∥ aforetime I was as a tabret.
7 Mine eye also is dim by reason of sorrow, and all ∥ my members are as a shadow.
8 Upright men shall be astonied at this, and the innocent shall stir up himself against the hypocrite.
9 The righteous also shall hold on his way, and he that hath clean hands † shall be stronger and stronger.
10 But as for you all, do ye return, and come now: for I cannot find one wise man among you.
11 My days are past, my purposes are broken off, even† the thoughts of my heart.
12 They change the night into day: the light is† short because of darkness.
13 If I want, the grave is mine house: I have made my bed in the darkness.
14 I have † said to corruption, Thou art my father: to the worm, Thou art my mother, and my sister.
15 And where is now my hope? as for my hope, who shall see it?
16 They shall go down to the bars of the pit, when our rest together is in the dust.
18
1 Then answered Bildad the Shuhite, and said,
2 How long will it be ere ye make an end of words? mark, and afterwards we will speak.
3 Wherefore are we counted as beasts, and reputed vile in your sight?
4 He teareth † himself in his anger: shall the earth be forsaken for thee? and shall the rock be removed out of his place?
5 Yea, the light of the wicked shall be put out, and the spark of his fire shall not shine.
6 The light shall be dark in his tabernacle, and his ∥ candle shall be put out with him.
7 The steps of his strength shall be straitened, and his own counsel shall cast him down.
8 For he is cast into a net by his own feet, and he walketh upon a snare.
9 The ‡ gin shall take him by the heel, and the robber shall prevail against him.
10 The snare is† laid for him in the ground, and a trap for him in the way.
11 Terrors shall make him afraid on every side, and shall † drive him to his feet.
12 His strength shall be hungerbitten, and destruction shall be ready at his side.
13 It shall devour the † strength of his skin: even the firstborn of death shall devour his strength.
14* His confidence shall be rooted out of his tabernacle, and it shall bring him to the king of terrors.
15 It shall dwell in his tabernacle, because it is none of his: brimstone shall be scattered upon his habitation.
16 His roots shall be dried up beneath, and above shall his branch be cut off.
17* His remembrance shall perish from the earth, and he shall have no name in the street.
18† He shall be driven from light into darkness, and chased out of the world.
19 He shall neither have son nor nephew among his people, nor any remaining in his dwellings.
20 They that come after him shall be astonied at his day, as they that ∥ went before † were affrighted.
21 Surely such are the dwellings of the wicked, and this is the place of him that knoweth not God.
19
1 Then Job answered and said,
2 How long will ye vex my soul, and break me in pieces with words?
3 These ten times have ye reproached me: ye are not ashamed that ye ∥ make yourselves strange to me.
4 And be it indeed that I have erred, mine error remaineth with myself.
5 If indeed ye will magnify yourselves against me, and plead against me my reproach:
6 Know now that God hath overthrown me, and hath compassed me with his net.
7 Behold, I cry out of ∥ wrong, but I am not heard: I cry aloud, but there is no judgment.
8 He hath fenced up my way that I cannot pass, and he hath set darkness in my paths.
9 He hath stripped me of my glory, and taken the crown from my head.
10 He hath destroyed me on every side, and I am gone: and mine hope hath he removed like a tree.
11 He hath also kindled his wrath against me, and he counteth me unto him as one of his enemies.
12 His troops come together, and raise up their way against me, and encamp round about my tabernacle.
13 He hath put my brethren far from me, and mine acquaintance are verily estranged from me.
14 My kinsfolk have failed, and my familiar friends have forgotten me.
15 They that dwell in mine house, and my maids, count me for a stranger: I am an alien in their sight.
16 I called my servant, and he gave me no answer; I intreated him with my mouth.
17 My breath is strange to my wife, though I intreated for the children’s sake of † mine own body.
18 Yea, ∥ young children despised me; I arose, and they spake against me.
19* All † my inward friends abhorred me: and they whom I loved are turned against me.
20 My bone cleaveth to my skin ∥ and to my flesh, and I am escaped with the skin of my teeth.
21 Have pity upon me, have pity upon me, O ye my friends; for the hand of God hath touched me.
22 Why do ye persecute me as God, and are not satisfied with my flesh?
23† Oh that my words were now written! oh that they were printed in a book!
24 That they were graven with an iron pen and lead in the rock for ever!
25 For I know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth:
26∥ And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God:
27 Whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not † another; though my reins be consumed † within me.
28 But ye should say, Why persecute we him, ∥ seeing the root of the matter is found in me?
29 Be ye afraid of the sword: for wrath bringeth the punishments of the sword, that ye may know there is a judgment.
20
1 Then answered Zophar the Naamathite, and said,
2 Therefore do my thoughts cause me to answer, and for this† I make haste.
3 I have heard the check of my reproach, and the spirit of my understanding causeth me to answer.
4 Knowest thou not this of old, since man was placed upon earth,
5* That the triumphing of the wicked is† short, and the joy of the hypocrite but for a moment?
6 Though his excellency mount up to the heavens, and his head reach unto the † clouds;
7Yet he shall perish for ever like his own dung: they which have seen him shall say, Where is he?
8 He shall fly away as a dream, and shall not be found: yea, he shall be chased away as a vision of the night.
9 The eye also which saw him shall see him no more; neither shall his place any more behold him.
10∥ His children shall seek to please the poor, and his hands shall restore their goods.
11 His bones are full of the sin of his youth, which shall lie down with him in the dust.
12 Though wickedness be sweet in his mouth, though he hide it under his tongue;
13Though he spare it, and forsake it not; but keep it still † within his mouth:
14Yet his meat in his bowels is turned, it is the gall of asps within him.
15 He hath swallowed down riches, and he shall vomit them up again: God shall cast them out of his belly.
16 He shall suck the poison of asps: the viper’s tongue shall slay him.
17 He shall not see the rivers, ∥ the floods, the brooks of honey and butter.
18 That which he laboured for shall he restore, and shall not swallow it down: † according to his substance shall the restitution be, and he shall not rejoice therein.
19 Because he hath † oppressed and hath forsaken the poor; because he hath violently taken away an house which he builded not;
20* Surely he shall not † feel quietness in his belly, he shall not save of that which he desired.
21∥ There shall none of his meat be left; therefore shall no man look for his goods.
22 In the fulness of his sufficiency he shall be in straits: every hand of the ∥ wicked shall come upon him.
23When he is about to fill his belly, God shall cast the fury of his wrath upon him, and shall rain it upon him while he is eating.
24 He shall flee from the iron weapon, and the bow of steel shall strike him through.
25 It is drawn, and cometh out of the body; yea, the ‡ glittering sword cometh out of his gall: terrors are upon him.
26 All darkness shall be hid in his secret places: a fire not blown shall consume him; it shall go ill with him that is left in his tabernacle.
27 The heaven shall reveal his iniquity; and the earth shall rise up against him.
28 The increase of his house shall depart, and his goods shall flow away in the day of his wrath.
29 This is the portion of a wicked man from God, and the heritage † appointed unto him by God.
21
1 But Job answered and said,
2 Hear diligently my speech, and let this be your consolations.
3 Suffer me that I may speak; and after that I have spoken, mock on.
4 As for me, is my complaint to man? and if it were so, why should not my spirit be † troubled?
5† Mark me, and be astonished, and lay your hand upon your mouth.
6 Even when I remember I am afraid, and trembling taketh hold on my flesh.
7* Wherefore do the wicked live, become old, yea, are mighty in power?
8 Their seed is established in their sight with them, and their offspring before their eyes.
9 Their houses †are safe from fear, neither is the rod of God upon them.
10 Their bull gendereth, and faileth not; their cow calveth, and casteth not her calf.
11 They send forth their little ones like a flock, and their children dance.
12 They take the timbrel and harp, and rejoice at the sound of the organ.
13 They spend their days ∥ in wealth, and in a moment go down to the grave.
14* Therefore they say unto God, Depart from us; for we desire not the knowledge of thy ways.
15 What is the Almighty, that we should serve him? and what profit should we have, if we pray unto him?
16 Lo, their good is not in their hand: the counsel of the wicked is far from me.
17 How oft is the ∥ candle of the wicked put out! and how oft cometh their destruction upon them! God distributeth sorrows in his anger.
18 They are as stubble before the wind, and as chaff that the storm † carrieth away.
19 God layeth up ∥ his iniquity for his children: he rewardeth him, and he shall know it.
20 His eyes shall see his destruction, and he shall drink of the wrath of the Almighty.
21 For what pleasure hath he in his house after him, when the number of his months is cut off in the midst?
22 Shall any teach God knowledge? seeing he judgeth those that are high.
23 One dieth † in his full strength, being wholly at ease and quiet.
24 His ∥ breasts are full of milk, and his bones are moistened with marrow.
25 And another dieth in the bitterness of his soul, and never eateth with pleasure.
26 They shall lie down alike in the dust, and the worms shall cover them.
27 Behold, I know your thoughts, and the devices which ye wrongfully imagine against me.
28 For ye say, Where is the house of the prince? and where are† the dwelling places of the wicked?
29 Have ye not asked them that go by the way? and do ye not know their tokens,
30* That the wicked is reserved to the day of destruction? they shall be brought forth to † the day of wrath.
31 Who shall declare his way to his face? and who shall repay him what he hath done?
32 Yet shall he be brought to the † grave, and shall † remain in the tomb.
33 The clods of the valley shall be sweet unto him, and every man shall draw after him, as there are innumerable before him.
34 How then comfort ye me in vain, seeing in your answers there remaineth † falsehood?
22
1 Then Eliphaz the Temanite answered and said,
2 Can a man be profitable unto God, ∥ as he that is wise may be profitable unto himself?
3Is it any pleasure to the Almighty, that thou art righteous? or is it gain to him, that thou makest thy ways perfect?
4 Will he reprove thee for fear of thee? will he enter with thee into judgment?
5Is not thy wickedness great? and thine iniquities infinite?
6 For thou hast taken a pledge from thy brother for nought, and † stripped the naked of their clothing.
7 Thou hast not given water to the weary to drink, and thou hast withholden bread from the hungry.
8 But as for† the mighty man, he had the earth; and the † honourable man dwelt in it.
9 Thou hast sent widows away empty, and the arms of the fatherless have been broken.
10 Therefore snares are round about thee, and sudden fear troubleth thee;
11 Or darkness, that thou canst not see; and abundance of waters cover thee.
12Is not God in the height of heaven? and behold † the height of the stars, how high they are!
13 And thou sayest, ∥ How doth God know? can he judge through the dark cloud?
14 Thick clouds are a covering to him, that he seeth not; and he walketh in the circuit of heaven.
15 Hast thou marked the old way which wicked men have trodden?
16 Which were cut down out of time, † whose foundation was overflown with a flood:
17* Which said unto God, Depart from us: and what can the Almighty do ∥ for them?
18 Yet he filled their houses with good things: but * the counsel of the wicked is far from me.
19* The righteous see it, and are glad: and the innocent laugh them to scorn.
20 Whereas our ∥ substance is not cut down, but ∥ the remnant of them the fire consumeth.
21 Acquaint now thyself ∥ with him, and be at peace: thereby good shall come unto thee.
22 Receive, I pray thee, the law from his mouth, and lay up his words in thine heart.
23* If thou return to the Almighty, thou shalt be built up, thou shalt put away iniquity far from thy tabernacles.
24 Then shalt thou lay up gold ∥ as dust, and the gold of Ophir as the stones of the brooks.
25 Yea, the Almighty shall be thy ∥ defence, and thou shalt have † plenty of silver.
26 For then shalt thou have thy delight in the Almighty, and shalt lift up thy face unto God.
27 Thou shalt make thy prayer unto him, and he shall hear thee, and thou shalt pay thy vows.
28 Thou shalt also decree a thing, and it shall be established unto thee: and the light shall shine upon thy ways.
29 When men are cast down, then thou shalt say, There is lifting up; and he shall save † the humble person.
30∥ He shall deliver the island of the innocent: and it is delivered by the pureness of thine hands.
23
1 Then Job answered and said,
2 Even to day is my complaint bitter: † my stroke is heavier than my groaning.
3 Oh that I knew where I might find him! that I might come even to his seat!
4 I would order my cause before him, and fill my mouth with arguments.
5 I would know the words which he would answer me, and understand what he would say unto me.
6 Will he plead against me with his great power? No; but he would put strength in me.
7 There the righteous might dispute with him; so should I be delivered for ever from my judge.
8 Behold, I go forward, but he is not there; and backward, but I cannot perceive him:
9 On the left hand, where he doth work, but I cannot behold him: he hideth himself on the right hand, that I cannot see him:
10 But he knoweth † the way that I take: when he hath tried me, I shall come forth as gold.
11 My foot hath held his steps, his way have I kept, and not declined.
12 Neither have I gone back from the commandment of his lips; † I have esteemed the words of his mouth more than ∥ my necessary food.
13 But he is in one mind, and who can turn him? and what* his soul desireth, even that he doeth.
14 For he performeth the thing that is appointed for me: and many such things are with him.
15 Therefore am I troubled at his presence: when I consider, I am afraid of him.
16 For God maketh my heart soft, and the Almighty troubleth me:
17 Because I was not cut off before the darkness, neither hath he covered the darkness from my face.
24
1 Why, seeing times are not hidden from the Almighty, do they that know him not see his days?
2Some remove the * landmarks; they violently take away flocks, and ∥ feed thereof.
3 They drive away the ass of the fatherless, they take the widow’s ox for a pledge.
4 They turn the needy out of the way: the poor of the earth hide themselves together.
5 Behold, as wild asses in the desert, go they forth to their work; rising betimes for a prey: the wilderness yieldeth food for them and for their children.
6 They reap every one his † corn in the field: and † they gather the vintage of the wicked.
7 They cause the naked to lodge without clothing, that they have no covering in the cold.
8 They are wet with the showers of the mountains, and embrace the rock for want of a shelter.
9 They pluck the fatherless from the breast, and take a pledge of the poor.
10 They cause him to go naked without clothing, and they take away the sheaf from the hungry;
11Which make oil within their walls, and tread their winepresses, and suffer thirst.
12 Men groan from out of the city, and the soul of the wounded crieth out: yet God layeth not folly to them.
13 They are of those that rebel against the light; they know not the ways thereof, nor abide in the paths thereof.
14 The murderer rising with the light killeth the poor and needy, and in the night is as a thief.
15 The eye also of the adulterer waiteth for the twilight, saying, No eye shall see me: and † disguiseth his face.
16 In the dark they dig through houses, which they had marked for themselves in the daytime: they know not the light.
17 For the morning is to them even as the shadow of death: if one know them, they are in the terrors of the shadow of death.
18 He is swift as the waters; their portion is cursed in the earth: he beholdeth not the way of the vineyards.
19 Drought and heat † consume the snow waters: so doth the grave those which have sinned.
20 The womb shall forget him; the worm shall feed sweetly on him; he shall be no more remembered; and wickedness shall be broken as a tree.
21 He evil entreateth the barren that beareth not: and doeth not good to the widow.
22 He draweth also the mighty with his power: he risoth up, ∥ and no man is sure of life.
23Though it be given him to be in safety, whereon he resteth; yet his eyes are upon their ways.
24 They are exalted for a little while, but † are gone and brought low; they are † taken out of the way as all other, and cut off as the tops of the ears of corn.
25 And if it be not so now, who will make me a liar, and make my speech nothing worth?
25
1 Then answered Bildad the Shuhite, and said,
2 Dominion and fear are with him, he maketh peace in his high places.
3 Is there any number of his armies? and upon whom doth not his light arise?
4* How then can man be justified with God? or how can he be clean that is born of a woman?
5 Behold even to the moon, and it shineth not; yea, the stars are not pure in his sight.
6 How much less man, that is* a worm? and the son of man, which is a worm?
26
1 But Job answered and said,
2 How hast thou helped him that is without power? how savest thou the arm that hath no strength?
3 How hast thou counselled him that hath no wisdom? and how hast thou plentifully declared the thing as it is?
4 To whom hast thou uttered words? and whose spirit came from thee?
5 Dead things are formed from under the waters, ∥ and the inhabitants thereof.
6* Hell is naked before him, and destruction hath no covering.
7 He stretcheth out the north over the empty place, and hangeth the earth upon nothing.
8 He bindeth up the waters in his thick clouds; and the cloud is not rent under them.
9 He holdeth back the face of his throne, and spreadeth his cloud upon it.
10 He hath compassed the waters with bounds, † until the day and night come to an end.
11 The pillars of heaven tremble and are astonished at his reproof.
12 He divideth the sea with his power, and by his understanding he smiteth through † the proud.
13 By his spirit he hath garnished the heavens; his hand hath formed the crooked serpent.
14 Lo, these are parts of his ways: but how little a portion is heard of him? but the thunder of his power who can understand?
27
1 Moreover Job † continued his parable, and said,
2As God liveth, who hath taken away my judgment; and the Almighty, who hath † vexed my soul;
3 All the while my breath is in me, and ∥ the spirit of God is in my nostrils;
4 My lips shall not speak wickedness, nor my tongue utter deceit.
5 God forbid that I should justify you: till I die I will not remove mine integrity from me.
6 My righteousness I hold fast, and will not let it go: my heart shall not reproach me† so long as I live.
7 Let mine enemy be as the wicked, and he that riseth up against me as the unrighteous.
8* For what is the hope of the hypocrite, though he hath gained, when God taketh away his soul?
9* Will God hear his cry when trouble cometh upon him?
10 Will he delight himself in the Almighty? will he always call upon God?
11 I will teach you ∥ by the hand of God: that which is with the Almighty will I not conceal.
12 Behold, all ye yourselves have seen it; why then are ye thus altogether vain?
13 This is the portion of a wicked man with God, and the heritage of oppressors, which they shall receive of the Almighty.
14 If his children be multiplied, it is for the sword: and his offspring shall not be satisfied with bread.
15 Those that remain of him shall be buried in death: and * his widows shall not weep.
16 Though he heap up silver as the dust, and prepare raiment as the clay;
17 He may prepare it, but the just shall put it on, and the innocent shall divide the silver.
18 He buildeth his house as a moth, and as a booth that the keeper maketh.
19 The rich man shall lie down, but he shall not be gathered: he openeth his eyes, and he is not.
20* Terrors take hold on him as waters, a tempest stealeth him away in the night.
21 The east wind carrieth him away, and he departeth: and as a storm hurleth him out of his place.
22 For God shall cast upon him, and not spare: † he would fain flee out of his hand.
23Men shall clap their hands at him, and shall hiss him out of his place.
28
1 Surely there is ∥ a vein for the silver, and a place for gold where they fine it.
2 Iron is taken out of the ∥ earth, and brass is molten out of the stone.
3 He setteth an end to darkness, and searcheth out all perfection: the stones of darkness, and the shadow of death.
4 The flood breaketh out from the inhabitant; even the waters forgotten of the foot: they are dried up, they are gone away from men.
5As for the earth, out of it cometh bread: and under it is turned up as it were fire.
6 The stones of it are the place of sapphires: and it hath ∥ dust of gold.
7There is a path which no fowl knoweth, and which the vulture’s eye hath not seen:
8 The lion’s whelps have not trodden it, nor the fierce lion passed by it.
9 He putteth forth his hand upon the ∥ rock; he overturneth the mountains by the roots.
10 He cutteth out rivers among the rocks; and his eye seeth every precious thing.
11 He bindeth the floods † from overflowing; and the thing that is hid bringeth he forth to light.
12 But where shall wisdom be found? and where is the place of understanding?
13 Man knoweth not the price thereof; neither is it found in the land of the living.
14* The depth saith, It is not in me: and the sea saith, It is not with me.
15† It * cannot be gotten for gold, neither shall silver be weighed for the price thereof.
16 It cannot be valued with the gold of Ophir, with the precious onyx, or the sapphire.
17 The gold and the crystal cannot equal it: and the exchange of it shall not be for∥ jewels of fine gold.
18 No mention shall be made of ∥ coral, or of pearls: for the price of wisdom is above rubies.
19 The topaz of Ethiopia shall not equal it, neither shall it be valued with pure gold.
20* Whence then cometh wisdom? and where is the place of understanding?
21 Seeing it is hid from the eyes of all living, and kept close from the fowls of the ∥ air.
22 Destruction and death say, We have heard the fame thereof with our ears.
23 God understandeth the way thereof, and he knoweth the place thereof.
24 For he looketh to the ends of the earth, and seeth under the whole heaven;
25 To make the weight for the winds; and he weigheth the waters by measure.
26 When he made a decree for the rain, and a way for the lightning of the thunder:
27 Then did he see it, and ∥ declare it; he prepared it, yea, and searched it out.
28 And unto man he said, Behold, * the fear of the Lord, that is wisdom; and to depart from evil is understanding.
29
1 Moreover Job † continued his parable, and said,
2 Oh that I were as in months past, as in the days when God preserved me;
3 When his ∥ candle shined upon my head, and when by his light I walked through darkness;
4 As I was in the days of my youth, when the secret of God was upon my tabernacle;
5 When the Almighty was yet with me, when my children were about me;
6 When I washed my steps with butter, and the rock poured † me out rivers of oil;
7 When I went out to the gate through the city, when I prepared my seat in the street!
8 The young men saw me, and hid themselves: and the aged arose, and stood up.
9 The princes refrained talking, and laid their hand on their mouth.
10† The nobles held their peace, and their tongue cleaved to the roof of their mouth.
11 When the ear heard me, then it blessed me; and when the eye saw me, it gave witness to me:
12 Because I delivered the poor that cried, and the fatherless, and him that had none to help him.
13 The blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon me: and I caused the widow’s heart to sing for joy.
14 I put on righteousness, and it clothed me: my judgment was as a robe and a diadem.
15 I was eyes to the blind, and feet was I to the lame.
16 I was a father to the poor: and the cause which I knew not I searched out.
17 And I brake † the jaws of the wicked, and † plucked the spoil out of his teeth.
18 Then I said, I shall die in my nest, and I shall multiply my days as the sand.
19 My root was† spread out by the waters, and the dew lay all night upon my branch.
20 My glory was† fresh in me, and my bow was † renewed in my hand.
21 Unto me men gave ear, and waited, and kept silence at my counsel.
22 After my words they spake not again; and my speech dropped upon them.
23 And they waited for me as for the rain; and they opened their mouth wide as for the latter rain.
24If I laughed on them, they believed it not; and the light of my countenance they cast not down.
25 I chose out their way, and sat chief, and dwelt as a king in the army, as one that comforteth the mourners.
30
1 But now they that are† younger than I have me in derision, whose fathers I would have disdained to have set with the dogs of my flock.
2 Yea, whereto might the strength of their hands profit me, in whom old age was perished?
3 For want and famine they were∥ solitary; ‡ fleeing into the wilderness † in former time desolate and waste.
4 Who cut up mallows by the bushes, and juniper roots for their meat.
5 They were driven forth from among men, (they cried after them as after a thief;)
6 To dwell in the ‡ cliffs of the valleys, in† caves of the earth, and in the rocks.
7 Among the bushes they brayed; under the nettles they were gathered together.
8They were children of fools, yea, children of † base men: they were viler than the earth.
9* And now am I their song, yea, I am their byword.
10 They abhor me, they flee far from me, † and spare not to spit in my face.
11 Because he hath loosed my cord, and afflicted me, they have also let loose the bridle before me.
12 Upon my right hand rise the youth; they push away my feet, and they raise up against me the ways of their destruction.
13 They mar my path, they set forward my calamity, they have no helper.
14 They came upon me as a wide breaking in of waters: in the desolation they rolled themselves upon me.
15 Terrors are turned upon me: they pursue † my soul as the wind: and my welfare passeth away as a cloud.
16 And now my soul is poured out upon me; the days of affliction have taken hold upon me.
17 My bones are pierced in me in the night season: and my sinews take no rest.
18 By the great force of my disease is my garment changed: it bindeth me about as the collar of my coat.
19 He hath cast me into the mire, and I am become like dust and ashes.
20 I cry unto thee, and thou dost not hear me: I stand up, and thou regardest me not.
21 Thou art † become cruel to me: with † thy strong hand thou opposest thyself against me.
22 Thou liftest me up to the wind; thou causest me to ride upon it, and dissolvest my ∥ substance.
23 For I know that thou wilt bring me to death, and to the house appointed for all living.
24 Howbeit he will not stretch out his hand to the † grave, though they cry in his destruction.
25* Did not I weep † for him that was in trouble? was not my soul grieved for the poor?
26 When I looked for good, then evil came unto me: and when I waited for light, there came darkness.
27 My bowels boiled, and rested not: the days of affliction prevented me.
28 I went mourning without the sun: I stood up, and I cried in the congregation.
29* I am a brother to dragons, and a companion to ∥ owls.
30 My skin is black upon me, and my bones are burned with heat.
31 My harp also is turned to mourning, and my organ into the voice of them that weep.
31
1 I made a covenant with mine eyes; why then should I think upon a maid?
2 For what portion of God is there from above? and what inheritance of the Almighty from on high?
3Is not destruction to the wicked? and a strange punishment to the workers of iniquity?
4* Doth not he see my ways, and count all my steps?
5 If I have walked with vanity, or if my foot hath hasted to deceit;
6† Let me be weighed in an even balance, that God may know mine integrity.
7 If my step hath turned out of the way, and mine heart walked after mine eyes, and if any blot hath cleaved to mine hands;
8Then let me sow, and let another eat; yea, let my offspring be rooted out.
9 If mine heart have been deceived by a woman, or if I have laid wait at my neighbour’s door;
10Then let my wife grind unto another, and let others bow down upon her.
11 For this is an heinous crime; yea, it is an iniquity to be punished by the judges.
12 For it is a fire that consumeth to destruction, and would root out all mine increase.
13 If I did despise the cause of my manservant or of my maidservant, when they contended with me;
14 What then shall I do when God riseth up? and when he visiteth, what shall I answer him?
15 Did not he that made me in the womb make him? and ∥ did not one fashion us in the womb?
16 If I have withheld the poor from their desire, or have caused the eyes of the widow to fail;
17 Or have eaten my morsel myself alone, and the fatherless hath not eaten thereof;
18 (For from my youth he was brought up with me, as with a father, and I have guided ∥ her from my mother’s womb;)
19 If I have seen any perish for want of clothing, or any poor without covering;
20 If his loins have not blessed me, and if he were not warmed with the fleece of my sheep;
21 If I have lifted up my hand against the fatherless, when I saw my help in the gate:
22Then let mine arm fall from my shoulder blade, and mine arm be broken from ∥ the bone.
23 For destruction from God was a terror to me, and by reason of his highness I could not endure.
24 If I have made gold my hope, or have said to the fine gold, Thou art my confidence;
25 If I rejoiced because my wealth was great, and because mine hand had † gotten much;
26 If I beheld † the sun when it shined, or the moon walking †in brightness;
27 And my heart hath been secretly enticed, or † my mouth hath kissed my hand:
28 This also were an iniquity to be punished by the judge: for I should have denied the God that is above.
29 If I rejoiced at the destruction of him that hated me, or lifted up myself when evil found him:
30 Neither have I suffered † my mouth to sin by wishing a curse to his soul.
31 If the men of my tabernacle said not, Oh that we had of his flesh! we cannot be satisfied.
32 The stranger did not lodge in the street: but I opened my doors ∥ to the traveller.
33 If I covered my transgressions ∥ as Adam, by hiding mine iniquity in my bosom:
34 Did I fear a great multitude, or did the contempt of families terrify me, that I kept silence, and went not out of the door?
35 Oh that one would hear me! ∥ behold, my desire is, that the Almighty would answer me, and that mine adversary had written a book.
36 Surely I would take it upon my shoulder, and bind it as a crown to me.
37 I would declare unto him the number of my steps; as a prince would I go near unto him.
38 If my land cry against me, or that the furrows likewise thereof † complain;
39 If I have eaten † the fruits thereof without money, or have † caused the owners thereof to lose their life:
40 Let thistles grow instead of wheat, and ∥ cockle instead of barley. The words of Job are ended.
32
1 So these three men ceased † to answer Job, because he was righteous in his own eyes.
2 Then was kindled the wrath of Elihu the son of Barachel the Buzite, of the kindred of Ram: against Job was his wrath kindled, because he justified † himself rather than God.
3 Also against his three friends was his wrath kindled, because they had found no answer, and yet had condemned Job.
4 Now Elihu had † waited till Job had spoken, because they were† elder than he.
5 When Elihu saw that there was no answer in the mouth of these three men, then his wrath was kindled.
6 And Elihu the son of Barachel the Buzite answered and said, I am† young, and ye are very old; wherefore I was afraid, and † durst not shew you mine opinion.
7 I said, Days should speak, and multitude of years should teach wisdom.
8 But there is a spirit in man: and * the inspiration of the Almighty giveth them understanding.
9 Great men are not always wise: neither do the aged understand judgment.
10 Therefore I said, Hearken to me; I also will shew mine opinion.
11 Behold, I waited for your words; I gave ear to your † reasons, whilst ye searched out † what to say.
12 Yea, I attended unto you, and, behold, there was none of you that convinced Job, or that answered his words:
13 Lest ye should say, We have found out wisdom: God thrusteth him down, not man.
14 Now he hath not ∥ directed his words against me: neither will I answer him with your speeches.
15 They were amazed, they answered no more: † they left off speaking.
16 When I had waited, (for they spake not, but stood still, and answered no more;)
17I said, I will answer also my part, I also will shew mine opinion.
18 For I am full of † matter, † the spirit within me constraineth me.
19 Behold, my belly is as wine which† hath no vent; it is ready to burst like new bottles.
20 I will speak, † that I may be refreshed: I will open my lips and answer.
21 Let me not, I pray you, accept any man’s person, neither let me give flattering titles unto man.
22 For I know not to give flattering titles; in so doing my maker would soon take me away.
33
1 Wherefore, Job, I pray thee, hear my speeches, and hearken to all my words.
2 Behold, now I have opened my mouth, my tongue hath spoken † in my mouth.
3 My words shall be of the uprightness of my heart: and my lips shall utter knowledge clearly.
4 The Spirit of God hath made me, and the breath of the Almighty hath given me life.
5 If thou canst answer me, set thy words in order before me, stand up.
6* Behold, I am† according to thy wish in God’s stead: I also am † formed out of the clay.
7 Behold, my terror shall not make thee afraid, neither shall my hand be heavy upon thee.
8 Surely thou hast spoken † in mine hearing, and I have heard the voice of thy words, saying,
9 I am clean without transgression, I am innocent; neither is there iniquity in me.
10 Behold, he findeth occasions against me, he counteth me for his enemy,
11 He putteth my feet in the stocks, he marketh all my paths.
12 Behold, in this thou art not just: I will answer thee, that God is greater than man.
13 Why dost thou strive against him? for † he giveth not account of any of his matters.
14 For God speaketh once, yea twice, yet man perceiveth it not.
15 In a dream, in a vision of the night, when deep sleep falleth upon men, in slumberings upon the bed;
16 Then † he openeth the ears of men, and sealeth their instruction,
17 That he may withdraw man from his† purpose, and hide pride from man.
18 He keepeth back his soul from the pit, and his life † from perishing by the sword.
19 He is chastened also with pain upon his bed, and the multitude of his bones with strong pain:
20* So that his life abhorreth bread, and his soul † dainty meat.
21 His flesh is consumed away, that it cannot be seen; and his bones that were not seen stick out.
22‡ Yea, his soul draweth near unto the grave, and his life to the destroyers.
23 If there be a messenger with him, an interpreter, one among a thousand, to shew unto man his uprightness:
24 Then he is gracious unto him, and saith, Deliver him from going down to the pit: I have found ∥ a ransom.
25 His flesh shall be fresher † than a child’s: he shall return to the days of his youth:
26 He shall pray unto God, and he will be favourable unto him: and he shall see his face with joy: for he will render unto man his righteousness.
27∥ He looketh upon men, and if any say, I have sinned, and perverted that which was right, and it profited me not;
28∥ He will deliver his soul from going into the pit, and his life shall see the light.
29 Lo, all these things worketh God † oftentimes with man,
30 To bring back his soul from the pit, to be enlightened with the light of the living.
31 Mark well, O Job, hearken unto me: hold thy peace, and I will speak.
32 If thou hast anything to say, answer me: speak, for I desire to justify thee.
33 If not, hearken unto me: hold thy peace, and I shall teach thee wisdom.
34
1 Furthermore Elihu answered and said,
2 Hear my words, O ye wise men; and give ear unto me, ye that have knowledge.
3* For the ear trieth words, as the † mouth tasteth meat.
4 Let us choose to us judgment: let us know among ourselves what is good.
5 For Job hath said, I am righteous: and God hath taken away my judgment.
6 Should I lie against my right? † my wound is incurable without transgression.
7 What man is like Job, who drinketh up scorning like water?
8 Which goeth in company with the workers of iniquity, and walketh with wicked men.
9 For he hath said, It profiteth a man nothing that he should delight himself with God
10 Therefore hearken unto me, ye † men of understanding: * far be it from God, that he should do wickedness; and from the Almighty, that he should commit iniquity.
11* For the work of a man shall he render unto him, and cause every man to find according to his ways.
12 Yea, surely God will not do wickedly, neither will the Almighty pervert judgment.
13 Who hath given him a charge over the earth? or who hath disposed † the whole world?
14* If he set his heart † upon man, if he gather unto himself his spirit and his breath;
15* All flesh shall perish together, and man shall turn again unto dust.
16 If now thou hast understanding, hear this: hearken to the voice of my words.
17 Shall even he that hateth right † govern? and wilt thou condemn him that is most just?
18Is it fit to say to a king, Thou art wicked? and to princes, Ye are ungodly?
19How much less to him that * accepteth not the persons of princes, nor regardeth the rich more than the poor? for they all are the work of his hands.
20 In a moment shall they die, and the people shall be troubled at midnight, and pass away: and † the mighty shall be taken away without hand.
21* For his eyes are upon the ways of man, and he seeth all his goings.
22There is no darkness, nor shadow of death, where the workers of iniquity may hide themselves.
23 For he will not lay upon man more than right; that he should † enter into judgment with God.
24 He shall break in pieces mighty men † without number, and set others in their stead.
25 Therefore he knoweth their works, and he overturneth them in the night, so that they are † destroyed.
26 He striketh them as wicked men † in the open sight of others;
27 Because they turned back † from him, and would not consider any of his ways:
28 So that they cause the cry of the poor to come unto him, and he heareth the cry of the afflicted.
29 When he giveth quietness, who then can make trouble? and when he hideth his face, who then can behold him? whether it be done against a nation, or against a man only:
30 That the hypocrite reign not, lest the people be ensnared.
31 Surely it is meet to be said unto God, I have borne chastisement, I will not offend any more:
32That which I see not teach thou me: if I have done iniquity, I will do no more.
33†Should it be according to thy mind? he will recompense it, whether thou refuse, or whether thou choose; and not I: therefore speak what thou knowest.
34 Let men † of understanding tell me, and let a wise man hearken unto me.
35 Job hath spoken without knowledge, and his words were without wisdom.
36∥ My desire is that Job may be tried unto the end because of his answers for wicked men.
37 For he addeth rebellion unto his sin, he clappeth his hands among us, and multiplieth his words against God.
35
1 Elihu spake moreover, and said,
2 Thinkest thou this to be right, that thou saidst, My righteousness is more than God’s?
3 For thou saidst, What advantage will it be unto thee? and, What profit shall I have, ∥if I be cleansed from my sin?
4† I will answer thee, and thy companions with thee.
5 Look unto the heavens, and see; and behold the clouds which are higher than thou.
6 If thou sinnest, what doest thou against him? or if thy transgressions be multiplied, what doest thou unto him?
7* If thou be righteous, what givest thou him? or what receiveth he of thine hand?
8 Thy wickedness may hurt a man as thou art; and thy righteousness may profit the son of man.
9 By reason of the multitude of oppressions they make the oppressed to cry: they cry out by reason of the arm of the mighty.
10 But none saith, Where is God my maker, who giveth songs in the night;
11 Who teacheth us more than the beasts of the earth, and maketh us wiser than the fowls of heaven?
12 There they cry, but none giveth answer, because of the pride of evil men.
13* Surely God will not hear vanity, neither will the Almighty regard it.
14 Although thou sayest thou shalt not see him, yet judgment is before him; therefore trust thou in him.
15 But now, because it is not so,∥ he hath visited in his anger; yet ∥ he knoweth it not in great extremity:
16 Therefore doth Job open his mouth in vain; he multiplieth words without knowledge.
36
1 Elihu also proceeded, and said,
2 Suffer me a little, and I will shew thee † that I hare yet to speak on God’s behalf.
3 I will fetch my knowledge from afar, and will ascribe righteousness to my Maker.
4 For truly my words shall not be false: he that is perfect in knowledge is with thee.
5 Behold, God is mighty, and despiseth not any: he is mighty in strength and† wisdom.
6 He preserveth not the life of the wicked: but giveth right to the ∥ poor.
7* He withdraweth not his eyes from the righteous: but with kings are they on the throne; yea, he doth establish them for ever, and they are exalted.
8 And if they be bound in fetters, and be holden in cords of affliction;
9 Then he sheweth them their work, and their transgressions that they have exceeded.
10 He openeth also their ear to discipline, and commandeth that they return from iniquity.
11 If they obey and serve him, they shall * spend their days in prosperity, and their years in pleasures.
12 But if they obey not, † they shall perish by the sword, and they shall die without knowledge.
13 But the hypocrites in heart heap up wrath: they cry not when he bindeth them.
14† They die in youth, and their life is among the ∥ unclean.
15 He delivereth the ∥ poor in his affliction, and openeth their ears in oppression.
16 Even so would he have removed thee out of the strait into a broad place, where there is no straitness; and † that which should be set on thy table should be full of fatness.
17 But thou hast fulfilled the judgment of the wicked: ∥ judgment and justice take hold on thee.
18 Because there is wrath, beware lest he take thee away with his stroke: then a great ransom cannot † deliver thee.
19 Will he esteem thy riches? no, not gold, nor all the forces of strength.
20 Desire not the night, when people are cut off in their place.
21 Take heed, regard not iniquity: for this hast thou chosen rather than affliction.
22 Behold, God exalteth by his power: who teacheth like him?
23 Who hath enjoined him his way? or who can say, Thou hast wrought iniquity?
24 Remember that thou magnify his work, which men behold.
25 Every man may see it; man may behold it afar off.
26 Behold, God is great, and we know him not, neither can the number of his years be searched out.
27 For he maketh small the drops of water: they pour down rain according to the vapour thereof:
28 Which the clouds do drop and distil upon man abundantly.
29 Also can any understand the spreadings of the clouds, or the noise of his tabernacle?
30 Behold, he spreadeth his light upon it, and covereth † the bottom of the sea.
31 For by them judgeth he the people; he giveth meat in abundance.
32 With clouds he covereth the light; and commandeth it not to shine by the cloud that cometh betwixt.
33 The noise thereof sheweth concerning it, the cattle also concerning † the vapour.
37
1 At this also my heart trembleth, and is moved out of his place.
2† Hear attentively the noise of his voice, and the sound that goeth out of his mouth.
3 He directeth it under the whole heaven, and his † lightning unto the † ends of the earth.
4 After it a voice roareth: he thundereth with the voice of his excellency; and he will not stay them when his voice is heard.
5 God thundereth marvellously with his voice; great things doeth he, which we cannot comprehend.
6 For * he saith to the snow, Be thou on the earth; † likewise to the small rain, and to the great rain of his strength.
7 He sealeth up the hand of every man; that all men may know his work.
8 Then the beasts go into dens, and remain in their places.
9† Out of the south cometh the whirlwind: and cold out of the † north.
10 By the breath of God frost is given: and the breadth of the waters is straitened.
11 Also by watering he wearieth the thick cloud: he scattereth † his bright cloud:
12 And it is turned round about by his counsels: that they may do whatsoever he commandeth them upon the face of the world in the earth.
13 He causeth it to come, whether for † correction, or for his land, or for mercy.
14 Hearken unto this, O Job: stand still, and consider the wondrous works of God.
15 Dost thou know when God disposed them, and caused the light of his cloud to shine?
16 Dost thou know the balancings of the clouds, the wondrous works of him which is perfect in knowledge?
17 How thy garments are warm, when he quieteth the earth by the south wind?
18 Hast thou with him spread out the sky, which is strong, and as a molten looking glass?
19 Teach us what we shall say unto him; for we cannot order our speech by reason of darkness.
20 Shall it be told him that I speak? if a man speak, surely he shall be swallowed up.
21 And now men see not the bright light which is in the clouds: but the wind passeth, and cleanseth them.
22† Fair weather cometh out of the north: with God is terrible majesty.
23Touching the Almighty, we cannot find him out: he is excellent in power, and in judgment, and in plenty of justice: he will not afflict.
24 Men do therefore fear him: he respecteth not any that are wise of heart.
38
1 Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind, and said,
2 Who is this that darkeneth counsel by words without knowledge?
3 Gird up now thy loins like a man; for I will demand of thee, and † answer thou me.
4* Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth? declare, † if thou hast understanding.
5 Who hath laid the measures thereof, if thou knowest? or who hath stretched the line upon it?
6 Whereupon are the † foundations thereof † fastened? or who laid the corner stone thereof;
7 When the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy?
8* Or who shut up the sea with doors, when it brake forth, as if it had issued out of the womb?
9 When I made the cloud the garment thereof, and thick darkness a swaddlingband for it,
10 And ∥ brake up for it my decreed place, and set bars and doors,
11 And said, Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further: and here shall † thy proud waves be stayed?
12 Hast thou commanded the morning since thy days; and caused the dayspring to know his place;
13 That it might take hold of the † ends of the earth, that the wicked might be shaken out of it?
14 It is turned as clay to the seal; and they stand as a garment.
15 And from the wicked their light is withholden, and the high arm shall be broken.
16 Hast thou entered into the springs of the sea? or hast thou walked in the search of the depth?
17 Have the gates of death been opened unto thee? or hast thou seen the doors of the shadow of death?
18 Hast thou perceived the breadth of the earth? declare if thou knowest it all.
19 Where is the way where light dwelleth? and as for darkness, where is the place thereof,
20 That thou shouldest take it ∥ to the bound thereof, and that thou shouldest know the paths to the house thereof?
21 Knowest thou it, because thou wast then born? or because the number of thy days is great?
22 Hast thou entered into the treasures of the snow? or hast thou seen the treasures of the hail,
23 Which I have reserved against the time of trouble, against the day of battle and war?
24 By what way is the light parted, which scattereth the east wind upon the earth?
25 Who hath divided a watercourse for the overflowing of waters, or a way for the lightning of thunder;
26 To cause it to rain on the earth, where no man is; on the wilderness, wherein there is no man;
27 To satisfy the desolate and waste ground; and to cause the bud of the tender herb to spring forth?
28 Hath the rain a father? or who hath begotten the drops of dew?
29 Out of whose womb came the ice? and the hoary frost of heaven, who hath gendered it?
30 The waters are hid as with a stone, and the face of the deep † is frozen.
31 Canst thou bind the sweet influences of ∥† Pleiades, or loose the bands of † Orion?
32 Canst thou bring forth ∥ Mazzaroth in his season? or canst thou † guide Arcturus with his sons?
33 Knowest thou the ordinances of heaven? canst thou set the dominion thereof in the earth?
34 Canst thou lift up thy voice to the clouds, that abundance of waters may cover thee?
35 Canst thou send lightnings, that they may go, and say unto thee, † Here we are?
36* Who hath put wisdom in the inward parts? or who hath given understanding to the heart?
37 Who can number the clouds in wisdom? or † who can stay the bottles of heaven,
38∥ When the dust † groweth into hardness, and the clods cleave fast together?
39* Wilt thou hunt the prey for the lion? or fill † the appetite of the young lions,
40 When they couch in their dens, and abide in the covert to he in wait?
41* Who provideth for the raven his food? when his young ones cry unto God, they wander for lack of meat.
39
1 Knowest thou the time when the wild goats of the rock bring forth? or canst thou mark when * the hinds do calve?
2 Canst thou number the months that they fulfil? or knowest thou the time when they bring forth?
3 They bow themselves, they bring forth their young ones, they cast out their sorrows.
4 Their young ones are in good liking, they grow up with corn; they go forth, and return not unto them.
5 Who hath sent out the wild ass free? or who hath loosed the bands of the wild ass?
6 Whose house I have made the wilderness, and the † barren land his dwellings.
7 He scorneth the multitude of the city, neither regardeth he the crying † of the driver.
8 The range of the mountains is his pasture, and he searcheth after every green thing.
9 Will the unicorn be willing to serve thee, or abide by thy crib?
10 Canst thou bind the unicorn with his band in the furrow? or will he harrow the valleys after thee?
11 Wilt thou trust him, because his strength is great? or wilt thou leave thy labour to him?
12 Wilt thou believe him, that he will bring home thy seed, and gather it into thy barn?
13Gavest thou the goodly wings unto the peacocks? or ∥ wings and feathers unto the ostrich?
14 Which leaveth her eggs in the earth, and warmeth them in dust,
15 And forgetteth that the foot may crush them, or that the wild beast may break them.
16 She is hardened against her young ones, as though they were not hers: her labour is in vain without fear;
17 Because God hath deprived her of wisdom, neither hath he imparted to her understanding.
18 What time she lifteth up herself on high, she scorneth the horse and his rider.
19 Hast thou given the horse strength? hast thou clothed his neck with thunder?
20 Canst thou make him afraid as a grasshopper? the glory of his nostrils is† terrible.
21∥ He paweth in the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength: he goeth on to meet † the armed men.
22 He mocketh at fear, and is not affrighted; neither turneth he back from the sword.
23 The quiver rattleth against him, the glittering spear and the shield.
24 He swalloweth the ground with fierceness and rage: neither believeth he that it is the sound of the trumpet.
25 He saith among the trumpets, Ha, ha; and he smelleth the battle afar off, the thunder of the captains, and the shouting.
26 Doth the hawk fly by thy wisdom, and stretch her wings toward the south?
27 Doth the eagle mount up † at thy command, and make her nest on high?
28 She dwelleth and abideth on the rock, upon the crag of the rock, and the strong place.
29 From thence she seeketh the prey, and her eyes behold afar off.
30 Her young ones also suck up blood: and * where the slain are, there is‡ she.
40
1 Moreover the Lord answered Job, and said,
2 Shall he that contendeth with the Almighty instruct him? he that reproveth God, let him answer it.
3 ¶ Then Job answered the Lord, and said,
4 Behold, I am vile; what shall I answer thee? I will lay mine hand upon my mouth.
5 Once have I spoken; but I will not answer: yea, twice; but I will proceed no further.
6 ¶ Then answered the Lord unto Job out of the whirlwind, and said,
7* Gird up thy loins now like a man: I will demand of thee, and declare thou unto me.
8* Wilt thou also disannul my judgment? wilt thou condemn me, that thou mayest be righteous?
9 Hast thou an arm like God? or canst thou thunder with a voice like him?
10* Deck thyself now with majesty and excellency; and array thyself with glory and beauty.
11 Cast abroad the rage of thy wrath: and behold every one that is proud, and abase him.
12 Look on every one that is proud, and bring him low; and tread down the wicked in their place.
13 Hide them in the dust together; and bind their faces in secret.
14 Then will I also confess unto thee that thine own right hand can save thee.
15 ¶ Behold now ∥ behemoth, which I made with thee; he eateth grass as an ox.
16 Lo now, his strength is in his loins, and his force is in the navel of his belly.
17∥ He moveth his tail like a cedar: the sinews of his stones are wrapped together.
18 His bones are as strong pieces of brass; his bones are like bars of iron.
19 He is the chief of the ways of God: he that made him can make his sword to approach unto him.
20 Surely the mountains bring him forth food, where all the beasts of the field play.
21 He lieth under the shady trees, in the covert of the reed, and fens.
22 The shady trees cover him with their shadow; the willows of the brook compass him about.
23 Behold, † he drinketh up a river, and hasteth not: he trusteth that he can draw up Jordan into his mouth.
24∥ He taketh it with his eyes: his nose pierceth through snares.
41
1 Canst thou draw out ∥ leviathan with an hook? or his tongue with a cord †which thou lettest down?
2 Canst thou put an hook into his nose? or bore his jaw through with a thorn?
3 Will he make many supplications unto thee? will he speak soft words unto thee?
4 Will he make a covenant with thee? wilt thou take him for a servant for ever?
5 Wilt thou play with him as with a bird? ‡ or wilt thou bind him for thy maidens?
6 Shall the companions make a banquet of him? shall they part him among the merchants?
7 Canst thou fill his skin with barbed irons? or his head with fish spears?
8 Lay thine hand upon him, remember the battle, do no more.
9 Behold, the hope of him is in vain: shall not one be cast down even at the sight of him?
10 None is so fierce that dare stir him up: who then is able to stand before me?
11 Who hath prevented me, that I should repay him?*whatsoever is under the whole heaven is mine.
12 I will not conceal his parts, nor his power, nor his comely proportion.
13 Who can discover the face of his garment? or who can come to him∥ with his double bridle?
14 Who can open the doors of his face? his teeth are terrible round about.
15His† scales are his pride, shut up together as with a close seal.
16 One is so near to another, that no air can come between them.
17 They are joined one to another, they stick together, that they cannot be sundered.
18 By his neesings a light doth shine, and his eyes are like the eyelids of the morning.
19 Out of his mouth go burning lamps, and sparks of fire leap out.
20 Out of his nostrils goeth smoke, as out of a seething pot or caldron.
21 His breath kindleth coals, and a flame goeth out of his mouth.
22 In his neck remaineth strength, and † sorrow is turned into joy before him.
23† The flakes of his flesh are joined together: they are firm in themselves; they cannot be moved.
24 His heart is as firm as a stone; yea, as hard as a piece of the nether millstone.
25 When he raiseth up himself, the mighty are afraid: by reason of breakings they purify themselves.
26 The sword of him that layeth at him cannot hold: the spear, the dart, nor the ∥ habergeon.
27 He esteemeth iron as straw, and brass as rotten wood.
28 The arrow cannot make him flee: slingstones are turned with him into stubble.
29 Darts are counted as stubble: he laugheth at the shaking of a spear.
30† Sharp stones are under him: he spreadeth sharp pointed things upon the mire.
31 He maketh the deep to boil like a pot: he maketh the sea like a pot of ointment.
32 He maketh a path to shine after him; one would think the deep to be hoary.
33 Upon earth there is not his like, ∥ who is made without fear.
34 He beholdeth all high things: he is a king over all the children of pride.
42
1 Then Job answered the Lord, and said,
2 I know that thou canst do every thing, and that∥ no thought can be withholden from thee.
3* Who is he that hideth counsel without knowledge? therefore have I uttered that I understood not; things too wonderful for me, which I knew not.
4 Hear, I beseech thee, and I will speak: I will demand of thee, and declare thou unto me.
5 I have heard of thee by the hearing of the ear: but now mine eye seeth thee.
6 Wherefore I abhor myself, and repent in dust and ashes.
7 ¶ And it was so, that after the Lord had spoken these words unto Job, the Lord said to Eliphaz the Temanite, My wrath is kindled against thee, and against thy two friends: for ye have not spoken of me the thing that is right, as my servant Job hath.
8 Therefore take unto you now seven bullocks and seven rams, and go to my servant Job, and offer up for yourselves a burnt offering; and my servant Job shall pray for you: for † him will I accept: lest I deal with you after your folly, in that ye have not spoken of me the thing which is right, like my servant Job.
9 So Eliphaz the Temanite and Bildad the Shuhite and Zophar the Naamathite went, and did according as the Lord commanded them: the Lord also accepted † Job.
10 And the Lord turned the captivity of Job, when he prayed for his friends: also the Lord† gave Job twice as much as he had before.
11 Then came there unto him all his brethren, and all his sisters, and all they that had been of his acquaintance before, and did eat bread with him in his house: and they bemoaned him, and comforted him over all the evil that the Lord had brought upon him: every man also gave him a piece of money, and every one an earring of gold.
12 So the Lord blessed the latter end of Job more than his beginning: for he had fourteen thousand sheep, and six thousand camels, and a thousand yoke of oxen, and a thousand she asses.
13 He had also seven sons and three daughters.
14 And he called the name of the first, Jemima; and the name of the second, Kezia; and the name of the third, Keren-happuch.
15 And in all the land were no women found so fair as the daughters of Job: and their father gave them inheritance among their brethren.
16 After this lived Job an hundred and forty years, and saw his sons, and his sons’ sons, even four generations.
17 So Job died, being old and full of days.
[* ] ch. 2. 3.
[∥ ] Or, cattle.
[∥ ] Or, husbandry.
[† ] Heb. sons of the cast.
[* ] 1 Kings 21. 10, 13.
[† ] Heb all the days.
[† ] Heb. the adversary.
[† ] Heb. in the midst of them.
[* ] 1 Pet. 5. 8.
[† ] Heb. Hast thou set thy heart on.
[∥ ] Or, cattle.
[† ] Heb. if he curse thee not to thy face.
[† ] Heb. hand.
[∥ ] Or, A great fire.
[† ] Heb. rushed.
[† ] Heb. from aside, &c.
[∥ ] Or, robe.
[* ] Eccles. 5. 15. 1 Tim. 6. 7.
[∥ ] Or, attributed folly to God.
[* ] ch. 1. 7.
[* ] ch. 1. 1, 8.
[† ] Heb. to swallow him up.
[∥ ] Or, only.
[† ] Heb. answered.
[* ] ch. 10. 13, 19. Jer. 20. 14.
[∥ ] Or, challenge it.
[∥ ] Or, let them terrify it, as those who have a bitter day.
[∥ ] Or, let it not rejoice among the days.
[∥ ] Or, a leviathan.
[† ] Heb. the eyelids of the morning.
[† ] Heb. wearied in strength.
[† ] Heb. wait.
[* ] ch. 19. 8.
[† ] Heb. before my meat.
[† ] Heb. I feared a fear, and it came upon me.
[† ] Heb. a word.
[† ] Heb. who can refrain from words?
[† ] Heb. the bowing knees.
[‡ ] [1611 confidence; the uprightness of thy ways and thy hope?]
[* ] Prov. 22. 8. Hos. 10. 13.
[∥ ] That is, by his anger, as Isai. 30. 33.
[† ] Heb. by stealth.
[† ] Heb. met me.
[† ] Heb. the multitude of my bones.
[∥ ] Or, I heard a still voice.
[* ] ch. 15. 15 2 Pet. 2. 4.
[∥ ] Or, nor in his angels, in whom he put light.
[‡ ] [1611 on]
[* ] 2 Cor. 5 1.
[† ] Heb. beaten in pieces.
[∥ ] Or, look?
[∥ ] Or, indignation.
[∥ ] Or, iniquity.
[∥ ] Or, labour.
[† ] Heb. the sons of the burning coal let up to fly
[* ] ch 9. 10. Ps. 72. 18 Rom 11 33.
[† ] Heb. and there is no search.
[† ] Heb. till there be no number.
[† ] Heb. outplaces.
[* ] 1 Sam. 2 7 Ps. 113. 7.
[* ] Neh. 4. 15 Ps. 33. 10. Isai 8. 10.
[∥ ] Or, cannot perform any thing.
[* ] 1 Cor. 3. 19
[* ] Deut. 28 29.
[∥ ] Or, run into.
[* ] Ps. 107. 42.
[* ] Prov. 3. 12. Heb. 12. 5. James 1. 12. Rev. 3. 19.
[* ] Dout. 32. 39. 1 Sam. 2. 6 Isai. 30. 26. Hos. 6. 1.
[* ] Ps. 91. 3.
[† ] Heb. from the hands.
[∥ ] Or, when the tongue scourgeth.
[* ] Hos. 2. 18.
[∥ ] Or, that peace is thy tabernacle.
[∥ ] Or, err.
[∥ ] Or, much.
[† ] Heb. ascendeth.
[† ] Heb. for thyself.
[† ] Heb. lifted up
[∥ ] That is, I want words to express my grief.
[* ] Ps. 38. 2.
[† ] Heb at grass.
[† ] Heb my expectation
[† ] Heb. brasen.
[† ] Heb. To him that melteth.
[† ] Heb. they are cut off.
[† ] Heb. in the heat thereof.
[† ] Heb. extinguished.
[∥ ] Or, For now ye are like to them. Heb. to it.
[† ] Heb. not.
[† ] Heb. ye cause to fall upon.
[† ] Heb. before your face.
[∥ ] That is, in this matter.
[† ] Heb. my palate.
[∥ ] Or, a warfare.
[† ] Heb. gapeth after.
[† ] Heb. the evening be measured?
[* ] ch. 16. 22. Pa. 90. 6. & 102. 11. & 103. 15. & 144. 4. Isai. 40. 6 James 4. 14.
[† ] Heb. shall not return.
[∥ ]to see, that is, to enjoy.
[∥ ] That is, I can live no longer.
[† ] Heb. than my bones.
[* ] Ps. 8 4 & 144. 3. Heb. 2. 6.
[* ] Deut. 32. 4. 2 Chr. 19. 7. Dan. 9. 14.
[† ] Heb. in the hand of their transgression.
[* ] ch. 22. 23.
[* ] Deut. 4. 32.
[* ] Gen. 47. 9. 1 Chr. 29. 15. ch. 7. 6. Ps. 89. 5. & 144. 4.
[† ] Heb. not.
[* ] Ps. 129. 6. Jer. 17. 6.
[* ] ch. 11. 20. & 18. 14. Ps. 112. 10 Prov. 10. 28.
[† ] Heb. a spider’s house.
[† ] Heb take the ungodly by the hand.
[† ] Heb. shouting for joy.
[† ] Heb. shall not be.
[* ] Ps. 143. 2.
[∥ ] Or, before God?
[* ] Gen. 1. 6.
[† ] Heb heights.
[* ] ch. 38. 31, &c. Amos 5. 8.
[† ] Heb. Ash. Cesil, and Cimah.
[* ] ch. 5 9.
[* ] Isai. 45. 9. Jer. 18. 6. Rom. 9. 20.
[† ] Heb. who can turn him away?
[† ] Heb. helpers of pride, or, strength.
[† ] Heb. ships of desire.
[∥ ] Or, ships of Ebeh.
[∥ ] Or, make me to be abhorred.
[† ] Heb. one that should argue.
[∥ ] Or, umpire.
[† ] Heb but I am not so with myself.
[∥ ] Or, cut off while I live.
[† ] Heb. the labour of thine hands.
[† ] Heb. It is upon thy knowledge.
[† ] Heb. took pains about me
[* ] Ps. 139 14, 15, 16.
[‡ ] [1611 cruddled]
[† ] Heb hedged.
[∥ ] That is, thy plagues.
[* ] ch. 3. 11.
[* ] See ch. 7. 6. & 8. 9.
[† ] Heb a man of lips.
[∥ ] Or, devices
[† ] Heb. the heights of heaven.
[∥ ] Or, make a change.
[† ] Heb. who can turn him away?
[† ] Heb. empty.
[† ] Heb. shalt arise above the noonday
[* ] Lev. 26. 6.
[† ] Heb. intreat thy face.
[† ] Heb. flight shall perish from them
[* ] ch. 8. 14. & 18 14.
[∥ ] Or, a puff of breath.
[† ] Heb. an heart.
[† ] Heb. I fall not lower than you.
[† ] Heb. with whom are not such as these?
[∥ ] Or, life.
[† ] Heb. all flesh of man.
[* ] ch. 34. 3.
[† ] Heb palate.
[∥ ] That is, With God.
[* ] Isai. 22. 22. Rev. 3. 7.
[† ] Heb. upon.
[* ] ch. 32. 9.
[† ] Heb. the lip of the faithful.
[∥ ] Or, looseth the girdle of the strong.
[† ] Heb. leadeth in.
[† ] Heb. wander.
[† ] Heb. Be silent from me.
[† ] Heb. prove, or, argue.
[* ] Ps. 25. 7.
[† ] Heb. observest.
[† ] Heb. roots.
[† ] Heb. short of days.
[* ] ch. 8. 9. Ps. 102. 11. & 103. 15. & 144. 4.
[† ] Heb. Who will give.
[* ] Ps. 51. 5.
[* ] ch. 7. 1.
[† ] Heb. cease.
[† ] Heb. is weakened, or, cut off.
[* ] Ps. 139. 2.
[† ] Heb. fadeth.
[† ] Heb. overflowest.
[† ] Heb. knowledge of wind.
[† ] Heb. thou makest void.
[∥ ] Or, speech.
[† ] Heb. teacheth.
[* ] Rom. 11 34.
[* ] 1 Kings 8. 46 2 Chr. 6. 36. ch. 14. 4 Ps. 14. 3. Prov. 20. 9. 1 John 1. 8.
[* ] ch. 4. 18.
[† ] Heb. A sound of fears.
[∥ ] Or, cut off.
[* ] Ps. 7. 14 Isai. 59. 4.
[∥ ] Or, iniquity.
[∥ ] Or, troublesome.
[* ] ch. 13 4.
[† ] Heb. words of wind.
[† ] Heb. what goeth from me?
[† ] Heb. hath shut me up.
[† ] Heb. in the high places.
[† ] Heb. are my scorners.
[∥ ] Or, friend.
[† ] Heb. years of number.
[∥ ] Or, spirit is spent.
[† ] Heb. lodge.
[∥ ] Or, before them.
[∥ ] Or, my thoughts.
[† ] Heb. shall add strength
[† ] Heb. the possessions.
[† ] Heb. near.
[† ] Heb. cried, or, called.
[† ] Heb. his soul.
[∥ ] Or, lamp.
[‡ ] [1611 grin]
[† ] Heb. hidden.
[† ] Heb. scatter him.
[† ] Heb. bars.
[* ] ch. 8. 14. & 11. 20. Ps. 112. 10. Prov. 10. 28.
[* ] Prov. 2. 22.
[† ] Heb. They shall drive him.
[∥ ] Or, lived with him.
[† ] Heb. laid hold on horror,
[∥ ] Or, harden yourselves against me.
[∥ ] Or, violence.
[† ] Heb. my belly
[∥ ] Or, the wicked.
[* ] Ps 41. 9. & 55. 20.
[† ] Heb. the men of my secret.
[∥ ] Or, as.
[† ] Heb. Who will give, &c.
[∥ ] Or, After I shall awake, though this body be destroyed, yet out of my flesh shall I see God.
[† ] Heb. a stranger.
[† ] Heb. in my bosom.
[∥ ] Or, and what root of matter is found in me?
[† ] Heb. my haste is in me.
[* ] Ps. 37. 35, 35.
[† ] Heb. from near.
[† ] Heb. cloud.
[∥ ] Or, The poor shall oppress his children.
[† ] Heb. in the midst of his palate.
[∥ ] Or, streaming brooks.
[† ] Heb. according to the substance of his exchange.
[† ] Heb. crushed.
[* ] Eccles. 5. 13, 14.
[† ] Heb. know.
[∥ ] Or, There shall be none left for his meat.
[∥ ] Or, troublesome.
[‡ ] [1611 glistering]
[† ] Heb. of his decree from God.
[† ] Heb. shortened?
[† ] Heb. Look unto me.
[* ] Ps. 17. 10. & 73. 12. Jer. 12. 1. Hab. 1. 16.
[† ] Heb. are peace from fear.
[∥ ] Or, in mirth.
[* ] ch. 22. 17.
[∥ ] Or, lamp.
[† ] Heb. stealeth away
[∥ ] That is, the punishment of his iniquity.
[† ] Heb. in his very perfection, or, in the strength of his perfection.
[∥ ] Or, milk pails.
[† ] Heb. the tent of the tabernacles of the wicked?
[* ] Prov. 16. 4.
[† ] Heb. the day of wraths.
[† ] Heb. graves.
[† ] Heb. watch in the heap.
[† ] Heb. transgression?
[∥ ] Or, if he may be profitable, doth his good success depend thereon?
[† ] Heb. stripped the clothes of the naked.
[† ] Heb. the man of arm.
[† ] Heb. eminent, or, accepted for countenance.
[† ] Heb the head of the stars.
[∥ ] Or, What.
[† ] Heb. a flood was poured upon their foundation.
[* ] ch. 21. 14.
[∥ ] Or, to them?
[* ] ch. 21. 16.
[* ] Ps. 107. 42.
[∥ ] Or, estate.
[∥ ] Or, their excellency.
[∥ ] That is, with God.
[* ] ch. 8. 5.
[∥ ] Or, on the dust.
[∥ ] Or, gold.
[† ] Heb. silver of strength.
[† ] Heb. him that hath low eyes.
[∥ ] Or, The innocent shall deliver the island.
[† ] Heb. my hand.
[† ] Heb. the way that is with me.
[† ] Heb. I have hid, or, laid up.
[∥ ] Or, my appointed portion
[* ] Ps. 115. 8.
[* ] Deut. 19. 14. & 27. 17.
[∥ ] Or, feed them.
[† ] Heb. mingled corn, or, dredge.
[† ] Heb. the wicked gather the vintage.
[† ] Heb. setteth his face in secret.
[† ] Heb. violently take.
[∥ ] Or, he trusteth not his own life
[† ] Heb. are not.
[† ] Heb. closed up.
[* ] ch. 4. 17, &c. & 15. 14, &c.
[* ] Ps. 22. 6.
[∥ ] Or, with the inhabitants.
[* ] Prov. 15. 11.
[† ] Heb. until the end of light with darkness.
[† ] Heb. pride.
[† ] Heb. added to take up.
[† ] Heb. made my soul bitter.
[∥ ] That is, the breath which God gave him.
[† ] Heb. from my days.
[* ] Matt. 16. 26.
[* ] Prov. 1. 28. Ezek. 8. 18. John 9. 31. James 4. 3.
[∥ ] Or, being in the hand, &c.
[* ] Ps. 78. 64
[* ] ch. 18. 11.
[† ] Heb. in fleeing he would flee.
[∥ ] Or, a mine.
[∥ ] Or, dust.
[∥ ] Or, gold ore.
[∥ ] Or, flint.
[† ] Heb. from weeping.
[* ] Rom. 11. 33, 34.
[† ] Heb. Fine gold shall not be given for it.
[* ] Prov. 3. 14. & 8. 11, 19. & 16. 16.
[∥ ] Or, vessels of fine gold.
[∥ ] Or, Ramoth.
[* ] ver. 12
[∥ ] Or, heaven.
[∥ ] Or, did number it.
[* ] Ps. 111 10. Prov. 1. 7. & 9 10.
[† ] Heb. added to take up
[∥ ] Or, lamp.
[† ] Heb. with me
[† ] Heb. The voice of the nobles was hid.
[† ] Heb the jawteeth, or, the grinders.
[† ] Heb. I cast.
[† ] Heb opened.
[† ] Heb. new.
[† ] Heb. changed.
[† ] Heb. of fewer days than I.
[∥ ] Or, dark as the night.
[‡ ] [1611 flying]
[† ] Heb. yester-night.
[‡ ] [1611 clifts]
[† ] Heb. holes.
[† ] Heb. men of no name
[* ] Ps. 35. 15 & 69. 12.
[† ] Heb. and withhold not spittle from my face.
[† ] Heb. my principal one.
[† ] Heb turned to be cruel.
[† ] Heb. the strength of thy hand.
[∥ ] Or, wisdom.
[† ] Heb. heap.
[* ] Ps. 35. 13. Rom. 12. 15.
[† ] Heb. for him that was hard of day?
[* ] Ps. 102. 6.
[∥ ] Or, ostriches.
[* ] 2 Chr. 16 9. ch. 34. 21. Prov. 5. 21. & 15. 3.
[† ] Heb. Let him weigh me in balances of justice.
[∥ ] Or, did he not fashion us in one womb?
[∥ ] That is, the widow.
[∥ ] Or, the chanelbone.
[† ] Heb. found much.
[† ] Heb. the light.
[† ] Heb bright.
[† ] Heb. my hand hath kissed my mouth.
[† ] Heb. my palate.
[∥ ] Or, to the way.
[∥ ] Or, after the manner of men.
[∥ ] Or, behold, my sign is that the Almighty will answer me.
[† ] Heb. weep.
[† ] Heb. the strength thereof.
[† ] Heb. caused the soul of the owners thereof to expire, or, breathe out.
[∥ ] Or, noisome weeds.
[† ] Heb. from answering.
[† ] Heb. his soul.
[† ] Heb. expected Job in words.
[† ] Heb. elder for days
[† ] Heb. few of days.
[† ] Heb. I feared.
[* ] ch. 38. 36. Prov. 2. 6. Eccles. 2. 26. Dan. 1. 17. & 2. 21.
[† ] Heb. understandings.
[† ] Heb words.
[∥ ] Or, ordered his words.
[† ] Heb. they removed speeches from themselves.
[† ] Heb. words.
[† ] Heb. the spirit of my belly.
[† ] Heb. is not opened.
[† ] Heb. that I may breathe.
[† ] Heb. in my palate.
[* ] ch. 9. 35. & 13 20.
[† ] Heb according to thy mouth.
[† ] Heb cut out of the clay.
[† ] Heb. in mine ears.
[† ] Heb. he answereth not.
[† ] Heb. he revealeth, or, uncovereth.
[† ] Heb. work.
[† ] Heb from passing by the sword.
[* ] Ps. 107. 18.
[† ] Heb. meat of desire.
[‡ ] [1611 omits Yea,]
[∥ ] Or, an atonement.
[† ] Heb. than childhood.
[∥ ] Or, He shall look upon men, and say, I have sinned, &c.
[∥ ] Or, He hath delivered my soul, &c. and my life.
[† ] Heb. twice and thrice.
[* ] ch. 12. 11.
[† ] Heb. palate.
[† ] Heb. mine arrow.
[† ] Heb. men of heart.
[* ] Deut. 32. 4 ch. 8. 3. & 36. 23. Ps. 92. 15. Rom. 9. 14.
[* ] Ps. 62. 12. Prov. 24. 12 Jer. 32. 19. Ezek. 33. 20. Matt. 16. 27. Rom. 2. 6 2 Cor. 5. 10. 1 Pet. 1. 17. Rev. 22. 12.
[† ] Heb all of it?
[* ] Ps. 104. 29.
[† ] Heb. upon him.
[* ] Gen. 3. 19. Eccles 12. 7.
[† ] Heb. bind?
[* ] Deut. 10. 17. 2 Chr. 19. 7. Acts 10. 34. Rom. 2. 11. Gal 2. 6 Eph. 6 9. Col. 3. 25 1 Pet. 1. 17.
[† ] Heb. they shall take away the mighty.
[* ] 2 Chr. 16. 9. ch. 31. 4. Prov. 5. 21. & 15. 3. Jer. 16. 17.
[† ] Heb. go.
[† ] Heb. without searching out.
[† ] Heb. crushed.
[† ] Heb. in the place of beholders.
[† ] Heb. from after him.
[† ] Heb. Should it be from with thee?
[† ] Heb. of heart.
[∥ ] Or, My father, let Job be tried.
[∥ ] Or, by it more than by my sin?
[† ] Heb. I will return to thee words.
[* ] ch. 22. 3. Ps. 16. 2. Rom. 11. 35.
[* ] ch. 27. 9. Prov. 1. 28. Isai. 1. 15. Jer. 11. 11.
[∥ ] That is, God.
[∥ ] That is, Job.
[† ] Heb. that there are yet words for God.
[† ] Heb. heart.
[∥ ] Or, afflicted.
[* ] Ps. 34. 15.
[* ] ch. 21. 13.
[† ] Heb. they shall pass away by the sword.
[† ] Heb. Their soul dieth.
[∥ ] Or, sodomites.
[∥ ] Or, afflicted.
[† ] Heb. the rest of thy table.
[∥ ] Or, judgment and justice should uphold thee.
[† ] Heb. turn thee aside.
[† ] Heb. the roots.
[† ] Heb. that which goeth up.
[† ] Heb. Hear in hearing.
[† ] Heb. light.
[† ] Heb. wings of the earth.
[* ] Ps. 147. 16, 17.
[† ] Heb. and to the shower of rain, and to the showers of rain of his strength.
[† ] Heb. Out of the chamber.
[† ] Heb. scattering winds.
[† ] Heb. the cloud of his light.
[† ] Heb. a rod.
[† ] Heb. Gold.
[† ] Heb make me know.
[* ] Ps. 104. 5. Prov. 30. 4.
[† ] Heb. if thou knowest understanding.
[† ] Heb. sockets.
[† ] Heb. made to sink?
[* ] Ps. 104. 9.
[∥ ] Or, established my decree upon it.
[† ] Heb. the pride of thy waves.
[† ] Heb. wings.
[∥ ] Or, at.
[† ] Heb. is taken.
[∥ ] Or, the seven stars.
[† ] Heb. Cimah.
[† ] Heb. Cesil?
[∥ ] Or, the twelve signs.
[† ] Heb. guide them.
[† ] Heb. Behold us?
[* ] ch. 32. 8. Eccles. 2. 26.
[† ] Heb who can cause to lie down.
[∥ ] Or, When the dust is turned into mire.
[† ] Heb. is poured.
[* ] Ps. 104. 21.
[† ] Heb. the life.
[* ] Ps. 147. 9. Matt. 6. 26.
[* ] Ps. 29. 9.
[† ] Heb. salt places.
[† ] Heb. of the exactor.
[∥ ] Or, the feathers of the stork and ostrich.
[† ] Heb. terror.
[∥ ] Or, His feet dig.
[† ] Heb. the armour.
[† ] Heb. by thy mouth.
[* ] Matt. 24. 28. Luke 17. 37.
[‡ ] [1611 he]
[* ] ch. 38. 3.
[* ] Ps. 50. 21. Rom. 3. 4.
[* ] Ps. 104. 1.
[∥ ] Or, the elephant, as some think.
[∥ ] Or, He setteth up.
[† ] Heb. he oppresseth.
[∥ ] Or, Will any take him in his sight, or, bore his nose with a gin?
[∥ ] That is, a whale, or, a whirlpool.
[† ] Heb. which thou drownest?
[‡ ] [1611 omits or]
[* ] Ps. 24. 1. & 50. 12. 1 Cor. 10. 26.
[∥ ] Or, within.
[† ] Heb. strong pieces of shields.
[† ] Heb. sorrow rejoiceth.
[† ] Heb. The fallings.
[∥ ] Or, breast-plate.
[† ] Heb. Sharp pieces of the potsherd.
[∥ ] Or, who behave themselves without fear.
[∥ ] Or, no thought of thine can be hindered.
[* ] ch. 33. 2.
[† ] Heb. his face, or, person.
[† ] Heb. the face of Job.
[† ] Heb. added [all that had been] to Job unto the double.
8: Old Testament (Various Authors), The First Book of Samuel (KJV) [1885]
Old Testament (Various Authors), The Parallel Bible. The Holy Bible containing the Old and New Testaments translated out of the Original Tongues: being the Authorised Version arranged in parallel columns with the Revised Version (Oxford University Press, 1885). The First Book of Samuel.
Accessed from oll.libertyfund.org/title/2021 on 2011-05-14
The text is in the public domain.
I. SAMUEL
THE FIRST BOOK OF SAMUEL, OTHERWISE CALLED, THE FIRST BOOK OF THE KINGS. (A. V.)
1
1Now there was a certain man of Ramathaimzophim, of mount Ephraim, and his name was Elkanah, the son of Jeroham, the son of Elihu, the son of Tohu, the son of Zuph, an Ephrathite:
2 And he had two wives; the name of the one was Hannah, and the name of the other Peninnah: and Peninnah had children, but Hannah had no children.
3 And this man went up out of his city *† yearly to worship and to sacrifice unto the Lord of hosts in Shiloh. And the two sons of Eli, Hophni and Phinehas, the priests of the Lord,were there.
4 ¶ And when the time was that Elkanah offered, he gave to Peninnah his wife, and to all her sons and her daughters, portions:
5 But unto Hannah he gave ∥ a worthy portion; for he loved Hannah: but the Lord had shut up her womb.
6 And her adversary also † provoked her sore, for to make her fret, because the Lord had shut up her womb.
7 And as he did so year by year, ∥† when she went up to the house of the Lord, so she provoked her; therefore she wept, and did not eat.
8 Then said Elkanah her husband to her, Hannah, why weepest thou? and why eatest thou not? and why is thy heart grieved? am not I better to thee than ten sons?
9 ¶ So Hannah rose up after they had eaten in Shiloh, and after they had drunk. Now Eli the priest sat upon a seat by a post of the temple of the Lord.
10 And she was† in bitterness of soul, and prayed unto the Lord, and wept sore.
11 And she vowed a vow, and said, O Lord of hosts, if thou wilt indeed look on the affliction of thine handmaid, and remember me, and not forget thine handmaid, but wilt give unto thine handmaid † a man child, then I will give him unto the Lord all the days of his life, and * there shall no rasor come upon his head.
12 And it came to pass, as she † continued praying before the Lord, that Eli marked her mouth.
13 Now Hannah, she spake in her heart; only her lips moved, but her voice was not heard: therefore Eli thought she had been drunken.
14 And Eli said unto her, How long wilt thou be drunken? put away thy wine from thee.
15 And Hannah answered and said, No, my lord, I am a woman † of a sorrowful spirit: I have drunk neither wine nor strong drink, but have poured out my soul before the Lord.
16 Count not thine handmaid for a daughter of Belial: for out of the abundance of my ∥ complaint and grief have I spoken hitherto.
17 Then Eli answered and said, Go in peace: and the God of Israel grant thee thy petition that thou hast asked of him.
18 And she said, Let thine handmaid find grace in thy sight. So the woman went her way, and did eat, and her countenance was no more sad.
19 ¶ And they rose up in the morning early, and worshipped before the Lord, and returned, and came to their house to Ramah: and Elkanah knew Hannah his wife; and the Lord remembered her.
20 Wherefore it came to pass, when † the time was come about after Hannah had conceived, that she bare a son, and called his name ∥ Samuel, saying, Because I have asked him of the Lord.
21 And the man Elkanah, and all his house, went up to offer unto the Lord the yearly sacrifice, and his vow.
22 But Hannah went not up; for she said unto her husband, I will not go up until the child be weaned, and then I will bring him, that he may appear before the Lord, and there abide for ever.
23 And Elkanah her husband said unto her, Do what seemeth thee good; tarry until thou have weaned him; only the Lord establish his word. So the woman abode, and gave her son suck until she weaned him.
24 ¶ And when she had weaned him, she took him up with her, with three bullocks, and one ephah of flour, and a bottle of wine, and brought him unto the house of the Lord in Shiloh: and the child was young.
25 And they slew a bullock, and brought the child to Eli.
26 And she said, Oh my lord, as thy soul liveth, my lord, I am the woman that stood by thee here, praying unto the Lord.
27 For this child I prayed; and the Lord hath given me my petition which I asked of him:
28 Therefore also I have ∥ lent him to the Lord; as long as he liveth ∥ he shall be lent to the Lord. And he worshipped the Lord there.
2
1 And Hannah prayed, and said, My heart rejoiceth in the Lord, mine horn is exalted in the Lord: my mouth is enlarged over mine enemies; because I rejoice in thy salvation.
2There is none holy as the Lord: for there is none beside thee: neither is there any rock like our God.
3 Talk no more so exceeding proudly; let not† arrogancy come out of your mouth: for the Lordis a God of knowledge, and by him actions are weighed.
4 The bows of the mighty men are broken, and they that stumbled are girded with strength.
5They that were full have hired out themselves for bread; and they that were hungry ceased: so that the barren hath born seven; and she that hath many children is waxed feeble.
6* The Lord killeth, and maketh alive: he bringeth down to the grave, and bringeth up.
7 The Lord maketh poor, and maketh rich: he bringeth low, and lifteth up.
8 He * raiseth up the poor out of the dust, and lifteth up the beggar from the dunghill, to set them among princes, and to make them inherit the throne of glory: for the pillars of the earth are the Lord’s, and he hath set the world upon them.
9 He will keep the feet of his saints, and the wicked shall be silent in darkness; for by strength shall no man prevail.
10 The adversaries of the Lord shall be broken to pieces; * out of heaven shall he thunder upon them: the Lord shall judge the ends of the earth; and he shall give strength unto his king, and exalt the horn of his anointed.
11 And Elkanah went to Ramah to his house. And the child did minister unto the Lord before Eli the priest.
12 ¶ Now the sons of Eli were sons of Belial; they knew not the Lord.
13 And the priest’s custom with the people was, that, when any man offered sacrifice, the priest’s servant came, while the flesh was in seething, with a fleshhook of three teeth in his hand;
14 And he struck it into the pan, or kettle, or caldron, or pot; all that the fleshhook brought up the priest took for himself. So they did in Shiloh unto all the Israelites that came thither.
15 Also before they burnt the fat, the priest’s servant came, and said to the man that sacrificed, Give flesh to roast for the priest; for he will not have sodden flesh of thee, but raw.
16 And if any man said unto him, Let them not fail to burn the fat † presently, and then take as much as thy soul desireth; then he would answer him, Nay; but thou shalt give it me now: and if not, I will take it by force.
17 Wherefore the sin of the young men was very great before the Lord: for men abhorred the offering of the Lord.
18 ¶ But Samuel ministered before the Lord,being a child, * girded with a linen ephod.
19 Moreover his mother made him a little coat, and brought it to him from year to year, when she came up with her husband to offer the yearly sacrifice.
20 ¶ And Eli blessed Elkanah and his wife, and said, The Lord give thee seed of this woman for the ∥ loan which is lent to the Lord. And they went unto their own home.
21 And the Lord visited Hannah, so that she conceived, and bare three sons and two daughters. And the child Samuel grew before the Lord.
22 ¶ Now Eli was very old, and heard all that his sons did unto all Israel; and how they lay with the women that † assembled at the door of the tabernacle of the congregation.
23 And he said unto them, Why do ye such things? for ∥ I hear of your evil dealings by all this people.
24 Nay, my sons; for it is no good report that I hear: ye make the Lord’s people ∥ to transgress.
25 If one man sin against another, the judge shall judge him: but if a man sin against the Lord, who shall intreat for him? Notwithstanding they hearkened not unto the voice of their father, because the Lord would slay them.
26 And the child Samuel grew on, and was in favour both with the Lord, and also with men.
27 ¶ And there came a man of God unto Eli, and said unto him, Thus saith the Lord, Did I plainly appear unto the house of thy father, when they were in Egypt in Pharaoh’s house?
28 And did I choose him out of all the tribes of Israel to be my priest, to offer upon mine altar, to burn incense, to wear an ephod before me? and * did I give unto the house of thy father all the offerings made by fire of the children of Israel?
29 Wherefore kick ye at my sacrifice and at mine offering, which I have commanded in my habitation; and honourest thy sons above me, to make yourselves fat with the chiefest of all the offerings of Israel my people?
30 Wherefore the Lord God of Israel saith, I said indeed that thy house, and the house of thy father, should walk before me for ever: but now the Lord saith, Be it far from me; for them that honour me I will honour, and they that despise me shall be lightly esteemed.
31 Behold, the days come, that I will cut off thine arm, and the arm of thy father’s house, that there shall not be an old man in thine house.
32 And thou shalt see ∥ an enemy in my habitation, in all the wealth which God shall give Israel: and there shall not be an old man in thine house for ever.
33 And the man of thine, whom I shall not cut off from mine altar, shall be to consume thine eyes, and to grieve thine heart: and all the increase of thine house shall die † in the flower of their age.
34 And this shall be a sign unto thee, that shall come upon thy two sons, on Hophni and Phinehas; in one day they shall die both of them.
35 And I will raise me up a faithful priest, that shall do according to that which is in mine heart and in my mind: and I will build him a sure house; and he shall walk before mine anointed for ever.
36 And it shall come to pass, that every one that is left in thine house shall come and crouch to him for a piece of silver and a morsel of bread, and shall say, † Put me, I pray thee, into ∥ one of the priests’ offices, that I may eat a piece of bread.
3
1 And the child Samuel ministered unto the Lord before Eli. And the word of the Lord was precious in those days; there was no open vision.
2 And it came to pass at that time, when Eli was laid down in his place, and his eyes began to wax dim, that he could not see;
3 And ere the lamp of God went out in the temple of the Lord, where the ark of God was, and Samuel was laid down to sleep;
4 That the Lord called Samuel: and he answered, Here am I.
5 And he ran unto Eli, and said, Here am I; for thou calledst me. And he said, I called not; lie down again. And he went and lay down.
6 And the Lord called yet again, Samuel. And Samuel arose and went to Eli, and said, Here am I; for thou didst call me. And he answered, I called not, my son; lie down again.
7∥ Now Samuel did not yet know the Lord, neither was the word of the Lord yet revealed unto him.
8 And the Lord called Samuel again the third time. And he arose and went to Eli, and said, Here am I; for thou didst call me. And Eli perceived that the Lord had called the child.
9 Therefore Eli said unto Samuel, Go, lie down: and it shall be, if he call thee, that thou shalt say, Speak, Lord; for thy servant heareth. So Samuel went and lay down in his place.
10 And the Lord came, and stood, and called as at other times, Samuel, Samuel. Then Samuel answered, Speak; for thy servant heareth.
11 ¶ And the Lord said to Samuel, Behold, I will do a thing in Israel, at which both the ears of * every one that heareth it shall tingle.
12 In that day I will perform against Eli all things which I have spoken concerning his house: † when I begin, I will also make an end.
13∥* For I have told him that I will judge his house for ever for the iniquity which he knoweth; because his sons made themselves ∥ vile, and he † restrained them not.
14 And therefore I have sworn unto the house of Eli, that the iniquity of Eli’s house shall not be purged with sacrifice nor offering for ever.
15 ¶ And Samuel lay until the morning, and opened the doors of the house of the Lord. And Samuel feared to shew Eli the vision.
16 Then Eli called Samuel, and said, Samuel, my son. And he answered, Here am I.
17 And he said, What is the thing that the Lord hath said unto thee? I pray thee hide it not from me: God do so to thee, and † more also, if thou hide any∥ thing from me of all the things that he said unto thee.
18 And Samuel told him † every whit, and hid nothing from him. And he said, It is the Lord: let him do what seemeth him good.
19 ¶ And Samuel grew, and the Lord was with him, and did let none of his words fall to the ground.
20 And all Israel from Dan even to Beer-sheba knew that Samuel was∥ established to be a prophet of the Lord.
21 And the Lord appeared again in Shiloh: for the Lord revealed himself to Samuel in Shiloh by the word of the Lord.
4
1 And the word of Samuel ∥† came to all Israel. Now Israel went out against the Philistines to battle, and pitched beside Eben-ezer: and the Philistines pitched in Aphek.
2 And the Philistines put themselves in array against Israel: and when † they joined battle, Israel was smitten before the Philistines: and they slew of † the army in the field about four thousand men.
3 ¶ And when the people were come into the camp, the elders of Israel said, Wherefore hath the Lord smitten us to day before the Philistines? Let us † fetch the ark of the covenant of the Lord out of Shiloh unto us, that, when it cometh among us, it may save us out of the hand of our enemies.
4 So the people sent to Shiloh, that they might bring from thence the ark of the covenant of the Lord of hosts, which dwelleth between the cherubims: and the two sons of Eli, Hophni and Phinehas, were there with the ark of the covenant of God.
5 And when the ark of the covenant of the Lord came into the camp, all Israel shouted with a great shout, so that the earth rang again.
6 And when the Philistines heard the noise of the shout, they said, What meaneth the noise of this great shout in the camp of the Hebrews? And they understood that the ark of the Lord was come into the camp.
7 And the Philistines were afraid, for they said, God is come into the camp. And they said, Woe unto us! for there hath not been such a thing † heretofore.
8 Woe unto us! who shall deliver us out of the hand of these mighty Gods? these are the Gods that smote the Egyptians with all the plagues in the wilderness.
9 Be strong, and quit yourselves like men, O ye Philistines, that ye be not servants unto the Hebrews, * as they have been to you: † quit yourselves like men, and fight.
10 ¶ And the Philistines fought, and Israel was smitten, and they fled every man into his tent: and there was a very great slaughter; for there fell of Israel thirty thousand footmen.
11 And the ark of God was taken; and the two sons of Eli, Hophni and Phinehas, † were slain.
12 ¶ And there ran a man of Benjamin out of the army, and came to Shiloh the same day with his clothes rent, and with earth upon his head.
13 And when he came, lo, Eli sat upon a seat by the wayside watching: for his heart trembled for the ark of God. And when the man came into the city, and told it, all the city cried out.
14 And when Eli heard the noise of the crying, he said, What meaneth the noise of this tumult? And the man came in hastily, and told Eli.
15 Now Eli was ninety and eight years old; and * his eyes † were dim, that he could not see.
16 And the man said unto Eli, I am he that came out of the army, and I fled to day out of the army. And he said, What † is there done, my son?
17 And the messenger answered and said, Israel is fled before the Philistines, and there hath been also a great slaughter among the people, and thy two sons also, Hophni and Phinehas, are dead, and the ark of God is taken
18 And it came to pass, when he made mention of the ark of God, that he fell from off the seat backward by the side of the gate, and his neck breake, and he died: for he was an old man, and heavy. And he had judged Israel forty years.
19 ¶ And his daughter in law, Phinehas’ wife, was with child, near∥ to be delivered: and when she heard the tidings that the ark of God was taken, and that her father in law and her husband were dead, she bowed herself and travailed, for her pains † came upon her.
20 And about the time of her death the women that stood by her said unto her, Fear not; for thou hast born a son. But she answered not, † neither did she regard it.
21 And she named the child ∥ I-chabod, saying, The glory is departed from Israel: because the ark of God was taken, and because of her father in law and her husband.
22 And she said, The glory is departed from Israel: for the ark of God is taken.
5
1 And the Philistines took the ark of God, and brought it from Eben-ezer unto Ashdod.
2 When the Philistines took the ark of God, they brought it into the house of Dagon, and set it by Dagon.
3 ¶ And when they of Ashdod arose early on the morrow, behold, Dagon was fallen upon his face to the earth before the ark of the Lord. And they took Dagon, and set him in his place again.
4 And when they arose early on the morrow morning, behold, Dagon was fallen upon his face to the ground before the ark of the Lord; and the head of Dagon and both the palms of his hands were cut off upon the threshold; only ∥the stump of Dagon was left to him.
5 Therefore neither the priests of Dagon, nor any that come into Dagon’s house, tread on the threshold of Dagon in Ashdod unto this day.
6 But the hand of the Lord was heavy upon them of Ashdod, and he destroyed them, and smote them with * emerods, even Ashdod and the coasts thereof.
7 And when the men of Ashdod saw that it was so, they said, The ark of the God of Israel shall not abide with us: for his hand is sore upon us, and upon Dagon our god.
8 They sent therefore and gathered all the lords of the Philistines unto them, and said, What shall we do with the ark of the God of Israel? And they answered, Let the ark of the God of Israel be carried about unto Gath. And they carried the ark of the God of Israel about thither.
9 And it was so, that, after they had carried it about, the hand of the Lord was against the city with a very great destruction: and he smote the men of the city, both small and great, and they had emerods in their secret parts.
10 ¶ Therefore they sent the ark of God to Ekron. And it came to pass, as the ark of God came to Ekron, that the Ekronites cried out, saying, They have brought about the ark of the God of Israel to us, to slay us and our people.
11 So they sent and gathered together all the lords of the Philistines, and said, Send away the ark of the God of Israel, and let it go again to his own place, that it slay us not, and our people: for there was a deadly destruction throughout all the city; the hand of God was very heavy there.
12 And the men that died not were smitten with the emerods: and the cry of the city went up to heaven.
6
1 And the ark of the Lord was in the country of the Philistines seven months.
2 And the Philistines called for the priests and the diviners, saying, What shall we do to the ark of the Lord? tell us wherewith we shall send it to his place.
3 And they said, If ye send away the ark of the God of Israel, send it not empty; but in any wise return him a trespass offering: then ye shall be healed, and it shall be known to you why his hand is not removed from you.
4 Then said they, What shall be the trespass offering which we shall return to him? They answered, Five golden emerods, and five golden mice, according to the number of the lords of the Philistines: for one plague was on † you all, and on your lords.
5 Wherefore ye shall make images of your emerods, and images of your mice that mar the land; and ye shall give glory unto the God of Israel: peradventure he will lighten his hand from off you, and from off your gods, and from off your land.
6 Wherefore then do ye harden your hearts, as the Egyptians and Pharaoh hardened their hearts? when he had wrought ∥ wonderfully among them, * did they not let † the people go, and they departed?
7 Now therefore make a new cart, and take two milch kine, on which there hath come no yoke, and tie the kine to the cart, and bring ‡ their calves home from them:
8 And take the ark of the Lord, and lay it upon the cart; and put the jewels of gold, which ye return him for a trespass offering, in a coffer by the side thereof; and send it away, that it may go.
9 And see, if it goeth up by the way of his own coast to Beth-shemesh, then∥ he hath done us this great evil: but if not, then we shall know that it is not his hand that smote us; it was a chance that happened to us.
10 ¶ And the men did so; and took two milch kine, and tied them to the cart, and shut up their calves at home:
11 And they laid the ark of the Lord upon the cart, and the coffer with the mice of gold and the images of their emerods.
12 And the kine took the straight way to the way of Beth-shemesh, and went along the highway, lowing as they went, and turned not aside to the right hand or to the left; and the lords of the Philistines went after them unto the border of Bethshemesh.
13 And they of Beth-shemesh were reaping their wheat harvest in the valley: and they lifted up their eyes, and saw the ark, and rejoiced to see it.
14 And the cart came into the field of Joshua, a Beth-shemite, and stood there, where there was a great stone: and they clave the wood of the cart, and offered the kine a burnt offering unto the Lord.
15 And the Levites took down the ark of the Lord, and the coffer that was with it, wherein the jewels of gold were, and put them on the great stone: and the men of Beth-shemesh offered burnt offerings and sacrificed sacrifices the same day unto the Lord.
16 And when the five lords of the Philistines had seen it, they returned to Ekron the same day.
17 And these are the golden emerods which the Philistines returned for a trespass offering unto the Lord; for Ashdod one, for Gaza one, for Askelon one, for Gath one, for Ekron one;
18 And the golden mice, according to the number of all the cities of the Philistines belonging to the five lords, both of fenced cities, and of country villages, even unto the ∥ great stone of Abel, whereon they set down the ark of the Lord:which stone remaineth unto this day in the field of Joshua, the Beth-shemite.
19 ¶ And he smote the men of Beth-shemesh, because they had looked into the ark of the Lord, even he smote of the people fifty thousand and threescore and ten men: and the people lamented, because the Lord had smitten many of the people with a great slaughter.
20 And the men of Beth-shemesh said, Who is able to stand before this holy Lord God? and to whom shall he go up from us?
21 ¶ And they sent messengers to the inhabitants of Kirjath-jearim, saying, The Philistines have brought again the ark of the Lord; come ye down, and fetch it up to you.
7
1 And the men of Kirjath-jearim came, and fetched up the ark of the Lord, and brought it into the house of Abinadab in the hill, and sanctified Eleazar his son to keep the ark of the Lord.
2 And it came to pass, while the ark abode in Kirjath-jearim, that the time was long; for it was twenty years: and all the house of Israel lamented after the Lord.
3 ¶ And Samuel spake unto all the house of Israel, saying, If ye do return unto the Lord with all your hearts, then* put away the strange gods and * Ashtaroth from among you, and prepare your hearts unto the Lord, and * serve him only: and he will deliver you out of the hand of the Philistines.
4 Then the children of Israel did put away * Baalim and Ashtaroth, and served the Lord only.
5 And Samuel said, Gather all Israel to Mizpeh, and I will pray for you unto the Lord.
6 And they gathered together to Mizpeh, and drew water, and poured it out before the Lord, and fasted on that day, and said there, We have sinned against the Lord. And Samuel judged the children of Israel in Mizpeh.
7 And when the Philistines heard that the children of Israel were gathered together to Mizpeh, the lords of the Philistines went up against Israel. And when the children of Israel heard it, they were afraid of the Philistines.
8 And the children of Israel said to Samuel, † Cease not to cry unto the Lord our God for us, that he will save us out of the hand of the Philistines
9 ¶ And Samuel took a sucking lamb, and offered it for a burnt offering wholly unto the Lord: and Samuel cried unto the Lord for Israel; and the Lord∥ heard him.
10 And as Samuel was offering up the burnt offering, the Philistines drew near to battle against Israel: but the Lord thundered with a great thunder on that day upon the Philistines, and discomfited them; and they were smitten before Israel.
11 And the men of Israel went out of Mizpeh, and pursued the Philistines, and smote them, until they came under Beth-car.
12 Then Samuel took a stone, and set it between Mizpeh and Shen, and called the name of it ∥ Eben-ezer, saying, Hitherto hath the Lord helped us.
13 ¶ So the Philistines were subdued, and they came no more into the coast of Israel: and the hand of the Lord was against the Philistines all the days of Samuel.
14 And the cities which the Philistines had taken from Israel were restored to Israel, from Ekron even unto Gath; and the coasts thereof did Israel deliver out of the hands of the Philistines. And there was peace between Israel and the Amorites.
15 And Samuel judged Israel all the days of his life.
16 And he went from year to year † in circuit to Beth-el, and Gilgal, and Mizpeh, and judged Israel in all those places.
17 And his return was to Ramah; for there was his house; and there he judged Israel; and there he built an altar unto the Lord.
8
1 And it came to pass, when Samuel was old, that he made his sons judges over Israel.
2 Now the name of his firstborn was Joel; and the name of his second, Abiah: they were judges in Beer-sheba.
3 And his sons walked not in his ways, but turned aside after lucre, and * took bribes, and perverted judgment.
4 Then all the elders of Israel gathered themselves together, and came to Samuel unto Ramah,
5 And said unto him, Behold, thou art old, and thy sons walk not in thy ways: now * make us a king to judge us like all the nations.
6 ¶ But the thing † displeased Samuel, when they said, Give us a king to judge us. And Samuel prayed unto the Lord.
7 And the Lord said unto Samuel, Hearken unto the voice of the people in all that they say unto thee: for they have not rejected thee, but they have rejected me, that I should not reign over them.
8 According to all the works which they have done since the day that I brought them up out of Egypt even unto this day, wherewith they have forsaken me, and served other gods, so do they also unto thee.
9 Now therefore ∥ hearken unto their voice: ∥ howbeit yet protest solemnly unto them, and shew them the manner of the king that shall reign over them.
10 ¶ And Samuel told all the words of the Lord unto the people that asked of him a king.
11 And he said, This will be the manner of the king that shall reign over you: He will take your sons, and appoint them for himself, for his chariots, and to be his horsemen; and some shall run before his chariots.
12 And he will appoint him captains over thousands, and captains over fifties; and will set them to ear his ground, and to reap his harvest, and to make his instruments of war, and instruments of his chariots.
13 And he will take your daughters to be confectionaries, and to be cooks, and to be bakers.
14 And he will take your fields, and your vineyards, and your oliveyards, even the best of them, and give them to his servants.
15 And he will take the tenth of your seed, and of your vineyards, and give to his † officers, and to his servants.
16 And he will take your menservants, and your maidservants, and your goodliest young men, and your asses, and put them to his work.
17 He will take the tenth of your sheep: and ye shall be his servants.
18 And ye shall cry out in that day because of your king which ye shall have chosen you; and the Lord will not hear you in that day.
19 ¶ Nevertheless the people refused to obey the voice of Samuel; and they said, Nay; but we will have a king over us;
20 That we also may be like all the nations; and that our king may judge us, and go out before us, and fight our battles.
21 And Samuel heard all the words of the people, and he rehearsed them in the ears of the Lord.
22 And the Lord said to Samuel, Hearken unto their voice, and make them a king. And Samuel said unto the men of Israel, Go ye every man unto his city.
9
1 Now there was a man of Benjamin, whose name was* Kish, the son of Abiel, the son of Zeror, the son of Bechorath, the son of Aphiah, ∥ a Benjamite, a mighty man of ∥ power.
2 And he had a son, whose name was Saul, a choice young man, and a goodly: and there was not among the children of Israel a goodlier person than he: from his shoulders and upward he was higher than any of the people.
3 And the asses of Kish Saul’s father were lost. And Kish said to Saul his son, Take now one of the servants with thee, and arise, go seek the asses.
4 And he passed through mount Ephraim, and passed through the land of Shalisha, but they found them not: then they passed through the land of Shalim, and there they were not: and he passed through the land of the Benjamites, but they found them not.
5And when they were come to the land of Zuph, Saul said to his servant that was with him, Come, and let us return; lest my father leave caring for the asses, and take thought for us.
6 And he said unto him, Behold now, there is in this city a man of God, and he is an honourable man; all that he saith cometh surely to pass: now let us go thither; peradventure he can shew us our way that we should go.
7 Then said Saul to his servant, But, behold, if we go, what shall we bring the man? for the bread † is spent in our vessels, and there is not a present to bring to the man of God: what † have we?
8 And the servant answered Saul again, and said, Behold, † I have here at hand the fourth part of a shekel of silver: that will I give to the man of God, to tell us our way.
9 (Beforetime in Israel, when a man went to enquire of God, thus he spake, Come, and let us go to the seer: for he that is now called a Prophet was beforetime called a Seer.)
10 Then said Saul to his servant, † Well said; come, let us go. So they went unto the city where the man of God was.
11 ¶ And as they went up † the hill to the city, they found young maidens going out to draw water, and said unto them, Is the seer here?
12 And they answered them, and said, He is; behold, he is before you: make haste now, for he came to day to the city; for there is a ∥ sacrifice of the people to day in the high place:
13 As soon as ye be come into the city, ye shall straightway find him, before he go up to the high place to eat: for the people will not eat until he come, because he doth bless the sacrifice; and afterwards they eat that be bidden. Now therefore get you up; for about † this time ye shall find him.
14 And they went up into the city: and when they were come into the city, behold, Samuel came out against them, for to go up to the high place.
15 ¶ * Now the Lord had † told Samuel in his ear a day before Saul came, saying,
16 To morrow about this time I will send thee a man out of the land of Benjamin, and thou shalt anoint him to be captain over my people Israel, that he may save my people out of the hand of the Philistines: for I have looked upon my people, because their cry is come unto me.
17 And when Samuel saw Saul, the Lord said unto him, Behold the man whom I spake to thee of! this same shall † reign over my people.
18 Then Saul drew hear to Samuel in the gate, and said, Tell me, I pray thee, where the seer’s house is.
19 And Samuel answered Saul, and said, I am the seer: go up before me unto the high place; for ye shall eat with me to day, and to morrow I will let thee go, and will tell thee all that is in thine heart.
20 And as for thine asses that were lost † three days ago, set not thy mind on them; for they are found. And on whom is all the desire of Israel? Is it not on thee, and on all thy father’s house?
21 And Saul answered and said, Am not I a Benjamite, of the smallest of the tribes of Israel? and my family the least of all the families of the tribe of Benjamin? wherefore then speakest thou † so to me?
22 And Samuel took Saul and his servant, and brought them into the parlour, and made them sit in the chiefest place among them that were bidden, which were about thirty persons.
23 And Samuel said unto the cook, Bring the portion which I gave thee, of which I said unto thee, Set it by thee.
24 And the cook took up the shoulder, and that which was upon it, and set it before Saul. And Samuel said, Behold that which is ∥ left! set it before thee, and eat: for unto this time hath it been kept for thee since I said, I have invited the people. So Saul did eat with Samuel that day.
25 ¶ And when they were come down from the high place into the city, Samuel communed with Saul upon the top of the house.
26 And they arose early: and it came to pass about the spring of the day, that Samuel called Saul to the top of the house, saying, Up, that I may send thee away. And Saul arose, and they went out both of them, he and Samuel, abroad.
27And as they were going down to the end of the city, Samuel said to Saul, Bid the servant pass on before us, (and he passed on,) but stand thou still † a while, that I may shew thee the word of God.
10
1 Then Samuel took a vial of oil, and poured it upon his head, and kissed him, and said, Is it not because the Lord hath anointed thee to be captain over his inheritance?
2 When thou art departed from me to day, then thou shalt find two men by * Rachel’s sepulchre in the border of Benjamin at Zelzah; and they will say unto thee, The asses which thou wentest to seek are found: and, lo, thy father hath left † the care of the asses, and sorroweth for you, saying, What shall I do for my son?
3 Then shalt thou go on forward from thence, and thou shalt come to the plain of Tabor, and there shall meet thee three men going up to God to Beth-el, one carrying three kids, and another carrying three loaves of bread, and another carrying a bottle of wine:
4 And they will † salute thee, and give thee two loaves of bread; which thou shalt receive of their hands.
5 After that thou shalt come to the hill of God, where is the garrison of the Philistines: and it shall come to pass, when thou art come thither to the city, that thou shalt meet a company of prophets coming down from the high place with a psaltery, and a tabret, and a pipe, and a harp, before them; and they shall prophesy:
6 And the Spirit of the Lord will come upon thee, and thou shalt prophesy with them, and shalt be turned into another man.
7 And † let it be, when these signs are come unto thee, †that thou do as occasion serve thee; for God is with thee.
8 And thou shalt go down before me to Gilgal; and, behold, I will come down unto thee, to offer burnt offerings, and to sacrifice sacrifices of peace offerings: * seven days shalt thou tarry, till I come to thee, and shew thee what thou shalt do.
9 ¶ And it was so, that when he had turned his † back to go from Samuel, God † gave him another heart: and all those signs came to pass that day.
10 And when they came thither to the hill, behold, a company ‡ of prophets met him; and the Spirit of God came upon him, and he prophesied among them.
11 And it came to pass, when all that knew him beforetime saw that, behold, he prophesied among the prophets, then the people said † one to another, What is this that is come unto the son of Kish? *Is Saul also among the prophets?
12 And one † of the same place answered and said, But who is their father? Therefore it became a proverb, Is Saul also among the prophets?
13 And when he had made an end of prophesying, he came to the high place.
14 ¶ And Saul’s uncle said unto him and to his servant, Whither went ye? And he said, To seek the asses: and when we saw that they were no where, we came to Samuel.
15 And Saul’s uncle said, Tell me, I pray thee, what Samuel said unto you.
16 And Saul said unto his uncle, He told us plainly that the asses were found. But of the matter of the kingdom, whereof Samuel spake, he told him not.
17 ¶ And Samuel called the people together unto the Lord to Mizpeh;
18 And said unto the children of Israel, Thus saith the Lord God of Israel, I brought up Israel out of Egypt, and delivered you out of the hand of the Egyptians, and out of the hand of all kingdoms, and of them that oppressed you:
19 And ye have this day rejected your God, who himself saved you out of all your adversities and your tribulations; and ye have said unto him, Nay, but set a king over us. Now therefore present yourselves before the Lord by your tribes, and by your thousands.
20 And when Samuel had caused all the tribes of Israel to come near, the tribe of Benjamin was taken.
21 When he had caused the tribe of Benjamin to come near by their families, the family of Matri was taken, and Saul the son of Kish was taken: and when they sought him, he could not be found.
22 Therefore they enquired of the Lord further, if the man should yet come thither. And the Lord answered, Behold, he hath hid himself among the stuff.
23 And they ran and fetched him thence: and when he stood among the people, he was higher than any of the people from ‡ his shoulders and upward.
24 And Samuel said to all the people, See ye him whom the Lord hath chosen, that there is none like him among all the people? And all the people shouted, and said, † God save the king.
25 Then Samuel told the people the manner of the kingdom, and wrote it in a book, and laid it up before the Lord. And Samuel sent all the people away, every man to his house.
26 ¶ And Saul also went home to Gibeah; and there went with him a band of men, whose hearts God had touched.
27 But the children of Belial said, How shall this man save us? And they despised him, and brought him no presents. But ∥ he held his peace.
11
1 Then Nahash the Ammonite came up, and encamped against Jabesh-gilead: and all the men of Jabesh said unto Nahash, Make a covenant with us, and we will serve thee.
2 And Nahash the Ammonite answered them, On this condition will I make a covenant with you, that I may thrust out all your right eyes, and lay it for a reproach upon all Israel.
3 And the elders of Jabesh said unto him, † Give us seven days’ respite, that we may send messengers unto all the coasts of Israel: and then, if there be no man to save us, we will come out to thee.
4 ¶ Then came the messengers to Gibeah of Saul, and told the tidings in the ears of the people: and all the people lifted up their voices, and wept.
5 And, behold, Saul came after the herd out of the field; and Saul said, What aileth the people that they weep? And they told him the tidings of the men of Jabesh.
6 And the Spirit of God came upon Saul when he heard those tidings, and his anger was kindled greatly.
7 And he took a yoke of oxen, and hewed them in pieces, and sent them throughout all the coasts of Israel by the hands of messengers, saying, Whosoever cometh not forth after Saul and after Samuel, so shall it be done unto his oxen. And the fear of the Lord fell on the people, and they came out † with one consent.
8 And when he numbered them in Bezek, the children of Israel were three hundred thousand, and the men of Judah thirty thousand.
9 And they said unto the messengers that came, Thus shall ye say unto the men of Jabesh-gilead, To morrow, by that time the sun be hot, ye shall have ∥ help. And the messengers came and shewed it to the men of Jabesh; and they were glad.
10 Therefore the men of Jabesh said, To morrow we will come out unto you, and ye shall do with us all that seemeth good unto you.
11 And it was so on the morrow, that Saul put the people in three companies; and they came into the midst of the host in the morning watch, and slew the Ammonites until the heat of the day: and it came to pass, that they which remained were scattered, so that two of them were not left together.
12 ¶ And the people said unto Samuel, Who is he that said, Shall Saul reign over us? bring the men, that we may put them to death.
13 And Saul said, There shall not a man be put to death this day: for to day the Lord hath wrought salvation in Israel.
14 Then said Samuel to the people, Come, and let us go to Gilgal, and renew the kingdom there.
15 And all the people went to Gilgal; and there they made Saul king before the Lord in Gilgal; and there they sacrificed sacrifices of peace offerings before the Lord; and there Saul and all the men of Israel rejoiced greatly.
12
1 And Samuel said unto all Israel, Behold, I have hearkened unto your voice in all that ye said unto me, and have made a king over you.
2 And now, behold, the king walketh before you: and I am old and grayheaded; and, behold, my sons are with you: and I have walked before you from my childhood unto this day.
3 Behold, * here I am: witness against me before the Lord, and before his anointed: whose ox have I taken? or whose ass have I taken? or whom have I defrauded? whom have I oppressed? or of whose hand have I received any† bribe ∥ to blind mine eyes therewith? and I will restore it you.
4 And they said, Thou hast not defrauded us, nor oppressed us, neither hast thou taken ought of any man’s hand.
5 And he said unto them, The Lordis witness against you, and his anointed is witness this day, that ye have not found ought in my hand. And they answered, He is witness.
6 ¶ And Samuel said unto the people, It is the Lord that ∥ advanced Moses and Aaron, and that brought your fathers up out of the land of Egypt.
7 Now therefore stand still, that I may reason with you before the Lord of all the † righteous acts of the Lord, which he did † to you and to your fathers.
8* When Jacob was come into Egypt, and your fathers cried unto the Lord, then the Lord* sent Moses and Aaron, which brought forth your fathers out of Egypt, and made them dwell in this place.
9 And when they forgat the Lord their God, * he sold them into the hand of Sisera, captain of the host of Hazor, and into the hand of the Philistines, and into the hand of the king of Moab, and they fought against them.
10 And they cried unto the Lord, and said, We have sinned, because we have forsaken the Lord, and have served Baalim and Ashtaroth: but now deliver us out of the hand of our enemies, and we will serve thee.
11 And the Lord sent Jerubbaal, and Bedan, and * Jephthah, and Samuel, and delivered you out of the hand of your enemies on every side, and ye dwelled safe.
12 And when ye saw that Nahash the king of the children of Ammon came against you, ye said unto me, Nay; but a king shall reign over us: when the Lord your God was your king.
13 Now therefore behold the king whom ye have chosen, and whom ye have desired! and, behold, the Lord hath set a king over you.
14 If ye will fear the Lord, and serve him, and obey his voice, and not rebel against the † commandment of the Lord, then shall both ye and also the king that reigneth over you † continue following the Lord your God:
15 But if ye will not obey the voice of the Lord, but rebel against the commandment of the Lord, then shall the hand of the Lord be against you, as it was against your fathers.
16 ¶ Now therefore stand and see this great thing, which the Lord will do before your eyes.
17Is it not wheat harvest to day? I will call unto the Lord, and he shall send thunder and rain; that ye may perceive and see that your wickedness is great, which ye have done in the sight of the Lord, in asking you a king.
18 So Samuel called unto the Lord; and the Lord sent thunder and rain that day: and all the people greatly feared the Lord and Samuel.
19 And all the people said unto Samuel, Pray for thy servants unto the Lord thy God, that we die not: for we have added unto all our sins this evil, to ask us a king.
20 ¶ And Samuel said unto the people, Fear not: ye have done all this wickedness: yet turn not aside from following the Lord, but serve the Lord with all your heart;
21 And turn ye not aside: for then should ye go after vain things, which cannot profit nor deliver; for they are vain.
22 For the Lord will not forsake his people for his great name’s sake: because it hath pleased the Lord to make you his people.
23 Moreover as for me, God forbid that I should sin against the Lord† in ceasing to pray for you: but I will teach you the good and the right way:
24 Only fear the Lord, and serve him in truth with all your heart: for consider ∥ how great things he hath done for you.
25 But if ye shall still do wickedly, ye shall be consumed, both ye and your king.
13
1 Saul † reigned one year; and when he had reigned two years over Israel,
2 Saul chose him three thousand men of Israel; whereof two thousand were with Saul in Michmash and in mount Beth-el, and a thousand were with Jonathan in Gibeah of Benjamin: and the rest of the people he sent every man to his tent.
3 And Jonathan smote the garrison of the Philistines that was in ∥ Geba, and the Philistines heard of it. And Saul blew the trumpet throughout all the land, saying, Let the Hebrews hear.
4 And all Israel heard say that Saul had smitten a garrison of the Philistines, and that Israel also † was had in abomination with the Philistines. And the people were called together after Saul to Gilgal.
5 ¶ And the Philistines gathered themselves together to fight with Israel, thirty thousand chariots, and six thousand horsemen, and people as the sand which is on the sea shore in multitude: and they came up, and pitched in Michmash, eastward from Beth-aven.
6 When the men of Israel saw that they were in a strait, (for the people were distressed,) then the people did hide themselves in caves, and in thickets, and in rocks, and in high places, and in pits.
7 And some of the Hebrews went over Jordan to the land of Gad and Gilead. As for Saul, he was yet in Gilgal, and all the people † followed him trembling.
8 ¶ * And he tarried seven days, according to the set time that Samuel had appointed: but Samuel came not to Gilgal; and the people were scattered from him.
9 And Saul said, Bring hither a burnt offering to me, and peace offerings. And he offered the burnt offering.
10 And it came to pass, that as soon as he had made an end of offering the burnt offering, behold, Samuel came; and Saul went out to meet him, that he might † salute him.
11 ¶ And Samuel said, What hast thou done? And Saul said, Because I saw that the people were scattered from me, and that thou camest not within the days appointed, and that the Philistines gathered themselves together at Michmash;
12 Therefore said I, The Philistines will come down now upon me to Gilgal, and I have not † made supplication unto the Lord: I forced myself therefore, and offered a burnt offering.
13 And Samuel said to Saul, Thou hast done foolishly: thou hast not kept the commandment of the Lord thy God, which he commanded thee: for now would the Lord have established thy kingdom upon Israel for ever.
14 But now thy kingdom shall not continue: the Lord hath sought him a man after his own heart, and the Lord hath commanded him to be captain over his people, because thou hast not kept that which the Lord commanded thee.
15 And Samuel arose, and gat him up from Gilgal unto Gibeah of Benjamin. And Saul numbered the people that were† present with him, about six hundred men.
16 And Saul, and Jonathan his son, and the people that were present with them, abode in Gibeah of Benjamin: but the Philistines encamped in Michmash.
17 ¶ And the spoilers came out of the camp of the Philistines in three companies: one company turned unto the way that leadeth to Ophrah, unto the land of Shual:
18 And another company turned the way to Beth-horon: and another company turned to the way of the border that looketh to the valley of Zeboim toward the wilderness.
19 ¶ Now there was no smith found throughout all the land of Israel: for the Philistines said, Lest the Hebrews make them swords or spears:
20 But all the Israelites went down to the Philistines, to sharpen every man his share, and his coulter, and his axe, and his mattock.
21 Yet they had † a file for the mattocks, and for the coulters, and for the forks, and for the axes, and † to sharpen the goads.
22 So it came to pass in the day of battle, that there was neither sword nor spear found in the hand of any of the people that were with Saul and Jonathan: but with Saul and with Jonathan his son was there found.
23 And the ∥ garrison of the Philistines went out to the passage of Michmash.
14
1 Now ∥ it came to pass upon a day, that Jonathan the son of Saul said unto the young man that bare his armour, Come, and let us go over to the Philistines’ garrison, that is on the other side. But he told not his father.
2 And Saul tarried in the uttermost part of Gibeah under a pomegranate tree which is in Migron: and the people that were with him were about six hundred men;
3 And Ahiah, the son of Ahitub, * I-chabod’s brother, the son of Phinehas, the son of Eli, the Lord’s priest in Shiloh, wearing an ephod. And the people knew not that Jonathan was gone.
4 ¶ And between the passages, by which Jonathan sought to go over unto the Philistines’ garrison, there was a sharp rock on the one side, and a sharp rock on the other side: and the name of the one was Bozez, and the name of the other Seneh.
5 The † forefront of the one was situate northward over against Michmash, and the other southward over against Gibeah.
6 And Jonathan said to the young man that bare his armour, Come, and let us go over unto the garrison of these uncircumcised: it may be that the Lord will work for us: for there is no restraint to the Lord* to save by many or by few.
7 And his armourbearer said unto him, Do all that is in thine heart: turn thee; behold, I am with thee according to thy heart.
8 Then said Jonathan, Behold, we will pass over unto these men, and we will discover ourselves unto them.
9 If they say thus unto us, † Tarry until we come to you; then we will stand still in our place, and will not go up unto them.
10 But if they say thus, Come up unto us; then we will go up: for * the Lord hath delivered them into our hand: and this shall be a sign unto us.
11 And both of them discovered themselves unto the garrison of the Philistines: and the Philistines said, Behold, the Hebrews come forth out of the holes where they had hid themselves.
12 And the men of the garrison answered Jonathan and his armourbearer, and said, Come up to us, and we will shew you a thing. And Jonathan said unto his armourbearer, Come up after me: for the Lord hath delivered them into the hand of Israel.
13 And Jonathan climbed up upon his hands and upon his feet, and his armourbearer after him: and they fell before Jonathan; and his armourbearer slew after him.
14 And that first slaughter, which Jonathan and his armourbearer made, was about twenty men, within as it were ∥ an half acre of land, which a yoke of oxen might plow.
15 And there was trembling in the host, in the field, and among all the people: the garrison, and the spoilers, they also trembled, and the earth quaked: so it was † a very great trembling.
16 And the watchmen of Saul in Gibeah of Benjamin looked; and, behold, the multitude melted away, and they went on beating down one another.
17 Then said Saul unto the people that were with him, Number now, and see who is gone from us. And when they had numbered, behold, Jonathan and his armourbearer were not there.
18 And Saul said unto Ahiah, Bring hither the ark of God. For the ark of God was at that time with the children of Israel.
19 ¶ And it came to pass, while Saul talked unto the priest, that the ∥ noise that was in the host of the Philistines went on and increased: and Saul said unto the priest, Withdraw thine hand.
20 And Saul and all the people that were with him † assembled themselves, and they came to the battle: and, behold, * every man’s sword was against his fellow, and there was a very great discomfiture.
21 Moreover the Hebrews that were with the Philistines before that time, which went up with them into the camp from the country round about, even they also turned to be with the Israelites that were with Saul and Jonathan.
22 Likewise all the men of Israel which had hid themselves in mount Ephraim, when they heard that the Philistines fled, even they also followed hard after them in the battle.
23 So the Lord saved Israel that day: and the battle passed over unto Beth-aven.
24 ¶ And the men of Israel were distressed that day: for Saul had adjured the people, saying, Cursed be the man that eateth any food until evening, that I may be avenged on mine enemies. So none of the people tasted any food.
25 And all they of the land came to a wood; and there was honey upon the ground.
26 And when the people were come into the wood, behold, the honey dropped; but no man put his hand to his mouth: for the people feared the oath.
27 But Jonathan heard not when his father charged the people with the oath: wherefore he put forth the end of the rod that was in his hand, and dipped it in an honeycomb, and put his hand to his mouth; and his eyes were enlightened.
28 Then answered one of the people, and said, Thy father straitly charged the people with an oath, saying, Cursed be the man that eateth any food this day. And the people were ∥ faint.
29 Then said Jonathan, My father hath troubled the land: see, I pray you, how mine eyes have been enlightened, because I tasted a little of this honey.
30 How much more, if haply the people had eaten freely to day of the spoil of their enemies which they found? for had there not been now a much greater slaughter among the Philistines?
31 And they smote the Philistines that day from Michmash to Aijalon: and the people were very faint.
32 And the people flew upon the spoil, and took sheep, and oxen, and calves, and slew them on the ground: and the people did eat them* with the blood.
33 ¶ Then they told Saul, saying, Behold, the people sin against the Lord, in that they eat with the blood. And he said, Ye have ∥ transgressed: roll a great stone unto me this day.
34 And Saul said, Disperse yourselves among the people, and say unto them, Bring me hither every man his ox, and every man his sheep, and slay them here, and eat; and sin not against the Lord in eating with the blood. And all the people brought every man his ox † with him that night, and slew them there.
35 And Saul built an altar unto the Lord:† the same was the first altar that he built unto the Lord.
36 ¶ And Saul said, Let us go down after the Philistines by night, and spoil them until the morning light, and let us not leave a man of them. And they said, Do whatsoever seemeth good unto thee. Then said the priest, Let us draw near hither unto God.
37 And Saul asked counsel of God, Shall I go down after the Philistines? wilt thou deliver them into the hand of Israel? But he answered him not that day.
38 And Saul said, Draw ye near hither, * all the † chief of the people: and know and see wherein this sin hath been this day.
39 For, as the Lord liveth, which saveth Israel, though it be in Jonathan my son, he shall surely die. But there was not a man among all the people that answered him.
40 Then said he unto all Israel, Be ye on one side, and I and Jonathan my son will be on the other side. And the people said unto Saul, Do what seemeth good unto thee.
41 Therefore Saul said unto the Lord God of Israel, ∥ Give a perfect lot. And Saul and Jonathan were taken: but the people † escaped.
42 And Saul said, Cast lots between me and Jonathan my son. And Jonathan was taken.
43 Then Saul said to Jonathan, Tell me what thou hast done. And Jonathan told him, and said, I did but taste a little honey with the end of the rod that was in mine hand, and, lo, I must die.
44 And Saul answered, God do so and more also: for thou shalt surely die, Jonathan.
45 And the people said unto Saul, Shall Jonathan die, who hath wrought this great salvation in Israel? God forbid: as the Lord liveth, there shall not one hair of his head fall to the ground; for he hath wrought with God this day. So the people rescued Jonathan, that he died not.
46 Then Saul went up from following the Philistines: and the Philistines went to their own place.
47 ¶ So Saul took the kingdom over Israel, and fought against all his enemies on every side, against Moab, and against the children of Ammon, and against Edom, and against the kings of Zobah, and against the Philistines: and whithersoever he turned himself, he vexed them.
48 And he ∥ gathered an host, and smote the Amalekites, and delivered Israel out of the hands of them that spoiled them.
49 Now the sons of Saul were Jonathan, and Ishui, and Melchi-shua: and the names of his two daughters were these, the name of the firstborn Merab, and the name of the younger Michal:
50 And the name of Saul’s wife was Ahinoam, the daughter of Ahimaaz: and the name of the captain of his host was Abner, the son of Ner, Saul’s uncle.
51 And Kish was the father of Saul; and Ner the father of Abner was the son of Abiel.
52 And there was sore war against the Philistines all the days of Saul: and when Saul saw any strong man, or any valiant man, he took him unto him.
15
1 Samuel also said unto Saul, * The Lord sent me to anoint thee to be king over his people, over Israel: now therefore hearken thou unto the voice of the words of the Lord.
2 Thus saith the Lord of hosts, I remember that which Amalek did to Israel, * how he laid wait for him in the way, when he came up from Egypt.
3 Now go and smite Amalek, and utterly destroy all that they have, and spare them not; but slay both man and woman, infant and suckling, ox and sheep, camel and ass.
4 And Saul gathered the people together, and numbered them in Telaim, two hundred thousand footmen, and ten thousand men of Judah.
5 And Saul came to a city of Amalek, and ∥ laid wait in the valley.
6 ¶ And Saul said unto the Kenites, Go, depart, get you down from among the Amalekites, lest I destroy you with them: for ye shewed kindness to all the children of Israel, when they came up out of Egypt. So the Kenites departed from among the Amalekites.
7 And Saul smote the Amalekites from Havilah until thou comest to Shur, that is over against Egypt.
8 And he took Agag the king of the Amalekites alive, and utterly destroyed all the people with the edge of the sword.
9 But Saul and the people spared Agag, and the best of the sheep, and of the oxen, and ∥ of the fatlings, and the lambs, and all that was good, and would not utterly destroy them: but every thing that was vile and refuse, that they destroyed utterly.
10 ¶ Then came the word of the Lord unto Samuel, saying,
11 It repenteth me that I have set up Saul to be king: for he is turned back from following me, and hath not performed my commandments. And it grieved Samuel; and he cried unto the Lord all night.
12 And when Samuel rose early to meet Saul in the morning, it was told Samuel, saying, Saul came to Carmel, and, behold, he set him up a place, and is gone about, and passed on, and gone down to Gilgal.
13 And Samuel came to Saul: and Saul said unto him, Blessed be thou of the Lord: I have performed the commandment of the Lord.
14 And Samuel said, What meaneth then this bleating of the sheep in mine ears, and the lowing of the oxen which I hear?
15 And Saul said, They have brought them from the Amalekites: for the people spared the best of the sheep and of the oxen, to sacrifice unto the Lord thy God; and the rest we have utterly destroyed.
16 Then Samuel said unto Saul, Stay, and I will tell thee what the Lord hath said to me this night. And he said unto him, Say on.
17 And Samuel said, When thou wast little in thine own sight, wast thou not made the head of the tribes of Israel, and the Lord anointed thee king over Israel?
18 And the Lord sent thee on a journey, and said, Go and utterly destroy the sinners the Amalekites, and fight against them until † they be consumed.
19 Wherefore then didst thou not obey the voice of the Lord, but didst fly upon the spoil, and didst evil in the sight of the Lord?
20 And Saul said unto Samuel, Yea, I have obeyed the voice of the Lord, and have gone the way which the Lord sent me, and have brought Agag the king of Amalek, and have utterly destroyed the Amalekites.
21 But the people took of the spoil, sheep and oxen, the chief of the things which should have been utterly destroyed, to sacrifice unto the Lord thy God in Gilgal.
22 And Samuel said, Hath the Lordas great delight in burnt offerings and sacrifices, as in obeying the voice of the Lord? Behold, * to obey is better than sacrifice, and to hearken than the fat of rams.
23 For rebellion is as the sin of † witchcraft, and stubbornness is as iniquity and idolatry. Because thou hast rejected the word of the Lord, he hath also rejected thee from being king.
24 ¶ And Saul said unto Samuel, I have sinned: for I have transgressed the commandment of the Lord, and thy words: because I feared the people, and obeyed their voice.
25 Now therefore, I pray thee, pardon my sin, and turn again with me, that I may worship the Lord.
26 And Samuel said unto Saul, I will not return with thee: for thou hast rejected the word of the Lord, and the Lord hath rejected thee from being king over Israel.
27 And as Samuel turned about to go away, he laid hold upon the skirt of his mantle, and it rent.
28 And Samuel said unto him, The Lord hath rent the kingdom of Israel from thee this day, and hath given it to a neighbour of thine, that is better than thou.
29 And also the ∥ Strength of Israel will not lie nor repent: for he is not a man, that he should repent.
30 Then he said, I have sinned: yet honour me now, I pray thee, before the elders of my people, and before Israel, and turn again with me, that I may worship the Lord thy God.
31 So Samuel turned again after Saul; and Saul worshipped the Lord.
32 ¶ Then said Samuel, Bring ye hither to me Agag the king of the Amalekites. And Agag came unto him delicately. And Agag said, Surely the bitterness of death is past.
33 And Samuel said, * As thy sword hath made women childless, so shall thy mother be childless among women. And Samuel hewed Agag in pieces before the Lord in Gilgal.
34 ¶ Then Samuel went to Ramah; and Saul went up to his house to Gibeah of Saul.
35 And Samuel came no more to see Saul until the day of his death: nevertheless Samuel mourned for Saul: and the Lord repented that he had made Saul king over Israel.
16
1 And the Lord said unto Samuel, How long wilt thou mourn for Saul, seeing I have rejected him from reigning over Israel? fill thine horn with oil, and go, I will send thee to Jesse the Beth-lehemite: for I have provided me a king among his sons.
2 And Samuel said, How can I go? if Saul hear it, he will kill me. And the Lord said, Take an heifer † with thee, and say, I am come to sacrifice to the Lord.
3 And call Jesse to the sacrifice, and I will shew thee what thou shalt do: and thou shalt anoint unto me him whom I name unto thee.
4 And Samuel did that which the Lord spake, and came to Beth-lehem. And the elders of the town trembled at his † coming, and said, Comest thou peaceably?
5 And he said, Peaceably: I am come to sacrifice unto the Lord: sanctify yourselves, and come with me to the sacrifice. And he sanctified Jesse and his sons, and called them to the sacrifice.
6 ¶ And it came to pass, when they were come, that he looked on Eliab, and said, Surely the Lord’s anointed is before him.
7 But the Lord said unto Samuel, Look not on his countenance, or on the height of his stature; because I have refused him: for the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the † outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the * heart.
8 Then Jesse called Abinadab, and made him pass before Samuel. And he said, Neither hath the Lord chosen this.
9 Then Jesse made Shammah to pass by. And he said, Neither hath the Lord chosen this.
10 Again, Jesse made seven of his sons to pass before Samuel. And Samuel said unto Jesse, The Lord hath not chosen these.
11 And Samuel said unto Jesse, Are here all thy children? And he said, There remaineth yet the youngest, and, behold, he keepeth the sheep. And Samuel said unto Jesse, * Send and fetch him: for we will not sit † down till he come hither.
12 And he sent, and brought him in. Now he was ruddy, and withal † of a beautiful countenance, and goodly to look to. And the Lord said, Arise, anoint him: for this is he.
13 Then Samuel took the horn of oil, and anointed him in the midst of his brethren: and the Spirit of the Lord came upon David from that day forward. So Samuel rose up, and went to Ramah.
14 ¶ But the Spirit of the Lord departed from Saul, and an evil spirit from the Lord∥ troubled him.
15 And Saul’s servants said unto him, Behold now, an evil spirit from God troubleth thee.
16 Let our lord now command thy servants, which are before thee, to seek out a man, who is a cunning player on an harp: and it shall come to pass, when the evil spirit from God is upon thee, that he shall play with his hand, and thou shalt be well.
17 And Saul said unto his servants, Provide me now a man that can play well, and bring him to me.
18 Then answered one of the servants, and said, Behold, I have seen a son of Jesse the Beth-lehemite, that is cunning in playing, and a mighty valiant man, and a man of war, and prudent in ∥ matters, and a comely person, and the Lordis with him.
19 ¶ Wherefore Saul sent messengers unto Jesse, and said, Send me David thy son, which is with the sheep.
20 And Jesse took an ass laden with bread, and a bottle of wine, and a kid, and sent them by David his son unto Saul.
21 And David came to Saul, and stood before him: and he loved him greatly; and he became his armourbearer.
22 And Saul sent to Jesse, saying, Let David, I pray thee, stand before me; for he hath found favour in my sight.
23 And it came to pass, when the evil spirit from God was upon Saul, that David took an harp, and played with his hand: so Saul was refreshed, and was well, and the evil spirit departed from him.
17
1 Now the Philistines gathered together their armies to battle, and were gathered together at Shochoh, which belongeth to Judah, and pitched between Shochoh and Azekah, in ∥ Ephes-dammim.
2 And Saul and the men of Israel were gathered together, and pitched by the valley of Elah, and † set the battle in array against the Philistines.
3 And the Philistines stood on a mountain on the one side, and Israel stood on a mountain on the other side: and there was a valley between them.
4 ¶ And there went out a champion out of the camp of the Philistines, named Goliath, of Gath, whose height was six cubits and a span.
5 And he had an helmet of brass upon his head, and he was† armed with a coat of mail; and the weight of the coat was five thousand shekels of brass.
6 And he had greaves of brass upon his legs, and a ∥ target of brass between his shoulders.
7 And the staff of his spear was like a weaver’s beam; and his spear’s head weighed six hundred shekels of iron: and one bearing a shield went before him.
8 And he stood and cried unto the armies of Israel, and said unto them, Why are ye come out to set your battle in array? am not I a Philistine, and ye servants to Saul? choose you a man for you, and let him come down to me.
9 If he be able to fight with me, and to kill me, then will we be your servants: but if I prevail against him, and kill him, then shall ye be our servants, and serve us.
10 And the Philistine said, I defy the armies of Israel this day; give me a man, that we may fight together.
11 When Saul and all Israel heard those words of the Philistine, they were dismayed, and greatly afraid.
12 ¶ Now David was* the son of that Ephrathite of Beth-lehem-judah, whose name was Jesse; and he had eight sons: and the man went among men for an old man in the days of Saul.
13 And the three eldest sons of Jesse went and followed Saul to the battle: and the names of his three sons that went to the battle were Eliab the firstborn, and next unto him Abinadab, and the third Shammah.
14 And David was the youngest: and the three eldest followed Saul.
15 But David went and returned from Saul to feed his father’s sheep at Beth-lehem.
16 And the Philistine drew near morning and evening, and presented himself forty days.
17 And Jesse said unto David his son, Take now for thy brethren an ephah of this parched corn, and these ten loaves, and run to the camp to thy brethren;
18 And carry these ten † cheeses unto the † captain of their thousand, and look how thy brethren fare, and take their pledge.
19 Now Saul, and they, and all the men of Israel, were in the valley of Elah, fighting with the Philistines.
20 ¶ And David rose up early in the morning, and left the sheep with a keeper, and took, and went, as Jesse had commanded him; and he came to the ∥ trench, as the host was going forth to the ∥ fight, and shouted for the battle.
21 For Israel and the Philistines had put the battle in array, army against army.
22 And David left † his carriage in the hand of the keeper of the carriage, and ran into the army, and came and † saluted his brethren.
23 And as he talked with them, behold, there came up the champion, the Philistine of Gath, Goliath by name, out of the armies of the Philistines, and spake according to the same words: and David heard them.
24 And all the men of Israel, when they saw the man, fled † from him, and were sore afraid.
25 And the men of Israel said, Have ye seen this man that is come up? surely to defy Israel is he come up: and it shall be, that the man who killeth him, the king will enrich him with great riches, and * will give him his daughter, and make his father’s house free in Israel.
26 And David spake to the men that stood by him, saying, What shall be done to the man that killeth this Philistine, and taketh away the reproach from Israel? for who is this uncircumcised Philistine, that he should defy the armies of the living God?
27 And the people answered him after this manner, saying, So shall it be done to the man that killeth him.
28 ¶ And Eliab his eldest brother heard when he spake unto the men; and Eliab’s anger was kindled against David, and he said, Why camest thou down hither? and with whom hast thou left those few sheep in the wilderness? I know thy pride, and the naughtiness of thine heart; for thou art come down that thou mightest see the battle.
29 And David said, What have I now done? Is there not a cause?
30 ¶ And he turned from him toward another, and spake after the same † manner: and the people answered him again after the former manner.
31 And when the words were heard which David spake, they rehearsed them before Saul: and he † sent for him.
32 ¶ And David said to Saul, Let no man’s heart fail because of him; thy servant will go and fight with this Philistine.
33 And Saul said to David, Thou art not able to go against this Philistine to fight with him: for thou art but a youth, and he a man of war from his youth.
34 And David said unto Saul, Thy servant kept his father’s sheep, and there came a lion, and a bear, and took a ∥ lamb out of the flock:
35 And I went out after him, and smote him, and delivered it out of his mouth: and when he arose against me, I caught him by his beard, and smote him, and slew him.
36 Thy servant slew both the lion and the bear: and this uncircumcised Philistine shall be as one of them, seeing he hath defied the armies of the living God.
37 David said moreover, The Lord that delivered me out of the paw of the lion, and out of the paw of the bear, he will deliver me out of the hand of this Philistine. And Saul said unto David, Go, and the Lord be with thee.
38 ¶ And Saul † armed David with his armour, and he put an helmet of brass upon his head; also he armed him with a coat of mail.
39 And David girded his sword upon his armour, and he assayed to go; for he had not proved it. And David said unto Saul, I cannot go with these; for I have not proved them. And David put them off him.
40 And he took his staff in his hand, and chose him five smooth stones out of the ∥ brook, and put them in a shepherd’s † bag which he had, even in a scrip; and his sling was in his hand: and he drew near to the Philistine.
41 And the Philistine came on and drew near unto David; and the man that bare the shield went before him.
42 And when the Philistine looked about, and saw David, he disdained him: for he was but a youth, and ruddy, and of a fair countenance.
43 And the Philistine said unto David, Am I a dog, that thou comest to me with staves? And the Philistine cursed David by his gods.
44 And the Philistine said to David, Come to me, and I will give thy flesh unto the fowls of the air, and to the beasts of the field.
45 Then said David to the Philistine, Thou comest to me with a sword, and with a spear, and with a shield: but I come to thee in the name of the Lord of hosts, the God of the armies of Israel, whom thou hast defied.
46 This day will the Lord† deliver thee into mine hand; and I will smite thee, and take thine head from thee; and I will give the carcases of the host of the Philistines this day unto the fowls of the air, and to the wild beasts of the earth; that all the earth may know that there is a God in Israel.
47 And all this assembly shall know that the Lord saveth not with sword and spear: for the battle is the Lord’s, and he will give you into our hands.
48 And it came to pass, when the Philistine arose, and came and drew nigh to meet David, that David hasted, and ran toward the army to meet the Philistine.
49 And David put his hand in his bag, and took thence a stone, and slang it, and smote the Philistine in his forehead, that the stone sunk into his forehead; and he fell upon his face to the earth.
50 So * David prevailed over the Philistine with a sling and with a stone, and smote the Philistine, and slew him: but there was no sword in the hand of David.
51 Therefore David ran, and stood upon the Philistine, and took his sword, and drew it out of the sheath thereof, and slew him, and cut off his head therewith. And when the Philistines saw their champion was dead, they fled.
52 And the men of Israel and of Judah arose, and shouted, and pursued the Philistines, until thou come to the valley, and to the gates of Ekron. And the wounded of the Philistines fell down by the way to Shaaraim, even unto Gath, and unto Ekron.
53 And the children of Israel returned from chasing after the Philistines, and they spoiled their tents.
54 And David took the head of the Philistine, and brought it to Jerusalem; but he put his armour in his tent.
55 ¶ And when Saul saw David go forth against the Philistine, he said unto Abner, the captain of the host, Abner, whose son is this youth? And Abner said, As thy soul liveth, O king, I cannot tell.
56 And the king said, Enquire thou whose son the stripling is.
57 And as David returned from the slaughter of the Philistine, Abner took him, and brought him before Saul with the head of the Philistine in his hand.
58 And Saul said to him, Whose son art thou, thou young man? And David answered, I am the son of thy servant Jesse the Beth-lehemite.
18
1 And it came to pass, when he ‡ had made an end of speaking unto Saul, that the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul.
2 And Saul took him that day, and would let him go no more home to his father’s house.
3 Then Jonathan and David made a covenant, because he loved him as his own soul.
4 And Jonathan stripped himself of the robe that was upon him, and gave it to David, and his garments, even to his sword, and to his bow, and to his girdle.
5 ¶ And David went out whithersoever Saul sent him, and∥ behaved himself wisely: and Saul set him over the men of war, and he was accepted in the sight of all the people, and also in the sight of Saul’s servants.
6 And it came to pass as they came, when David was returned from the slaughter of the ∥ Philistine, that the women came out of all cities of Israel, singing and dancing, to meet king Saul, with tabrets, with joy, and with † instruments of musick.
7 And the women answered one another as they played, and said, * Saul hath slain his thousands, and David his ten thousands.
8 And Saul was very wroth, and the saying † displeased him; and he said, They have ascribed unto David ten thousands, and to me they have ascribed but thousands: and what can he have more but the kingdom?
9 And Saul eyed David from that day and forward.
10 ¶ And it came to pass on the morrow, that the evil spirit from God came upon Saul, and he prophesied in the midst of the house: and David played with his hand, as at other times: and there was a javelin in Saul’s hand.
11 And Saul cast the javelin; for he said, I will smite David even to the wall with it. And David avoided out of his presence twice.
12 ¶ And Saul was afraid of David, because the Lord was with him, and was departed from Saul.
13 Therefore Saul removed him from him, and made him his captain over a thousand; and he went out and came in before the people.
14 And David ∥ behaved himself wisely in all his ways; and the Lordwas with him.
15 Wherefore when Saul saw that he behaved himself very wisely, he was afraid of him.
16 But all Israel and Judah loved David, because he went out and came in before them.
17 ¶ And Saul said to David, Behold my elder daughter Merab, her will I give thee to wife: only be thou † valiant for me, and fight the Lord’s battles. For Saul said, Let not mine hand be upon him, but let the hand of the Philistines be upon him.
18 And David said unto Saul, Who am I? and what is my life, or my father’s family in Israel, that I should be son in law to the king?
19 But it came to pass at the time when Merab Saul’s daughter should have been given to David, that she was given unto Adriel the Meholathite to wife.
20 And Michal Saul’s daughter loved David: and they told Saul, and the thing † pleased him.
21 And Saul said, I will give him her, that she may be a snare to him, and that the hand of the Philistines may be against him. Wherefore Saul said to David, Thou shalt this day be my son in law in the one of the twain.
22 ¶ And Saul commanded his servants, saying, Commune with David secretly, and say, Behold, the king hath delight in thee, and all his servants love thee: now therefore be the king’s son in law.
23 And Saul’s servants spake those words in the ears of David. And David said, Seemeth it to you a light thing to be a king’s son in law, seeing that I am a poor man, and lightly esteemed?
24 And the servants of Saul told him, saying, † On this manner spake David.
25 And Saul said, Thus shall ye say to David, The king desireth not any dowry, but an hundred foreskins of the Philistines, to be avenged of the king’s enemies. But Saul thought to make David fall by the hand of the Philistines.
26 And when his servants told David these words, it pleased David well to be the king’s son in law: and the days were not † expired.
27 Wherefore David arose ‡ and went, he and his men, and slew of the Philistines two hundred men; and David brought their foreskins, and they gave them in full tale to the king, that he might be the king’s son in law. And Saul gave him Michal his daughter to wife.
28 ¶ And Saul saw and knew that the Lordwas with David, and that Michal Saul’s daughter loved him.
29 And Saul was yet the more afraid of David; and Saul became David’s enemy continually.
30 Then the princes of the Philistines went forth: and it came to pass, after they went forth, that David behaved himself more wisely than all the servants of Saul; so that his name was much † set by.
19
1 And Saul spake to Jonathan his son, and to all his servants, that they should kill David.
2 But Jonathan Saul’s son delighted much in David: and Jonathan told David, saying, Saul my father seeketh to kill thee: now therefore, I pray thee, take heed to thyself until the morning, and abide in a secret place, and hide thyself:
3 And I will go out and stand beside my father in the field where thou art, and I will commune with my father of thee; and what I see, that I will tell thee.
4 ¶ And Jonathan spake good of David unto Saul his father, and said unto him, Let not the king sin against his servant, against David; because he hath not sinned against thee, and because his works have been to thee-ward very good:
5 For he did put his * life in his hand, and slew the Philistine, and the Lord wrought a great salvation for all Israel: thou sawest it, and didst rejoice: wherefore then wilt thou sin against innocent blood, to slay David without a cause?
6 And Saul hearkened unto the voice of Jonathan: and Saul sware, As the Lord liveth, he shall not be slain.
7 And Jonathan called David, and Jonathan shewed him all those things. And Jonathan brought David to Saul, and he was in his presence, as † in times past.
8 ¶ And there was war again: and David went out, and fought with the Philistines, and slew them with a great slaughter; and they fled from † him.
9 And the evil spirit from the Lord was upon Saul, as he sat in his house with his javelin in his hand: and David played with his hand.
10 And Saul sought to smite David even to the wall with the javelin; but he slipped away out of Saul’s presence, and he smote the javelin into the wall: and David fled, and escaped that night.
11 Saul also sent messengers unto David’s house, to watch him, and to slay him in the morning: and Michal David’s wife told him, saying, If thou save not thy life to night, to morrow thou shalt be slain.
12 ¶ So Michal let David down through a window: and he went, and fled, and escaped.
13 And Michal took an image, and laid it in the bed, and put a pillow of goats’ hair for his bolster, and covered it with a cloth.
14 And when Saul sent messengers to take David, she said, He is sick.
15 And Saul sent the messengers again to see David, saying, Bring him up to me in the bed, that I may slay him.
16 And when the messengers were come in, behold, there was an image in the bed, with a pillow of goats’ hair for his bolster.
17 And Saul said unto Michal, Why hast thou deceived me so, and sent away mine enemy, that he is escaped? And Michal answered Saul, He said unto me, Let me go; why should I kill thee?
18 ¶ So David fled, and escaped, and came to Samuel to Ramah, and told him all that Saul had done to him. And he and Samuel went and dwelt in Naioth.
19 And it was told Saul, saying, Behold, David is at Naioth in Ramah.
20 And Saul sent messengers to take David: and when they saw the company of the prophets prophesying, and Samuel standing as appointed over them, the Spirit of God was upon the messengers of Saul, and they also prophesied.
21 And when it was told Saul, he sent other messengers, and they prophesied likewise. And Saul sent messengers again the third time, and they prophesied also.
22 Then went he also to Ramah, and came to a great well that is in Sechu: and he asked and said, Where are Samuel and David? And one said, Behold, they be at Naioth in Ramah.
23 And he went thither to Naioth in Ramah: and the Spirit of God was upon him also, and he went on, and prophesied, until he came to Naioth in Ramah.
24 And he stripped off his clothes also, and prophesied before Samuel in like manner, and † lay down naked all that day and all that night. Wherefore they say, *Is Saul also among the prophets?
20
1 And David fled from Naioth in Ramah, and came and said before Jonathan, What have I done? what is mine iniquity? and what is my sin before thy father, that he seeketh my life?
2 And he said unto him, God forbid; thou shalt not die: behold, my father will do nothing either great or small, but that he will † shew it me: and why should my father hide this thing from me? it is not so.
3 And David sware moreover, and said, Thy father certainly knoweth that I have found grace in thine eyes; and he saith, Let not Jonathan know this, lest he be grieved: but truly as the Lord liveth, and as thy soul liveth, there is but a step between me and death.
4 Then said Jonathan unto David, ∥ Whatsoever thy soul † desireth, I will even do it for thee.
5 And David said unto Jonathan, Behold, to morrow is the new moon, and I should not fail to sit with the king at meat: but let me go, that I may hide myself in the ‡ field unto the third day at even.
6 If thy father at all miss me, then say, David earnestly asked leave of me that he might run to Beth-lehem his city: for there is a yearly sacrifice there for all the family.
7 If he say thus, It is well; thy servant shall have peace: but if he be very wroth, then be sure that evil is determined by him.
8 Therefore thou shalt deal kindly with thy servant; for * thou hast brought thy servant into a covenant of the Lord with thee: notwithstanding, if there be in me iniquity, slay me thyself; for why shouldest thou bring me to thy father?
9 And Jonathan said, Far be it from thee: for if I knew certainly that evil were determined by my father to come upon thee, then would not I tell it thee?
10 Then said David to Jonathan, Who shall tell me? or what if thy father answer thee roughly?
11 ¶ And Jonathan said unto David, Come, and let us go out into the field. And they went out both of them into the field.
12 And Jonathan said unto David, O Lord God of Israel, when I have † sounded my father about to morrow any time, or the third day, and, behold, if there be good toward David, and I then send not unto thee, and † shew it thee;
13 The Lord do so and much more to Jonathan: but if it please my father to do thee evil, then I will shew it thee, and send thee away, that thou mayest go in peace: and the Lord be with thee, as he hath been with my father.
14 And thou shalt not only while yet I live shew me the kindness of the Lord, that I die not:
15 But also thou shalt not cut off thy kindness from my house for ever: no, not when the Lord hath cut off the enemies of David every one from the face of the earth.
16 So Jonathan † made a covenant with the house of David, saying, Let the Lord even require it at the hand of David’s enemies.
17 And Jonathan caused David to swear again, ∥ because he loved him: for he loved him as he loved his own soul.
18 Then Jonathan said to David, To morrow is the new moon: and thou shalt be missed, because thy seat will be † empty.
19 And when thou hast stayed three days, then thou shalt go down ∥† quickly, and come to the place where thou didst hide thyself † when the business was in hand, and shalt remain by the stone ∥ Ezel.
20 And I will shoot three arrows on the side thereof, as though I shot at a mark.
21 And, behold, I will send a lad, saying, Go, find out the arrows. If I expressly say unto the lad, Behold, the arrows are on this side of thee, take them; then come thou; for there is peace to thee, and † no hurt; as the Lord liveth.
22 But if I say thus unto the young man, Behold, the arrows are beyond thee; go thy way: for the Lord hath sent thee away.
23 And as touching the matter which thou and I have spoken of, behold, the Lordbe between thee and me for ever.
24 ¶ So David hid himself in the field: and when the new moon was come, the king sat him down to eat meat.
25 And the king sat upon his seat, as at other times, even upon a seat by the wall: and Jonathan arose, and Abner sat by Saul’s side, and David’s place was empty.
26 Nevertheless Saul spake not any thing that day: for he thought, Something hath befallen him, he is not clean; surely he is not clean.
27 And it came to pass on the morrow, which was the second day of the month, that David’s place was empty: and Saul said unto Jonathan his son, Wherefore cometh not the son of Jesse to meat, neither yesterday, nor to day?
28 And Jonathan answered Saul, David earnestly asked leave of me to go to Beth-lehem:
29 And he said, Let me go, I pray thee; for our family hath a sacrifice in the city; and my brother, he hath commanded me to be there: and now, if I have found favour in thine eyes, let me get away, I pray thee, and see my brethren. Therefore he cometh not unto the king’s table.
30 Then Saul’s anger was kindled against Jonathan, and he said unto him, ∥† Thou son of the perverse rebellious woman, do not I know that thou hast chosen the son of Jesse to thine own confusion, and unto the confusion of thy mother’s nakedness?
31 For as long as the son of Jesse liveth upon the ground, thou shalt not be established, nor thy kingdom. Wherefore now send and fetch him unto me, for he † shall surely die.
32 And Jonathan answered Saul his father, and said unto him, Wherefore shall he be slain? what hath he done?
33 And Saul cast a javelin at him to smite him: whereby Jonathan knew that it was determined of his father to slay David.
34 So Jonathan arose from the table in fierce anger, and did eat no meat the second day of the month: for he was grieved for David, because his father had done him shame.
35 ¶ And it came to pass in the morning, that Jonathan went out into the field at the time appointed with David, and a little lad with him.
36 And he said unto his lad, Run, find out now the arrows which I shoot. And as the lad ran, he shot an arrow † beyond him.
37 And when the lad was come to the place of the arrow which Jonathan had shot, Jonathan cried after the lad, and said, Is not the arrow beyond thee?
38 And Jonathan cried after the lad, Make speed, haste, stay not. And Jonathan’s lad gathered up the arrows, and came to his master.
39 But the lad knew not any thing: only Jonathan and David knew the matter.
40 And Jonathan gave his † artillery unto † his lad, and said unto him, Go, carry them to the city.
41 ¶ And as soon as the lad was gone, David arose out of a place toward the south, and fell on his face to the ground, and bowed himself three times: and they kissed one another, and wept one with another, until David exceeded.
42 And Jonathan said to David, Go in peace, ∥ forasmuch as we have sworn both of us in the name of the Lord, saying, The Lord be between me and thee, and between my seed and thy seed for ever. And he arose and departed: and Jonathan went into the city.
21
1 Then came David to Nob to Ahimelech the priest: and Ahimelech was afraid at the meeting of David, and said unto him, Why art thou alone, and no man with thee?
2 And David said unto Ahimelech the priest, The king hath commanded me a business, and hath said unto me, Let no man know any thing of the business whereabout I send thee, and what I have commanded thee: and I have appointed my servants to such and such a place.
3 Now therefore what is under thine hand? give me five loaves of bread in mine hand, or what there is † present.
4 And the priest answered David, and said, There is no common bread under mine hand, but there is * hallowed bread; if the young men have kept themselves at least from women.
5 And David answered the priest, and said unto him, Of a truth women have been kept from us about these three days, since I came out, and the vessels of the young men are holy, and the bread is in a manner common, ∥ yea, though it were sanctified this day in the vessel.
6 So the priest gave him hallowed bread: for there was no bread there but the shewbread, that was taken from before the Lord, to put hot bread in the day when it was taken away.
7 Now a certain man of the servants of Saul was there that day, detained before the Lord; and his name was Doeg, an Edomite, the chiefest of the herdmen that belonged to Saul.
8 ¶ And David said unto Ahimelech, And is there not here under thine hand spear or sword? for I have neither brought my sword nor my weapons with me, because the king’s business required haste.
9 And the priest said, The sword of Goliath the Philistine, whom thou slewest in * the valley of Elah, behold, it is here wrapped in a cloth behind the ephod: if thou wilt take that, take it: for there is no other save that here. And David said, There is none like that; give it me.
10 ¶ And David arose, and fled that day for fear of Saul, and went to Achish the king of Gath.
11 And the servants of Achish said unto him, Is not this David the king of the land? did they not sing one to another of him in dances, saying, * Saul hath slain his thousands, and David his ten thousands?
12 And David laid up these words in his heart, and was sore afraid of Achish the king of Gath.
13 And he changed his behaviour before them, and feigned himself mad in their hands, and ∥ scrabbled on the doors of the gate, and let his spittle fall down upon his beard.
14 Then said Achish unto his servants, Lo, ye see the man ∥ is mad: wherefore then have ye brought him to me?
15 Have I need of mad men, that ye have brought this fellow to play the mad man in my presence? shall this fellow come into my house?
22
1 David therefore departed thence, and escaped to the cave Adullam: and when his brethren and all his father’s house heard it, they went down thither to him.
2 And every one that was in distress, and every one that †was in debt, and every one that was† discontented, gathered themselves unto him; and he became a captain over them: and there were with him about four hundred men.
3 ¶ And David went thence to Mizpeh of Moab: and he said unto the king of Moab, Let my father and my mother, I pray thee, come forth, and be with you, till I know what God will do for me.
4 And he brought them before the king of Moab: and they dwelt with him all the while that David was in the hold.
5 ¶ And the prophet Gad said unto David, abide not in the hold; depart, and get thee into the land of Judah. Then David departed, and came into the forest of Hareth.
6 ¶ When Saul heard that David was discovered, and the men that were with him, (now Saul abode in Gibeah under a ∥ tree in Ramah, having his spear in his hand, and all his servants were standing about him;)
7 Then Saul said unto his servants that stood about him, Hear now, ye Benjamites; will the son of Jesse give every one of you fields and vineyards, and make you all captains of thousands, and captains of hundreds;
8 That all of you have conspired against me, and there is none that † sheweth me that my son hath made a league with the son of Jesse, and there is none of you that is sorry for me, or sheweth unto me that my son hath stirred up my servant against me, to lie in wait, as at this day?
9 ¶ Then answered Doeg the Edomite, which was set over the servants of Saul, and said, I saw the son of Jesse coming to Nob, to Ahimelech the son of Ahitub.
10 And he enquired of the Lord for him, and gave him victuals, and gave him the sword of Goliath the Philistine.
11 Then the king sent to call Ahimelech the priest, the son of Ahitub, and all his father’s house, the priests that were in Nob: and they came all of them to the king.
12 And Saul said, Hear now, thou son of Ahitub. And he answered, † Here I am, my lord.
13 And Saul said unto him, Why have ye conspired against me, thou and the son of Jesse, in that thou hast given him bread, and a sword, and hast enquired of God for him, that he should rise against me, to lie in wait, as at this day?
14 Then Ahimelech answered the king, and said, And who is so faithful among all thy servants as David, which is the king’s son in law, and goeth at thy bidding, and is honourable in thine house?
15 Did I then begin to enquire of God for him? be it far from me: let not the king impute any thing unto his servant, nor to all the house of my father: for thy servant knew nothing of all this, † less or more.
16 And the king said, Thou shalt surely die, Ahimelech, thou, and all thy father’s house.
17 ¶ And the king said unto the ∥† footmen that stood about him, Turn, and slay the priests of the Lord; because their hand also is with David, and because they knew when he fled, and did not shew it to me. But the servants of the king would not put forth their hand to fall upon the priests of the Lord.
18 And the king said to Doeg, Turn thou, and fall upon the priests. And Doeg the Edomite turned, and he fell upon the priests, and slew on that day fourscore and five persons that did wear a linen ephod.
19 And Nob, the city of the priests, smote he with the edge of the sword, both men and women, children and sucklings, and oxen, and asses, and sheep, with the edge of the sword.
20 ¶ And one of the sons of Ahimelech the son of Ahitub, named Abiathar, escaped, and fled after David.
21 And Abiathar shewed David that Saul had slain the Lord’s priests.
22 And David said unto Abiathar, I knew it that day, when Doeg the Edomite was there, that he would surely tell Saul: I have occasioned the death of all the persons of thy father’s house.
23 Abide thou with me, fear not: for he that seeketh my life seeketh thy life: but with me thou shalt be in safeguard.
23
1 Then they told David, saying, Behold, the Philistines fight against Keilah, and they rob the threshingfloors.
2 Therefore David enquired of the Lord, saying, Shall I go and smite these Philistines? And the Lord said unto David, Go, and smite the Philistines, and save Keilah.
3 And David’s men said unto him, Behold, we be afraid here in Judah: how much more then if we come to Keilah against the armies of the Philistines?
4 Then David enquired of the Lord yet again. And the Lord answered him and said, Arise, go down to Keilah; for I will deliver the Philistines into thine hand.
5 So David and his men went to Keilah, and fought with the Philistines, and brought away their cattle, and smote them with a great slaughter. So David saved the inhabitants of Keilah.
6 And it came to pass, when Abiathar the son of Ahimelech * fled to David to Keilah, that he came down with an ephod in his hand.
7 ¶ And it was told Saul that David was come to Keilah. And Saul said, God hath delivered him into mine hand; for he is shut in, by entering into a town that hath gates and bars.
8 And Saul called all the people together to war, to go down to Keilah, to besiege David and his men.
9 ¶ And David knew that Saul secretly practised mischief against him; and he said to Abiathar the priest, Bring hither the ephod.
10 Then said David, O Lord God of Israel, thy servant hath certainly heard that Saul seeketh to come to Keilah, to destroy the city for my sake.
11 Will the men of Keilah deliver me up into his hand? will Saul come down, as thy servant hath heard? O Lord God of Israel, I beseech thee, tell thy servant. And the Lord said, He will come down.
12 Then said David, Will the men of Keilah † deliver me and my men into the hand of Saul? And the Lord said, They will deliver thee up.
13 ¶ Then David and his men, which were about six hundred, arose and departed out of Keilah, and went whithersoever they could go. And it was told Saul that David was escaped from Keilah; and he forbare to go forth.
14 And David abode in the wilderness in strong holds, and remained in a mountain in the wilderness of Ziph. And Saul sought him every day, but God delivered him not into his hand.
15 And David saw that Saul was come out to seek his life: and David was in the wilderness of Ziph in a wood.
16 ¶ And Jonathan Saul’s son arose, and went to David into the wood, and strengthened his hand in God.
17 And he said unto him, Fear not: for the hand of Saul my father shall not find thee; and thou shalt be king over Israel, and I shall be next unto thee; and that also Saul my father knoweth.
18 And they two made a covenant before the Lord: and David abode in the wood, and Jonathan went to his house.
19 ¶ Then came up the Ziphites to Saul to Gibeah, saying, Doth not David hide himself with us in strong holds in the wood, in the hill of Hachilah, which is† on the south of ∥ Jeshimon?
20 Now therefore, O king, come down according to all the desire of thy soul to come down; and our part shall be to deliver him into the king’s hand.
21 And Saul said, Blessed be ye of the Lord; for ye have compassion on me.
22 Go, I pray you, prepare yet, and know and see his place where his † haunt is, and who hath seen him there: for it is told me that he dealeth very subtilly.
23 See therefore, and take knowledge of all the lurking places where he hideth himself, and come ye again to me with the certainty, and I will go with you: and it shall come to pass, if he be in the land, that I will search him out throughout all the thousands of Judah.
24 And they arose, and went to Ziph before Saul: but David and his men were in the wilderness of Maon, in the plain on the south of Jeshimon.
25 Saul also and his men went to seek him. And they told David: wherefore he came down into a rock, and abode in the wilderness of Maon. And when Saul heard that, he pursued after David in the wilderness of Maon.
26 And Saul went on this side of the mountain, and David and his men on that side of the mountain: and David made haste to get away for fear of Saul; for Saul and his men compassed David and his men round about to take them.
27 ¶ But there came a messenger unto Saul, saying, Haste thee, and come; for the Philistines have † invaded the land.
28 Wherefore Saul returned from pursuing after David, and went against the Philistines: therefore they called that place ∥ Sela-hammahlekoth.
29 ¶ And David went up from thence, and dwelt in strong holds at En-gedi.
24
1 And it came to pass, when Saul was returned from † following the Philistines, that it was told him, saying, Behold, David is in the wilderness of En-gedi.
2 Then Saul took three thousand chosen men out of all Israel, and went to seek David and his men upon the rocks of the wild goats.
3 And he came to the sheepcotes by the way, where was a cave; and Saul went in to cover his feet: and David and his men remained in the sides of the cave.
4 And the men of David said unto him, Behold the day of which the Lord said unto thee, Behold, I will deliver thine enemy into thine hand, that thou mayest do to him as it shall seem good unto thee. Then David arose, and cut off the skirt of † Saul’s robe privily.
5 And it came to pass afterward, that David’s heart smote him, because he had cut off Saul’s skirt.
6 And he said unto his men, The Lord forbid that I should do this thing unto my master, the Lord’s anointed, to stretch forth mine hand against him, seeing he is the anointed of the Lord.
7 So David † stayed his servants with these words, and suffered them not to rise against Saul. But Saul rose up out of the cave, and went on his way.
8 David also arose afterward, and went out of the cave, and cried after Saul, saying, My lord the king. And when Saul looked behind him, David stooped with his face to the earth, and bowed himself.
9 ¶ And David said to Saul, Wherefore hearest thou men’s words, saying, Behold, David seeketh thy hurt?
10 Behold, this day thine eyes have seen how that the Lord had delivered thee to day into mine hand in the cave: and some bade me kill thee: but mine eye spared thee; and I said, I will not put forth mine hand against my lord; for he is the Lord’s anointed.
11 Moreover, my father, see, yea, see the skirt of thy robe in my hand: for in that I cut off the skirt of thy robe, and killed thee not, know thou and see that there is neither evil nor transgression in mine hand, and I have not sinned against thee; yet thou huntest my soul to take it.
12 The Lord judge between me and thee, and the Lord avenge me of thee: but mine hand shall not be upon thee.
13 As saith the proverb of the ancients, Wickedness proceedeth from the wicked: but mine hand shall not be upon thee.
14 After whom is the king of Israel come out? after whom dost thou pursue? after a dead dog, after a flea.
15 The Lord therefore be judge, and judge between me and thee, and see, and plead my cause, and † deliver me out of thine hand.
16 ¶ And it came to pass, when David had made an end of speaking these words unto Saul, that Saul said, Is this thy voice, my son David? And Saul lifted up his voice, and wept.
17 And he said to David, Thou art more righteous than I: for thou hast rewarded me good, whereas I have rewarded thee evil.
18 And thou hast shewed this day how that thou hast dealt well with me: forasmuch as when the Lord had † delivered me into thine hand, thou killedst me not.
19 For if a man find his enemy, will he let him go well away? wherefore the Lord reward thee good for that thou hast done unto me this day.
20 And now, behold, I know well that thou shalt surely be king, and that the kingdom of Israel shall be established in thine hand.
21 Swear now therefore unto me by the Lord, that thou wilt not cut off my seed after me, and that thou wilt not destroy my name out of my father’s house.
22 And David sware unto Saul. And Saul went home; but David and his men gat them up unto the hold.
25
1 And * Samuel died; and all the Israelites were gathered together, and lamented him, and buried him in his house at Ramah. And David arose, and went down to the wilderness of Paran.
2 And there was a man in Maon, whose ∥ possessions were in Carmel; and the man was very great, and he had three thousand sheep, and a thousand goats: and he was shearing his sheep in Carmel.
3 Now the name of the man was Nabal; and the name of his wife Abigail: and she was a woman of good understanding, and of a beautiful countenance: but the man was churlish and evil in his doings; and he was of the house of Caleb.
4 ¶ And David heard in the wilderness that Nabal did shear his sheep.
5 And David sent out ten young men, and David said unto the young men, Get you up to Carmel, and go to Nabal, and † greet him in my name:
6 And thus shall ye say to him that liveth in prosperity, Peace be both to thee, and peace be to thine house, and peace be unto all that thou hast.
7 And now I have heard that thou hast shearers: now thy shepherds which were with us, we † hurt them not, neither was there ought missing unto them, all the while they were in Carmel.
8 Ask thy young men, and they will shew thee. Wherefore let the young men find favour in thine eyes: for we come in a good day: give, I pray thee, whatsoever cometh to thine hand unto thy servants, and to thy son David.
9 And when David’s young men came, they spake to Nabal according to all those words in the name of David, and † ceased.
10 ¶ And Nabal answered David’s servants, and said, Who is David? and who is the son of Jesse? there be many servants now a days that break away every man from his master.
11 Shall I then take my bread, and my water, and my † flesh that I have killed for my shearers, and give it unto men, whom I know not whence they be?
12 So David’s young men turned their way, and went again, and came and told him all those sayings.
13 And David said unto his men, Gird ye on every man his sword. And they girded on every man his sword; and David also girded on his sword: and there went up after David about four hundred men; and two hundred abode by the stuff.
14 ¶ But one of the young men told Abigail, Nabal’s wife, saying, Behold, David sent messengers out of the wilderness to salute our master; and he † railed on them.
15 But the men were very good unto us, and we were not † hurt, neither missed we any thing, as long as we were conversant with them, when we were in the fields:
16 They were a wall unto us both by night and day, all the while we were with them keeping ‡ the sheep.
17 Now therefore know and consider what thou wilt do; for evil is determined against our master, and against all his household: for he is such a son of Belial, that a man cannot speak to him.
18 ¶ Then Abigail made haste, and took two hundred loaves, and two bottles of wine, and five sheep ready dressed, and five measures of parched corn, and an hundred ∥ clusters of raisins, and two hundred cakes of figs, and laid them on asses.
19 And she said unto her servants, Go on before me; behold, I come after you. But she told not her husband Nabal.
20 And it was so, as she rode on the ass, that she came down by the covert of the hill, and, behold, David and his men came down against her; and she met them.
21 Now David had said, Surely in vain have I kept all that this fellow hath in the wilderness, so that nothing was missed of all that pertained unto him: and he hath requited me evil for good.
22 So and more also do God unto the enemies of David, if I leave of all that pertain to him by the morning light any that pisseth against the wall.
23 And when Abigail saw David, she hasted, and lighted off the ass, and fell before David on her face, and bowed herself to the ground,
24 And fell at his feet, and said, Upon me, my lord, upon me let this iniquity be: and let thine handmaid, I pray thee, speak in thine † audience, and hear the words of thine handmaid.
25 Let not my lord, I pray thee, † regard this man of Belial, even Nabal: for as his name is, so is he; Nabal is his name, and folly is with him: but I thine handmaid saw not the young men of my lord, whom thou didst send.
26 Now therefore, my lord, as the Lord liveth, and as thy soul liveth, seeing the Lord hath withholden thee from coming to shed blood, and from † avenging thyself with thine own hand, now let thine enemies, and they that seek evil to my lord, be as Nabal.
27 And now this ∥ blessing which thine handmaid hath brought unto my lord, let it even be given unto the young men that † follow my lord.
28 I pray thee, forgive the trespass of thine handmaid: for the Lord will certainly make my lord a sure house; because my lord fighteth the battles of the Lord, and evil hath not been found in thee all thy days.
29 Yet a man is risen to pursue thee, and to seek thy soul: but the soul of my lord shall be bound in the bundle of life with the Lord thy God; and the souls of thine enemies, them shall he sling out, †as out of the middle of a sling.
30 And it shall come to pass, when the Lord shall have done to my lord according to all the good that he hath spoken concerning thee, and shall have appointed thee ruler over Israel;
31 That this shall be † no grief unto thee, nor offence of heart unto my lord, either that thou hast shed blood causeless, or that my lord hath avenged himself: but when the Lord shall have dealt well with my lord, then remember thine handmaid.
32 ¶ And David said to Abigail, Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, which sent thee this day to meet me:
33 And blessed be thy advice, and blessed be thou, which hast kept me this day from coming to shed blood, and from avenging myself with mine own hand.
34 For in very deed, as the Lord God of Israel liveth, which hath kept me back from hurting thee, except thou hadst hasted and come to meet me, surely there had not been left unto Nabal by the morning light any that pisseth against the wall.
35 So David received of her hand that which she had brought him, and said unto her, Go up in peace to thine house; see, I have hearkened to thy voice, and have accepted thy person.
36 ¶ And Abigail came to Nabal; and, behold, he held a feast in his house, like the feast of a king; and Nabal’s heart was merry within him, for he was very drunken: wherefore she told him nothing, less or more, until the morning light.
37 But it came to pass in the morning, when the wine was gone out of Nabal, and his wife had told him these things, that his heart died within him, and he became as a stone.
38 And it came to pass about ten days after, that the Lord smote Nabal, that he died.
39 ¶ And when David heard that Nabal was dead, he said, Blessed be the Lord, that hath pleaded the cause of my reproach from the hand of Nabal, and hath kept his servant from evil: for the Lord hath returned the wickedness of Nabal upon his own head. And David sent and communed with Abigail, to take her to him to wife.
40 And when the servants of David were come to Abigail to Carmel, they spake unto her, saying, David sent us unto thee, to take thee to him to wife.
41 And she arose, and bowed herself on her face to the earth, and said, Behold, let thine handmaid be a servant to wash the feet of the servants of my lord.
42 And Abigail hasted, and arose, and rode upon an ass, with five damsels of hers that went † after her; and she went after the messengers of David, and became his wife.
43 David also took Ahinoam * of Jezreel; and they were also both of them his wives.
44 ¶ But Saul had given * Michal his daughter, David’s wife, to Phalti the son of Laish, which was of Gallim.
26
1 And the Ziphites came unto Saul to Gibeah, saying, * Doth not David hide himself in the hill of Hachilah, which is before Jeshimon?
2 Then Saul arose, and went down to the wilderness of Ziph, having three thousand chosen men of Israel with him, to seek David in the wilderness of Ziph.
3 And Saul pitched in the hill of Hachilah, which is before Jeshimon, by the way. But David abode in the wilderness, and he saw that Saul came after him into the wilderness.
4 David therefore sent out spies, and understood that Saul was come in very deed.
5 ¶ And David arose, and came to the place where Saul had pitched: and David beheld the place where Saul lay, and * Abner the son of Ner, the captain of his host: and Saul lay in the ∥ trench, and the people pitched round about him.
6 Then answered David and said to Ahimelech the Hittite, and to Abishai the son of Zeruiah, brother to Joab, saying, Who will go down with me to Saul to the camp? And Abishai said, I will go down with thee.
7 So David and Abishai came to the people by night: and, behold, Saul lay sleeping within the trench, and his spear stuck in the ground at his bolster: but Abner and the people lay round about him.
8 Then said Abishai to David, God hath † delivered thine enemy into thine hand this day: now therefore let me smite him, I pray thee, with the spear even to the earth at once, and I will not smite him the second time.
9 And David said to Abishai, Destroy him not: for who can stretch forth his hand against the Lord’s anointed, and be guiltless?
10 David said furthermore, As the Lord liveth, the Lord shall smite him; or his day shall come to die; or he shall descend into battle, and perish.
11 The Lord forbid that I should stretch forth mine hand against the Lord’s anointed: but, I pray thee, take thou now the spear that is at his bolster, and the cruse of water, and let us go.
12 So David took the spear and the cruse of water from Saul’s bolster; and they gat them away, and no man saw it, nor knew it, neither awaked: for they were all asleep; because a deep sleep from the Lord was fallen upon them.
13 ¶ Then David went over to the other side, and stood on the top of an hill afar off; a great space being between them:
14 And David cried to the people, and to Abner the son of Ner, saying, Answerest thou not, Abner? Then Abner answered and said, Who art thou that criest to the king?
15 And David said to Abner, Art not thou a valiant man? and who is like to thee in Israel? wherefore then hast thou not kept thy lord the king? for there came one of the people in to destroy the king thy lord.
16 This thing is not good that thou hast done. As the Lord liveth, ye are† worthy to die, because ye have not kept your master, the Lord’s anointed. And now see where the king’s spear is, and the cruse of water that was at his bolster.
17 And Saul knew David’s voice, and said, Is this thy voice, my son David? And David said, It is my voice, my lord, O king.
18 And he said, Wherefore doth my lord thus pursue after his servant? for what have I done? or what evil is in mine hand?
19 Now therefore, I pray thee, let my lord the king hear the words of his servant. If the Lord have stirred thee up against me, let him † accept an offering: but if they be the children of men, cursed be they before the Lord; for they have driven me out this day from † abiding in the inheritance of the Lord, saying, Go, serve other gods.
20 Now therefore, let not my blood fall to the earth before the face of the Lord: for the king of Israel is come out to seek a flea, as when one doth hunt a partridge in the mountains.
21 ¶ Then said Saul, I have sinned: return, my son David: for I will no more do thee harm, because my soul was precious in thine eyes this day: behold, I have played the fool, and have erred exceedingly.
22 And David answered and said, Behold the king’s spear! and let one of the young men come over and fetch it.
23 The Lord render to every man his righteousness and his faithfulness: for the Lord delivered thee into my hand to day, but I would not stretch forth mine hand against the Lord’s anointed.
24 And, behold, as thy life was much set by this day in mine eyes, so let my life be much set by in the eyes of the Lord, and let him deliver me out of all tribulation.
25 Then Saul said to David, Blessed be thou, my son David: thou shalt both do great things, and also shalt still prevail. So David went on his way, and Saul returned to his place.
27
1 And David said in his heart, I shall now † perish one day by the hand of Saul: there is nothing better for me than that I should speedily escape into the land of the Philistines; and Saul shall despair of me, to seek me any more in any coast of Israel: so shall I escape out of his hand.
2 And David arose, and he passed over with the six hundred men that were with him unto Achish, the son of Maoch, king of Gath.
3 And David dwelt with Achish at Gath, he and his men, every man with his household, even David with his two wives, Ahinoam the Jezreelitess, and Abigail the Carmelitess, Nabal’s wife.
4 And it was told Saul that David was fled to Gath: and he sought no more again for him.
5 ¶ And David said unto Achish, If I have now found grace in thine eyes, let them give me a place in some town in the country, that I may dwell there: for why should thy servant dwell in the royal city with thee?
6 Then Achish gave him Ziklag that day: wherefore Ziklag pertaineth unto the kings of Judah unto this day.
7 And † the time that David dwelt in the country of the Philistines was † a full year and four months.
8 ¶ And David and his men went up, and invaded the Geshurites, and the ∥ Gezrites, and the Amalekites: for those nations were of old the inhabitants of the land, as thou goest to Shur, even unto the land of Egypt.
9 And David smote the land, and left neither man nor woman alive, and took away the sheep, and the oxen, and the asses, and the camels, and the apparel, and returned, and came to Achish.
10 And Achish said, ∥ Whither have ye made a road to day? And David said, Against the south of Judah, and against the south of the Jerahmeelites, and against the south of the Kenites.
11 And David saved neither man nor woman alive, to bring tidings to Gath, saying, Lest they should tell on us, saying, So did David, and so will be his manner all the while he dwelleth in the country of the Philistines.
12 And Achish believed David, saying, He hath made his people Israel † utterly to abhor him; therefore he shall be my servant for ever.
28
1 And it came to pass in those days, that the Philistines gathered their armies together for warfare, to fight with Israel. And Achish said unto David, Know thou assuredly, that thou shalt go out with me to battle, thou and thy men.
2 And David said to Achish, Surely thou shalt know what thy servant can do. And Achish said to David, Therefore will I make thee keeper of mine head for ever.
3 ¶ Now * Samuel was dead, and all Israel had lamented him, and buried him in Ramah, even in his own city. And Saul had put away those that had familiar spirits, and the wizards, out of the land.
4 And the Philistines gathered themselves together, and came and pitched in Shunem: and Saul gathered all Israel together, and they pitched in Gilboa.
5 And when Saul saw the host of the Philistines, he was afraid, and his heart greatly trembled.
6 And when Saul enquired of the Lord, the Lord answered him not, neither by dreams, nor by Urim, nor by prophets.
7 ¶ Then said Saul unto his servants, Seek me a woman that hath a familiar spirit, that I may go to her, and enquire of her. And his ‡ servants said to him, Behold, there is a woman that hath a familiar spirit at En-dor.
8 And Saul disguised himself, and put on other raiment, and he went, and two men with him, and they came to the woman by night: and he said, I pray thee, divine unto me by the familiar spirit, and bring me him up, whom I shall name unto thee.
9 And the woman said unto him, Behold, thou knowest what Saul hath done, how he hath cut off those that have familiar spirits, and the wizards, out of the land: wherefore then layest thou a snare for my life, to cause me to die?
10 And Saul sware to her by the Lord, saying, As the Lord liveth, there shall no punishment happen to thee for this thing.
11 Then said the woman, Whom shall I bring up unto thee? And he said, Bring me up Samuel.
12 And when the woman saw Samuel, she cried with a loud voice: and the woman spake to Saul, saying, Why hast thou deceived me? for thou art Saul.
13 And the king said unto her, Be not afraid: for what sawest thou? And the woman said unto Saul, I saw gods ascending out of the earth.
14 And he said unto her, † What form is he of? And she said, An old man cometh up; and he is covered with a mantle. And Saul perceived that it was Samuel, and he stooped with his face to the ground, and bowed himself.
15 ¶ And Samuel said to Saul, Why hast thou disquieted me, to bring me up? And Saul answered, I am sore distressed; for the Philistines make war against me, and God is departed from me, and answereth me no more, neither † by prophets, nor by dreams: therefore I have called thee, that thou mayest make known unto me what I shall do.
16 Then said Samuel, Wherefore then dost thou ask of me, seeing the Lord is departed from thee, and is become thine enemy?
17 And the Lord hath done ∥ to him, * as he spake by † me: for the Lord hath rent the kingdom out of thine hand, and given it to thy neighbour, even to David:
18 Because thou obeyedst not the voice of the Lord, nor executedst his fierce wrath upon Amalek, therefore hath the Lord done this thing unto thee this day.
19 Moreover the Lord will also deliver Israel with thee into the hand of the Philistines: and to morrow shalt thou and thy sons be with me: the Lord also shall deliver the host of Israel into the hand of the Philistines.
20 Then Saul † fell straightway all along on the earth, and was sore afraid, because of the words of Samuel: and there was no strength in him; for he had eaten no bread all the day, nor all the night.
21 ¶ And the woman came unto Saul, and saw that he was sore troubled, and said unto him, Behold, thine handmaid hath obeyed thy voice, and I have put my life in my hand, and have hearkened unto thy words which thou spakest unto me
22 Now therefore, I pray thee, hearken thou also unto the voice of thine handmaid, and let me set a morsel of bread before thee; and eat, that thou mayest have strength, when thou goest on thy way.
23 But he refused, and said, I will not eat. But his servants, together with the woman, compelled him; and he hearkened unto their voice. So he arose from the earth, and sat upon the bed.
24 And the woman had a fat calf in the house; and she hasted, and killed it, and took flour, and kneaded it, and did bake unleavened bread thereof:
25 And she brought it before Saul, and before his servants; and they did eat. Then they rose up, and went away that night.
29
1 Now the Philistines gathered together all their armies to Aphek: and the Israelites pitched by a fountain which is in Jezreel.
2 And the lords of the Philistines passed on by hundreds, and by thousands: but David and his men passed on in the rereward with Achish.
3 Then said the princes of the Philistines, What do these Hebrews here? And Achish said unto the princes of the Philistines, Is not this David, the servant of Saul the king of Israel, which hath been with me these days, or these years, and I have found no fault in him since he fell unto me unto this day?
4 And the princes of the Philistines were wroth with him; and the princes of the Philistines said unto him, * Make this fellow return, that he may go again to his place which thou hast appointed him, and let him not go down with us to battle, lest in the battle he be an adversary to us: for wherewith should he reconcile himself unto his master? should it not be with the heads of these men?
5Is not this David, of whom they sang one to another in dances, saying, * Saul slew his thousands, and David his ten thousands?
6 ¶ Then Achish called David, and said unto him, Surely, as the Lord liveth, thou hast been upright, and thy going out and thy coming in with me in the host is good in my sight: for I have not found evil in thee since the day of thy coming unto me unto this day: nevertheless † the lords favour thee not.
7 Wherefore now return, and go in peace, that thou † displease not the lords of the Philistines.
8 ¶ And David said unto Achish, But what have I done? and what hast thou found in thy servant so long as I have been † with thee unto this day, that I may not go fight against the enemies of my lord the king?
9 And Achish answered and said to David, I know that thou art good in my sight, as an angel of God: notwithstanding the princes of the Philistines have said, He shall not go up with us to the battle.
10 Wherefore now rise up early in the morning with thy master’s servants that are come with thee: and as soon as ye be up early in the morning, and have light, depart.
11 So David and his men rose up early to depart in the morning, to return into the land of the Philistines. And the Philistines went up to Jezreel.
30
1 And it came to pass, when David and his men were come to Ziklag on the third day, that the Amalekites had invaded the south, and Ziklag, and smitten Ziklag, and burned it with fire;
2 And had taken the women captives, that were therein: they slew not any, either great or small, but carried them away, and went on their way.
3 ¶ So David and his men came to the city, and, behold, it was burned with fire; and their wives, and their sons, and their daughters, were taken captives.
4 Then David and the people that were with him lifted up their voice and wept, until they had no more power to weep.
5 And David’s two wives were taken captives, Ahmoam the Jezreelitess, and Abigail the wife of Nabal the Carmelite.
6 And David was greatly distressed; for the people spake of stoning him, because the soul of all the people was † grieved, every man for his sons and for his daughters: but David encouraged himself in the Lord his God.
7 And David said to Abiathar the priest, Ahimelech’s son, I pray thee, bring me hither the ephod. And Abiathar brought thither the ephod to David.
8 And David enquired at the Lord, saying, Shall I pursue after this troop? shall I overtake them? And he answered him, Pursue: for thou shalt surely overtake them, and without fail recover all.
9 So David went, he and the six hundred men that were with him, and came to the brook Besor, where those that were left behind stayed.
10 But David pursued, he and four hundred men: for two hundred abode behind, which were so faint that they could not go over the brook Besor.
11 ¶ And they found an Egyptian in the field, and brought him to David, and gave him bread, and he did eat; and they made him drink water;
12 And they gave him a piece of a cake of figs, and two clusters of raisins; and when he had eaten, his spirit came again to him: for he had eaten no bread, nor drunk any water, three days and three nights.
13 And David said unto him, To whom belongest thou? and whence art thou? And he said, I am a young man of Egypt, servant to an Amalekite; and my master left me, because three days agone I fell sick.
14 We made an invasion upon the south of the Cherethites, and upon the coast which belongeth to Judah, and upon the south of Caleb; and we burned Ziklag with fire.
15 And David said to him, Canst thou bring me down to this company? And he said, Swear unto me by God, that thou wilt neither kill me, nor deliver me into the hands of my master, and I will bring thee down to this company.
16 ¶ And when he had brought him down, behold, they were spread abroad upon all the earth, eating and drinking, and dancing, because of all the great spoil that they had taken out of the land of the Philistines, and out of the land of Judah.
17 And David smote them from the twilight even unto the evening of † the next day: and there escaped not a man of them, save four hundred young men, which rode upon camels, and fled.
18 And David recovered all that the Amalekites had carried away: and David rescued his two wives.
19 And there was nothing lacking to them, neither small nor great, neither sons nor daughters, neither spoil, nor any thing that they had taken to them: David recovered all.
20 And David took all the flocks and the herds, which they drave before those other cattle, and said, This is David’s spoil.
21 ¶ And David came to the two hundred men, which were so faint that they could not follow David, whom they had made also to abide at the brook Besor: and they went forth to meet David, and to meet the people that were with him: and when David came near to the people, he ∥ saluted them.
22 Then answered all the wicked men and men of Belial, of † those that went with David, and said, Because they went not with us, we will not give them ought of the spoil that we have recovered, save to every man his wife and his children, that they may lead them away, and depart.
23 Then said David, Ye shall not do so, my brethren, with that which the Lord hath given us, who hath preserved us, and delivered the company that came against us into our hand.
24 For who will hearken unto you in this matter? but as his part is that goeth down to the battle, so shall his part be that tarrieth by the stuff: they shall part alike.
25 And it was so from that day † forward, that he made it a statute and an ordinance for Israel unto this day.
26 ¶ And when David came to Ziklag, he sent of the spoil unto the elders of Judah, even to his friends, saying, Behold a † present for you of the spoil of the enemies of the Lord;
27 To them which were in Beth-el, and to them which were in south Ramoth, and to them which were in Jattir,
28 And to them which were in Aroer, and to them which were in Siphmoth, and to them which were in Eshtemoa,
29 And to them which were in Rachal, and to them which were in the cities of the Jerahmeelites, and to them which were in the cities of the Kenites,
30 And to them which were in Hormah, and to them which were in Chor-ashan, and to them which were in Athach,
31 And to them which were in Hebron, and to all the places where David himself and his men were wont to haunt.
31
1 Now * the Philistines fought against Israel: and the men of Israel fled from before the Philistines, and fell down ∥ slain in mount Gilboa.
2 And the Philistines followed hard upon Saul and upon his sons; and the Philistines slew Jonathan, and Abinadab, and Melchi-shua, Saul’s sons.
3 And the battle went sore against Saul, and the † archers † hit him; and he was sore wounded of the archers.
4 Then said Saul unto his armourbearer, Draw thy sword, and thrust me through therewith; lest these uncircumcised come and thrust me through, and ∥ abuse me. But his armourbearer would not; for he was sore afraid. Therefore Saul took a sword, and fell upon it.
5 And when his armourbearer saw that Saul was dead, he fell likewise upon his sword, and died with him.
6 So Saul died, and his three sons, and his armourbearer, and all his men, that same day together.
7 ¶ And when the men of Israel that were on the other side of the valley, and they that were on the other side Jordan, saw that the men of Israel fled, and that Saul and his sons were dead, they forsook the cities, and fled; and the Philistines came and dwelt in them.
8 And it came to pass on the morrow, when the Philistines came to strip the slain, that they found Saul and his three sons fallen in mount Gilboa.
9 And they cut off his head, and stripped off his armour, and sent into the land of the Philistines round about, to publish it in the house of their idols, and among the people.
10 And they put his armour in the house of Ashtaroth: and they fastened his body to the wall of Beth-shan.
11 ¶ And when the inhabitants of Jabesh-gilead heard ∥ of that which the Philistines had done to Saul;
12 All the valiant men arose, and went all night, and took the body of Saul and the bodies of his sons from the wall of Beth-shan, and came to Jabesh, and * burnt them there.
13 And they took their bones, and * buried them under a tree at Jabesh, and fasted seven days.
[* ]Deut. 16. 16.
[† ]Heb. from year to year.
[∥ ]Or, a double portion.
[† ]Heb. angered her.
[∥ ]Or, from the time that she, &c.
[† ]Heb. from her going up.
[† ]Heb. bitter of soul.
[† ]Heb. seed of men.
[* ]Num. 6. 5 Judg. 13. 5
[† ]Heb. multiplied to pray.
[† ]Heb. hard of spirit.
[∥ ]Or, meditation.
[† ]Heb. revolution of days.
[∥ ]That is, Asked of God.
[∥ ]Or, returned him, whom I have obtained by petition, to the Lord.
[∥ ]Or, he whom I have obtained by petition shall be returned.
[† ]Heb. hard.
[* ]Deut. 32. 39. Tob. 13. 2. Wisd. 16. 13.
[* ]Ps. 113. 7.
[* ]ch. 7. 10.
[† ]Heb. as on the day.
[* ]Ex. 28. 4.
[∥ ]Or, petition which she asked, &c.
[† ]Heb. assembled by troops
[∥ ]Or, I hear evil words of you.
[∥ ]Or, to cry out.
[* ]Lev. 10. 14.
[∥ ]Or, the affliction of the tabernacle, for all the wealth which God would have given Israel.
[† ]Heb. men.
[† ]Heb. Join.
[∥ ]Or, somewhat about the priesthood.
[∥ ]Or, Thus did Samuel, before he knew the Lord, and before the word of the Lord was revealed unto him.
[* ]2 Kings 21. 12.
[† ]Heb. beginning and ending.
[∥ ]Or, And I will tell him, &c.
[* ]ch. 2. 29, 30, 31, &c.
[∥ ]Or, accursed.
[† ]Heb. frowned not upon them.
[† ]Heb. so add.
[∥ ]Or, word.
[† ]Heb. all the things, or, words.
[∥ ]Or, faithful.
[∥ ]Or, came to pass.
[† ]Heb. was.
[† ]Heb. the battle was spread.
[† ]Heb. the array.
[† ]Heb. take unto us.
[† ]Heb. yesterday, or, the third day.
[* ]Judg. 18. 1.
[† ]Heb. be men.
[† ]Heb. died.
[* ]ch. 3. 2.
[† ]Heb. stood.
[† ]Heb. it the thing.
[∥ ]Or, to cry out.
[† ]Heb. were turned.
[† ]Heb. set not her heart.
[∥ ]That is, Where is the glory? or, There is no glory.
[∥ ]Or, the fishy part.
[* ]Ps. 78. 66.
[† ]Heb. them.
[∥ ]Or, reproachfully.
[* ]Ex. 12. 31.
[† ]Heb. them.
[‡ ][1611 the]
[∥ ]Or, it.
[∥ ]Or, great stone.
[* ]Josh 24. 15, 23.
[* ]Judg. 2. 13.
[* ]Deut. 6 4. Matt. 4. 10. Luke 4. 8.
[* ]Judg. 2 11.
[† ]Heb. Be not silent from us from crying.
[∥ ]Or, answered
[∥ ]That is, The stone of help.
[† ]Heb. and he circuited.
[* ]Deut. 16. 19.
[* ]Hos. 13. 10. Acts 13. 21.
[† ]Heb. was evil in the eyes of Samuel.
[∥ ]Or, obey.
[∥ ]Or, notwithstanding, when thou hast solemnly protested against them, then thou shalt shew, &c.
[† ]Heb. eunuchs.
[* ]ch. 14. 51. 1 Chr. 8. 83.
[∥ ]Or, the son of a man of Jemini.
[∥ ]Or. substance.
[† ]Heb. is gone out of, &c.
[† ]Heb. is with us?
[† ]Heb. there is found in my hand.
[† ]Heb. Thy word is good.
[† ]Heb. in the ascent of the city.
[∥ ]Or, feast.
[† ]Heb. to day.
[* ]ch. 15. 1. Acts 13. 21.
[† ]Heb. revealed the ear of Samuel.
[† ]Heb. restrain in.
[† ]Heb. to day three days.
[† ]Heb. according to this word?
[∥ ]Or, reserved.
[† ]Heb. to day.
[* ]Gen. 35. 20.
[† ]Heb. the business.
[† ]Heb. ash thee of peace.
[† ]Heb. it shall come to pass, that when these signs, &c.
[† ]Heb. do for thee as thine hand shall find.
[* ]ch. 13. 8.
[† ]Heb. shoulder.
[† ]Heb. turned.
[‡ ][1611 of the prophets]
[† ]Heb. a man to his neighbour.
[* ]ch. 19. 24.
[† ]Heb. from thence.
[‡ ][1611 the]
[† ]Heb. Let the king live.
[∥ ]Or, he was as though he had been deaf.
[† ]Heb Forbear us.
[† ]Heb. as one man.
[∥ ]Or, deliverance.
[* ]Ecclus. 46. 19.
[† ]Heb. ransom.
[∥ ]Or, that I should hide mine eyes at him.
[∥ ]Or, made.
[† ]Heb. righteousnesses, or, benefits.
[† ]Heb. with.
[* ]Gen. 46. 5, 6.
[* ]Ex. 4. 16.
[* ]Judg. 4. 2.
[* ]Judg. 11. 1.
[† ]Heb. mouth.
[† ]Heb. be after.
[† ]Heb. from ceasing.
[∥ ]Or, what a great thing, &c.
[† ]Heb. the son of one year in his reigning.
[∥ ]Or, The hill.
[† ]Heb. did stink.
[† ]Heb. trembled after him.
[* ]ch. 10. 8.
[† ]Heb. bless him.
[† ]Heb. intreated the face.
[† ]Heb. found.
[† ]Heb. a file with mouths.
[† ]Heb. to set.
[∥ ]Or, standing camp.
[∥ ]Or, there was a day.
[* ]ch. 4. 21.
[† ]Heb. tooth.
[* ]2 Chr. 14. 11.
[† ]Heb. Be still.
[* ]1 Mac. 4. 30.
[∥ ]Or, half a furrow of an acre of land.
[† ]Heb a trembling of God.
[∥ ]Or, tumult.
[† ]Heb. were cried together.
[* ]Judg. 7. 22. 2 Chr. 20. 23.
[∥ ]Or, weary.
[* ]Lev. 7. 26. & 19. 26. Deut. 12. 16.
[∥ ]Or, dealt treacherously.
[† ]Heb. in his hand.
[† ]Heb. that altar he began to build unto the Lord.
[* ]Judg. 20. 2.
[† ]Heb. corners.
[∥ ]Or, Shew the innocent.
[† ]Heb. went forth.
[∥ ]Or, wrought mightily.
[* ]ch 9. 16.
[* ]Ex. 17. 8. Num. 24. 20.
[∥ ]Or, fought.
[∥ ]Or, of the second sort.
[† ]Heb. they consume them.
[* ]Eccles. 5. 1. Hos 6. 6. Matt. 9. 13. & 12. 7.
[† ]Heb. divination.
[∥ ]Or, Eternity, or, victory.
[* ]Ex. 17. 11. Num. 14. 45.
[† ]Heb. in thine hand.
[† ]Heb. meeting.
[† ]Heb. eyes.
[* ]1 Chr. 28. 9. Ps. 7. 9. Jer. 11. 20. & 17. 10. & 20. 12.
[* ]2 Sam. 7. 8. Ps. 78. 70.
[† ]Heb. round.
[† ]Heb. fair of eyes.
[∥ ]Or, terrified.
[∥ ]Or, speech.
[∥ ]Or, The coast of Dammim.
[† ]Heb. ranged the battle.
[† ]Heb. clothed.
[∥ ]Or, gorget.
[* ]ch. 16. 1.
[† ]Heb. cheeses of milk.
[† ]Heb captain of a thousand.
[∥ ]Or, place of the carriage.
[∥ ]Or, battle array, or, place of fight.
[† ]Heb. the vessels from upon him.
[† ]Heb. asked his brethren of peace.
[† ]Heb. from his face.
[* ]Josh. 15. 16.
[† ]Heb. word.
[† ]Heb. took him.
[∥ ]Or, kid.
[† ]Heb. clothed David with his clothes.
[∥ ]Or, valley.
[† ]Heb. vessel.
[† ]Heb. shut thee up.
[* ]Ecclus. 47. 4. 1 Mac. 4. 30.
[‡ ][1611 omits had]
[∥ ]Or, prospered.
[∥ ]Or, Philistines.
[† ]Heb. three stringed instruments.
[* ]ch. 21. 11. & 29. 5. Ecclus. 47. 6.
[† ]Heb. was evil in his eyes.
[∥ ]Or, prospered.
[† ]Heb. a son of valour.
[† ]Heb. was right in his eyes.
[† ]Heb. According to these words.
[† ]Heb. fulfilled.
[‡ ][1611 omits and went]
[† ]Heb. precious.
[* ]Judg. 9. 17. & 12 3. ch 28 21. Ps. 119. 109.
[† ]Heb. yesterday third day.
[† ]Heb. his face.
[† ]Heb. fell
[* ]ch. 10. 11.
[† ]Heb. uncover mine ear.
[∥ ]Or, Say what is thy mind, and I will do, &c.
[† ]Heb speaketh, or, thinketh.
[‡ ][1611 fields]
[* ]ch. 18. 3 & 23. 18.
[† ]Heb. searched.
[† ]Heb. uncover thine ear
[† ]Heb. cut
[∥ ]Or, by his love towards him
[† ]Heb. missed.
[∥ ]Or, diligently.
[† ]Heb. greatly.
[† ]Heb. in the day of the business.
[∥ ]Or, that sheweth the way.
[† ]Heb. not any thing.
[∥ ]Or, Thou perverse rebel.
[† ]Heb. Son of perverse rebellion.
[† ]Heb. is the son of death.
[† ]Heb. to pass over him.
[† ]Heb. instruments.
[† ]Heb. that was his.
[∥ ]Or, the Lord be witness of that which, &c.
[† ]Heb. found.
[* ]Ex. 25. 30. Lev. 24. 5. Matt. 12. 4.
[∥ ]Or, especially when this day there is other sanctified in the vessel.
[* ]ch. 17. 2.
[* ]ch. 18 7. & 29. 5. Ecclus. 47. 6.
[∥ ]Or, made marks.
[∥ ]Or, playeth the mad man.
[† ]Heb. had a creditor.
[† ]Heb. bitter of soul.
[∥ ]Or, grove in a high place.
[† ]Heb. uncovereth mine ear.
[† ]Heb. Behold me.
[† ]Heb. little or great.
[∥ ]Or, guard.
[† ]Heb. runners.
[* ]ch 22. 20.
[† ]Heb. shut up.
[† ]Heb. on the right hand.
[∥ ]Or, the wilderness?
[† ]Heb. foot shall be.
[† ]Heb. spread themselves upon, &c.
[∥ ]That is, The rock of divisions.
[† ]Heb. after.
[† ]Heb the robe which was Saul’s.
[† ]Heb. cut off.
[† ]Heb. judge.
[† ]Heb. shut up.
[* ]ch. 28. 3. Ecclus. 46. 13, 20
[∥ ]Or, business.
[† ]Heb. ask him in my name of peace.
[† ]Heb. shamed.
[† ]Heb. rested.
[† ]Heb. slaughter.
[† ]Heb. flew upon them.
[† ]Heb. shamed.
[‡ ][1611 omits the]
[∥ ]Or, lumps.
[† ]Heb. ears.
[† ]Heb. lay it to his heart.
[† ]Heb saving thyself.
[∥ ]Or, present.
[† ]Heb. walk at the feet of, &c.
[† ]Heb. in the midst of the bought of a sling.
[† ]Heb. no staggering, or, stumbling.
[† ]Heb. at her feet.
[* ]Josh. 15. 56.
[* ]2 Sam. 3 14, 15.
[* ]ch 23. 19.
[* ]ch. 14 50. & 17. 55.
[∥ ]Or, midst of his carriages.
[† ]Heb. shut up.
[† ]Heb. the sons of death.
[† ]Heb smell.
[† ]Heb. cleaving.
[† ]Heb. be consumed.
[† ]Heb. the number of days.
[† ]Heb. a year of days
[∥ ]Or, Gerzites.
[∥ ]Or, Did you not make a road, &c.
[† ]Heb. to stink.
[* ]ch. 25. 1.
[‡ ][1611 servant]
[† ]Heb. What is his form?
[† ]Heb. by the hand of prophets.
[∥ ]Or, for himself.
[* ]ch. 15. 28.
[† ]Heb. mine hand.
[† ]Heb. made haste, and fell with the fulness of his stature.
[* ]1 Chr. 12. 19.
[* ]ch. 18. 7. & 21. 11.
[† ]Heb thou art not good in the eyes of the lords.
[† ]Heb. do not evil in the eyes of the lords.
[† ]Heb. before thee.
[† ]Heb. bitter.
[† ]Heb. their morrow.
[∥ ]Or, asked them how they did.
[† ]Heb. men.
[† ]Heb. and forward.
[† ]Heb. blessing.
[* ]1 Chr. 10. 1.
[∥ ]Or, wounded.
[† ]Heb. shooters, men with bows.
[† ]Heb. found him.
[∥ ]Or, mock me.
[∥ ]Or, concerning him.
[* ]Jer. 34. 5.
[* ]2 Sam. 2. 4.
9: Plato, Dialogues, vol. 2 - Meno, Euthyphro, Apology, Crito, Phaedo, Gorgias, Appendix I - Lesser, Hippias, Alcibiades I, Menexenus, Appendix II - Alcibiades II, Eryxias [1892]
Plato, The Dialogues of Plato translated into English with Analyses and Introductions by B. Jowett, M.A. in Five Volumes. 3rd edition revised and corrected (Oxford University Press, 1892).
Accessed from oll.libertyfund.org/title/766 on 2011-05-14
The text is in the public domain.
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Humphrey Milford Publisher to the University
MENO.
INTRODUCTION.
Meno.Analysis.
70This Dialogue begins abruptly with a question of Meno, who asks ‘whether virtue can be taught.’ Socrates replies that he 71does not as yet know what virtue is, and has never known any one who did. ‘Then he cannot have met Gorgias when he was at Athens.’ Yes, Socrates had met him, but he has a bad memory, and has forgotten what Gorgias said. Will Meno tell him his own notion, which is probably not very different from 72that of Gorgias? ‘O yes—nothing easier: there is the virtue of a man, of a woman, of an old man, and of a child; there is a virtue of every age and state of life, all of which may be easily described.’
73Socrates reminds Meno that this is only an enumeration of the virtues and not a definition of the notion which is common to them all. In a second attempt Meno defines virtue to be ‘the power of command.’ But to this, again, exceptions are taken. For there must be a virtue of those who obey, as well as of those who command; and the power of command must be justly or not unjustly exercised. Meno is very ready to admit that justice is virtue: ‘Would you say virtue or a virtue, for there are other 74virtues, such as courage, temperance, and the like; just as round is a figure, and black and white are colours, and yet there are other figures and other colours. Let Meno take the examples of figure and colour, and try to define them.’ Meno confesses his inability, and after a process of interrogation, in which Socrates 75explains to him the nature of a ‘simile in multis,’ Socrates himself defines figure as ‘the accompaniment of colour.’ But some one may object that he does not know the meaning of the word ‘colour;’ and if he is a candid friend, and not a mere disputant, Socrates is willing to furnish him with a simpler and more philosophical definition, into which no disputed word is allowed to intrude: ‘Figure is the limit of form.’ Meno imperiously 76insists that he must still have a definition of colour. Some raillery follows; and at length Socrates is induced to reply, ‘that colour is the effluence of form, sensible, and in due proportion to the sight.’ This definition is exactly suited to the taste of Meno, who welcomes the familiar language of Gorgias and Empedocles. Socrates is of opinion that the more abstract or dialectical definition of figure is far better.
Now that Meno has been made to understand the nature of a general definition, he answers in the spirit of a Greek gentleman, and in the words of a poet, ‘that virtue is to delight in 77things honourable, and to have the power of getting them.’ This is a nearer approximation than he has yet made to a complete definition, and, regarded as a piece of proverbial or popular morality, is not far from the truth. But the objection is urged, ‘that the honourable is the good,’ and as every one equally desires the good, the point of the definition is contained in the words, 78‘the power of getting them.’ ‘And they must be got justly or with justice.’ The definition will then stand thus: ‘Virtue is the power of getting good with justice.’ But justice is a part of 79virtue, and therefore virtue is the getting of good with a part of virtue. The definition repeats the word defined.
Meno complains that the conversation of Socrates has the effect 80of a torpedo’s shock upon him. When he talks with other persons he has plenty to say about virtue; in the presence of Socrates, his thoughts desert him. Socrates replies that he is only the cause of perplexity in others, because he is himself perplexed. He proposes to continue the enquiry. But how, asks Meno, can he enquire either into what he knows or into what he does not know? This is a sophistical puzzle, which, 81as Socrates remarks, saves a great deal of trouble to him who accepts it. But the puzzle has a real difficulty latent under it, to which Socrates will endeavour to find a reply. The difficulty is the origin of knowledge:—
He has heard from priests and priestesses, and from the poet Pindar, of an immortal soul which is born again and again in successive periods of existence, returning into this world when she has paid the penalty of ancient crime, and, having wandered over all places of the upper and under world, and seen and known all things at one time or other, is by association out of one thing capable of recovering all. For nature is of one kindred; and 82every soul has a seed or germ which may be developed into all knowledge. The existence of this latent knowledge is further proved by the interrogation of one of Meno’s slaves, who, in the skilful hands of Socrates, is made to acknowledge some elementary relations of geometrical figures. The theorem that 83the square of the diagonal is double the square of the side—that famous discovery of primitive mathematics, in honour of which the legendary Pythagoras is said to have sacrificed a hecatomb—is elicited from him. The first step in the process of teaching has made him conscious of his own ignorance. He has had the ‘torpedo’s shock’ given him, and is the better for the operation. 86But whence had the uneducated man this knowledge? He had never learnt geometry in this world; nor was it born with him; he must therefore have had it when he was not a man. And as he always either was or was not a man, he must have always had it. (Cp. Phaedo, 73 B.)
After Socrates has given this specimen of the true nature of teaching, the original question of the teachableness of virtue is renewed. Again he professes a desire to know ‘what virtue is’ 87first. But he is willing to argue the question, as mathematicians say, under an hypothesis. He will assume that if virtue is knowledge, 88then virtue can be taught. (This was the stage of the argument at which the Protagoras concluded.)
Socrates has no difficulty in showing that virtue is a good, and that goods, whether of body or mind, must be under the direction of knowledge. Upon the assumption just made, then, 89virtue is teachable. But where are the teachers? There are none to be found. This is extremely discouraging. Virtue is no sooner discovered to be teachable, than the discovery follows that it is not taught. Virtue, therefore, is and is not teachable.
90In this dilemma an appeal is made to Anytus, a respectable and well-to-do citizen of the old school, and a family friend of Meno, 91who happens to be present. He is asked ‘whether Meno shall 92go to the Sophists and be taught.’ The suggestion throws him into 93a rage. ‘To whom, then, shall Meno go?’ asks Socrates. To any Athenian gentleman—to the great Athenian statesmen of past times. Socrates replies here, as elsewhere (Laches, 179 C foll.; Prot. 319 foll.), that Themistocles, Pericles, and other great men, 94had sons to whom they would surely, if they could have done so, have imparted their own political wisdom; but no one ever heard that these sons of theirs were remarkable for anything except riding and wrestling and similar accomplishments. Anytus is angry at the imputation which is cast on his favourite statesmen, and on a class to which he supposes himself to belong (cp. 95 A); he breaks off with a significant hint. The mention of 95another opportunity of talking with him (99 E), and the suggestion that Meno may do the Athenian people a service by pacifying him (100), are evident allusions to the trial of Socrates.
Socrates returns to the consideration of the question ‘whether virtue is teachable,’ which was denied on the ground that there are no teachers of it: (for the Sophists are bad teachers, and the 96rest of the world do not profess to teach). But there is another point which we failed to observe, and in which Gorgias has never instructed Meno, nor Prodicus Socrates. This is the nature of right opinion. For virtue may be under the guidance of right 97opinion as well as of knowledge; and right opinion is for practical purposes as good as knowledge, but is incapable of being taught, and is also liable, like the images of Daedalus, to ‘walk off,’ 98because not bound by the tie of the cause. This is the sort of instinct which is possessed by statesmen, who are not wise or knowing persons, but only inspired or divine. The higher virtue, 99which is identical with knowledge, is an ideal only. If the statesman had this knowledge, and could teach what he knew, he would be like Tiresias in the world below,—‘he alone has wisdom, 100but the rest flit like shadows.’
Introduction.
This Dialogue is an attempt to answer the question, Can virtue be taught? No one would either ask or answer such a question in modern times. But in the age of Socrates it was only by an effort that the mind could rise to a general notion of virtue as distinct from the particular virtues of courage, liberality, and the like. And when a hazy conception of this ideal was attained, it was only by a further effort that the question of the teachableness of virtue could be resolved.
The answer which is given by Plato is paradoxical enough, and seems rather intended to stimulate than to satisfy enquiry. Virtue is knowledge, and therefore virtue can be taught. But virtue is not taught, and therefore in this higher and ideal sense there is no virtue and no knowledge. The teaching of the Sophists is confessedly inadequate, and Meno, who is their pupil, is ignorant of the very nature of general terms. He can only produce out of their armoury the sophism, ‘that you can neither enquire into what you know nor into what you do not know;’ to which Socrates replies by his theory of reminiscence.
To the doctrine that virtue is knowledge, Plato has been constantly tending in the previous Dialogues. But the new truth is no sooner found than it vanishes away. ‘If there is knowledge, there must be teachers; and where are the teachers?’ There is no knowledge in the higher sense of systematic, connected, reasoned knowledge, such as may one day be attained, and such as Plato himself seems to see in some far off vision of a single science. And there are no teachers in the higher sense of the word; that is to say, no real teachers who will arouse the spirit of enquiry in their pupils, and not merely instruct them in rhetoric or impart to them ready-made information for a fee of ‘one’ or of ‘fifty drachms.’ Plato is desirous of deepening the notion of education, and therefore he asserts the paradox that there are no educators. This paradox, though different in form, is not really different from the remark which is often made in modern times by those who would depreciate either the methods of education commonly employed, or the standard attained—that ‘there is no true education among us.’
There remains still a possibility which must not be overlooked. Even if there be no true knowledge, as is proved by ‘the wretched state of education,’ there may be right opinion, which is a sort of guessing or divination resting on no knowledge of causes, and incommunicable to others. This is the gift which our statesmen have, as is proved by the circumstance that they are unable to impart their knowledge to their sons. Those who are possessed of it cannot be said to be men of science or philosophers, but they are inspired and divine.
There may be some trace of irony in this curious passage, which forms the concluding portion of the Dialogue. But Plato certainly does not mean to intimate that the supernatural or divine is the true basis of human life. To him knowledge, if only attainable in this world, is of all things the most divine. Yet, like other philosophers, he is willing to admit that ‘probability is the guide. of life1 ;’ and he is at the same time desirous of contrasting the wisdom which governs the world with a higher wisdom. There are many instincts, judgments, and anticipations of the human mind which cannot be reduced to rule, and of which the grounds cannot always be given in words. A person may have some skill or latent experience which he is able to use himself and is yet unable to teach others, because he has no principles, and is incapable of collecting or arranging his ideas. He has practice, but not theory; art, but not science. This is a true fact of psychology, which is recognized by Plato in this passage. But he is far from saying, as some have imagined, that inspiration or divine grace is to be regarded as higher than knowledge. He would not have preferred the poet or man of action to the philosopher, or the virtue of custom to the virtue based upon ideas.
Also here, as in the Ion and Phaedrus, Plato appears to acknowledge an unreasoning element in the higher nature of man. The philosopher only has knowledge, and yet the statesman and the poet are inspired. There may be a sort of irony in regarding in this way the gifts of genius. But there is no reason to suppose that he is deriding them, any more than he is deriding the phenomena of love or of enthusiasm in the Symposium, or of oracles in the Apology, or of divine intimations when he is speaking of the daemonium of Socrates. He recognizes the lower form of right opinion, as well as the higher one of science, in the spirit of one who desires to include in his philosophy every aspect of human life; just as he recognizes the existence of popular opinion as a fact, and the Sophists as the expression of it.
This Dialogue contains the first intimation of the doctrine of reminiscence and of the immortality of the soul. The proof is very slight, even slighter than in the Phaedo and Republic. Because men had abstract ideas in a previous state, they must have always had them, and their souls therefore must have always existed (86 A). For they must always have been either men or not men. The fallacy of the latter words is transparent. And Socrates himself appears to be conscious of their weakness; for he adds immediately afterwards, ‘I have said some things of which I am not altogether confident.’ (Cp. Phaedo 114 D, 115 D.) It may be observed, however, that the fanciful notion of pre-existence is combined with a true but partial view of the origin and unity of knowledge, and of the association of ideas. Knowledge is prior to any particular knowledge, and exists not in the previous state of the individual, but of the race. It is potential, not actual, and can only be appropriated by strenuous exertion.
The idealism of Plato is here presented in a less developed form than in the Phaedo and Phaedrus. Nothing is said of the pre-existence of ideas of justice, temperance, and the like. Nor is Socrates positive of anything but the duty of enquiry (86 B). The doctrine of reminiscence too is explained more in accordance with fact and experience as arising out of the affinities of nature (ἅτε τη̂ς ϕύσεως ὅλης συγγενον̂ς οὔσης). Modern philosophy says that all things in nature are dependent on one another; the ancient philosopher had the same truth latent in his mind when he affirmed that out of one thing all the rest may be recovered. The subjective was converted by him into an objective; the mental phenomenon of the association of ideas (cp. Phaedo 73 foll.) became a real chain of existences. The germs of two valuable principles of education may also be gathered from the ‘words of priests and priestesses:’ (1) that true knowledge is a knowledge of causes (cp. Aristotle’s theory of ἐπιστήμη); and (2) that the process of learning consists not in what is brought to the learner, but in what is drawn out of him.
Some lesser points of the dialogue may be noted, such as (1) the acute observation that Meno prefers the familiar definition, which is embellished with poetical language, to the better and truer one (76 D); or (2) the shrewd reflection, which may admit of an application to modern as well as to ancient teachers, that the Sophists having made large fortunes; this must surely be a criterion of their powers of teaching, for that no man could get a living by shoemaking who was not a good shoemaker (91 C); or (3) the remark conveyed, almost in a word, that the verbal sceptic is saved the labour of thought and enquiry (οὐδὲν δεɩ̂ τᾡ τοιούτῳ ζητήσεως, 80 E). Characteristic also of the temper of the Socratic enquiry is, (4) the proposal to discuss the teachableness of virtue under an hypothesis, after the manner of the mathematicians (87 A); and (5) the repetition of the favourite doctrine which occurs so frequently in the earlier and more Socratic Dialogues, and gives a colour to all of them—that mankind only desire evil through ignorance (77, 78 foll.); (6) the experiment of eliciting from the slave-boy the mathematical truth which is latent in him, and (7) the remark (84 B) that he is all the better for knowing his ignorance.
The character of Meno, like that of Critias, has no relation to the actual circumstances of his life. Plato is silent about his treachery to the ten thousand Greeks, which Xenophon has recorded, as he is also silent about the crimes of Critias. He is a Thessalian Alcibiades, rich and luxurious—a spoilt child of fortune, and is described as the hereditary friend of the great king. Like Alcibiades he is inspired with an ardent desire of knowledge, and is equally willing to learn of Socrates and of the Sophists. He may be regarded as standing in the same relation to Gorgias as Hippocrates in the Protagoras to the other great Sophist. He is the sophisticated youth on whom Socrates tries his cross-examining powers, just as in the Charmides, the Lysis, and the Euthydemus, ingenuous boyhood is made the subject of a similar experiment. He is treated by Socrates in a half-playful manner suited to his character; at the same time he appears not quite to understand the process to which he is being subjected. For he is exhibited as ignorant of the very elements of dialectics, in which the Sophists have failed to instruct their disciple. His definition of virtue as ‘the power and desire of attaining things honourable,’ like the first definition of justice in the Republic, is taken from a poet. His answers have a sophistical ring, and at the same time show the sophistical incapacity to grasp a general notion.
Anytus is the type of the narrow-minded man of the world, who is indignant at innovation, and equally detests the popular teacher and the true philosopher. He seems, like Aristophanes, to regard the new opinions, whether of Socrates or the Sophists, as fatal to Athenian greatness. He is of the same class as Callicles in the Gorgias, but of a different variety; the immoral and sophistical doctrines of Callicles are not attributed to him. The moderation with which he is described is remarkable, if he be the accuser of Socrates, as is apparently indicated by his parting words. Perhaps Plato may have been desirous of showing that the accusation of Socrates was not to be attributed to badness or malevolence, but rather to a tendency in men’s minds. Or he may have been regardless of the historical truth of the characters of his dialogue, as in the case of Meno and Critias. Like Chaerephon (Apol. 21) the real Anytus was a democrat, and had joined Thrasybulus in the conflict with the thirty.
The Protagoras arrived at a sort of hypothetical conclusion, that if ‘virtue is knowledge, it can be taught.’ In the Euthydemus, Socrates himself offered an example of the manner in which the true teacher may draw out the mind of youth; this was in contrast to the quibbling follies of the Sophists. In the Meno the subject is more developed; the foundations of the enquiry are laid deeper, and the nature of knowledge is more distinctly explained. There is a progression by antagonism of two opposite aspects of philosophy. But at the moment when we approach nearest, the truth doubles upon us and passes out of our reach. We seem to find that the ideal of knowledge is irreconcilable with experience. In human life there is indeed the profession of knowledge, but right opinion is our actual guide. There is another sort of progress from the general notions of Socrates, who asked simply, ‘what is friendship?’ ‘what is temperance?’ ‘what is courage?’ as in the Lysis, Charmides, Laches, to the transcendentalism of Plato, who, in the second stage of his philosophy, sought to find the nature of knowledge in a prior and future state of existence.
The difficulty in framing general notions which has appeared in this and in all the previous Dialogues recurs in the Gorgias and Theaetetus as well as in the Republic. In the Gorgias too the statesmen reappear, but in stronger opposition to the philosopher. They are no longer allowed to have a divine insight, but, though acknowledged to have been clever men and good speakers, are denounced as ‘blind leaders of the blind.’ The doctrine of the immortality of the soul is also carried further, being made the foundation not only of a theory of knowledge, but of a doctrine of rewards and punishments. In the Republic the relation of knowledge to virtue is described in a manner more consistent with modern distinctions. The existence of the virtues without the possession of knowledge in the higher or philosophical sense is admitted to be possible. Right opinion is again introduced in the Theaetetus as an account of knowledge, but is rejected on the ground that it is irrational (as here, because it is not bound by the tie of the cause), and also because the conception of false opinion is given up as hopeless. The doctrines of Plato are necessarily different at different times of his life, as new distinctions are realized, or new stages of thought attained by him. We are not therefore justified, in order to take away the appearance of inconsistency, in attributing to him hidden meanings or remote allusions.
There are no external criteria by which we can determine the date of the Meno. There is no reason to suppose that any of the Dialogues of Plato were written before the death of Socrates; the Meno, which appears to be one of the earliest of them, is proved to have been of a later date by the allusion of Anytus (94 E, 95 A. Cp. also 80 B, 100 B).
We cannot argue that Plato was more likely to have written, as he has done, of Meno before than after his miserable death; for we have already seen, in the examples of Charmides and Critias, that the characters in Plato are very far from resembling the same characters in history. The repulsive picture which is given of him in the Anabasis of Xenophon (ii. 6), where he also appears as the friend of Aristippus ‘and a fair youth having lovers,’ has no other trait of likeness to the Meno of Plato.
The place of the Meno in the series is doubtfully indicated by internal evidence. The main character of the Dialogue is Socrates; but to the ‘general definitions’ of Socrates is added the Platonic doctrine of reminiscence. The problems of virtue and knowledge have been discussed in the Lysis, Laches, Charmides, and Protagoras; the puzzle about knowing and learning has already appeared in the Euthydemus. The doctrines of immortality and pre-existence are carried further in the Phaedrus and Phaedo; the distinction between opinion and knowledge is more fully developed in the Theaetetus. The lessons of Prodicus, whom he facetiously calls his master, are still running in the mind of Socrates. Unlike the later Platonic Dialogues, the Meno arrives at no conclusion. Hence we are led to place the Dialogue at some point of time later than the Protagoras, and earlier than the Phaedrus and Gorgias. The place which is assigned to it in this work is due mainly to the desire to bring together in a single volume all the Dialogues which contain allusions to the trial and death of Socrates.
On the Ideas of Plato.
Plato’s doctrine of ideas has attained an imaginary clearness and definiteness which is not to be found in his own writings. The popular account of them is partly derived from one or two passages in his Dialogues interpreted without regard to their poetical environment. It is due also to the misunderstanding of him by the Aristotelian school; and the erroneous notion has been further narrowed and has become fixed by the realism of the schoolmen. This popular view of the Platonic ideas may be summed up in some such formula as the following: ‘Truth consists not in particulars, but in universals, which have a place in the mind of God, or in some far-off heaven. These were revealed to men in a former state of existence, and are recovered by reminiscence (ἀνάμνησις) or association from sensible things. The sensible things are not realities, but shadows only, in relation to the truth.’ These unmeaning propositions are hardly suspected to be a caricature of a great theory of knowledge, which Plato in various ways and under many figures of speech is seeking to unfold. Poetry has been converted into dogma; and it is not remarked that the Platonic ideas are to be found only in about a third of Plato’s writings and are not confined to him. The forms which they assume are numerous, and if taken literally, inconsistent with one another. At one time we are in the clouds of mythology, at another among the abstractions of mathematics or metaphysics; we pass imperceptibly from one to the other. Reason and fancy are mingled in the same passage. The ideas are sometimes described as many, coextensive with the universals of sense and also with the first principles of ethics; or again they are absorbed into the single idea of good, and subordinated to it. They are not more certain than facts, but they are equally certain (Phaedo 100 A). They are both personal and impersonal. They are abstract terms: they are also the causes of things; and they are even transformed into the demons or spirits by whose help God made the world. And the idea of good (Rep. vi. 505 ff.) may without violence be converted into the Supreme Being, who ‘because He was good’ created all things (Tim. 29 E).
It would be a mistake to try and reconcile these differing modes of thought. They are not to be regarded seriously as having a distinct meaning. They are parables, prophecies, myths, symbols, revelations, aspirations after an unknown world. They derive their origin from a deep religious and contemplative feeling, and also from an observation of curious mental phenomena. They gather up the elements of the previous philosophies, which they put together in a new form. Their great diversity shows the tentative character of early endeavours to think. They have not yet settled down into a single system. Plato uses them, though he also criticises them; he acknowledges that both he and others are always talking about them, especially about the Idea of Good; and that they are not peculiar to himself (Phaedo 100 B; Rep. vi. 505; Soph. 248 ff.). But in his later writings he seems to have laid aside the old forms of them. As he proceeds he makes for himself new modes of expression more akin to the Aristotelian logic.
Yet amid all these varieties and incongruities, there is a common meaning or spirit which pervades his writings, both those in which he treats of the ideas and those in which he is silent about them. This is the spirit of idealism, which in the history of philosophy has had many names and taken many forms, and has in a measure influenced those who seemed to be most averse to it. It has often been charged with inconsistency and fancifulness, and yet has had an elevating effect on human nature, and has exercised a wonderful charm and interest over a few spirits who have been lost in the thought of it. It has been banished again and again, but has always returned. It has attempted to leave the earth and soar heavenwards, but soon has found that only in experience could any solid foundation of knowledge be laid. It has degenerated into pantheism, but has again emerged. No other knowledge has given an equal stimulus to the mind. It is the science of sciences, which are also ideas, and under either aspect require to be defined. They can only be thought of in due proportion when conceived in relation to one another. They are the glasses through which the kingdoms of science are seen, but at a distance. All the greatest minds, except when living in an age of reaction against them, have unconsciously fallen under their power.
The account of the Platonic ideas in the Meno is the simplest and clearest, and we shall best illustrate their nature by giving this first and then comparing the manner in which they are described elsewhere, e.g. in the Phaedrus, Phaedo, Republic; to which may be added the criticism of them in the Parmenides, the personal form which is attributed to them in the Timaeus, the logical character which they assume in the Sophist and Philebus, and the allusion to them in the Laws (xii. 964). In the Cratylus they dawn upon him with the freshness of a newly-discovered thought (439).
The Meno (81 ff.) goes back to a former state of existence, in which men did and suffered good and evil, and received the reward or punishment of them until their sin was purged away and they were allowed to return to earth. This is a tradition of the olden time, to which priests and poets bear witness. The souls of men returning to earth bring back a latent memory of ideas, which were known to them in a former state. The recollection is awakened into life and consciousness by the sight of the things which resemble them on earth. The soul evidently possesses such innate ideas before she has had time to acquire them. This is proved by an experiment tried on one of Meno’s slaves, from whom Socrates elicits truths of arithmetic and geometry, which he had never learned in this world. He must therefore have brought them with him from another.
The notion of a previous state of existence is found in the verses of Empedocles and in the fragments of Heracleitus. It was the natural answer to two questions, ‘Whence came the soul? What is the origin of evil?’ and prevailed far and wide in the East. It found its way into Hellas probably through the medium of Orphic and Pythagorean rites and mysteries. It was easier to think of a former than of a future life, because such a life has really existed for the race though not for the individual, and all men come into the world, if not ‘trailing clouds of glory,’ at any rate able to enter into the inheritance of the past. In the Phaedrus (245 ff.), as well as in the Meno, it is this former rather than a future life on which Plato is disposed to dwell. There the Gods, and men following in their train, go forth to contemplate the heavens, and are borne round in the revolutions of them. There they see the divine forms of justice, temperance, and the like, in their unchangeable beauty, but not without an effort more than human. The soul of man is likened to a charioteer and two steeds, one mortal, the other immortal. The charioteer and the mortal steed are in fierce conflict; at length the animal principle is finally overpowered, though not extinguished, by the combined energies of the passionate and rational elements. This is one of those passages in Plato which, partaking both of a philosophical and poetical character, is necessarily indistinct and inconsistent. The magnificent figure under which the nature of the soul is described has not much to do with the popular doctrine of the ideas. Yet there is one little trait in the description which shows that they are present to Plato’s mind, namely, the remark that the soul, which had seen truths in the form of the universal (248 C, 249 C), cannot again return to the nature of an animal.
In the Phaedo, as in the Meno, the origin of ideas is sought for in a previous state of existence. There was no time when they could have been acquired in this life, and therefore they must have been recovered from another. The process of recovery is no other than the ordinary law of association, by which in daily life the sight of one thing or person recalls another to our minds, and by which in scientific enquiry from any part of knowledge we may be led on to infer the whole. It is also argued that ideas, or rather ideals, must be derived from a previous state of existence because they are more perfect than the sensible forms of them which are given by experience (74 ff.). But in the Phaedo the doctrine of ideas is subordinate to the proof of the immortality of the soul. ‘If the soul existed in a previous state, then it will exist in a future state, for a law of alternation pervades all things.’ And, ‘If the ideas exist, then the soul exists; if not, not.’ It is to be observed, both in the Meno and the Phaedo, that Socrates expresses himself with diffidence. He speaks in the Phaedo (114 D, 115 D) of the words with which he has comforted himself and his friends, and will not be too confident that the description which he has given of the soul and her mansions is exactly true, but he ‘ventures to think that something of the kind is true.’ And in the Meno, after dwelling upon the immortality of the soul, he adds, ‘Of some things which I have said I am not altogether confident’ (cp. 86 C, and Apology, pp. 40 ff.; Gorgias 527 B). From this class of uncertainties he exempts the difference between truth and appearance, of which he is absolutely convinced (98 B).
In the Republic the ideas are spoken of in two ways, which though not contradictory are different. In the tenth book (596 ff.) they are represented as the genera or general ideas under which individuals having a common name are contained. For example, there is the bed which the carpenter makes, the picture of the bed which is drawn by the painter, the bed existing in nature of which God is the author. Of the latter all visible beds are only the shadows or reflections. This and similar illustrations or explanations are put forth, not for their own sake, or as an exposition of Plato’s theory of ideas, but with a view of showing that poetry and the mimetic arts are concerned with an inferior part of the soul and a lower kind of knowledge. On the other hand, in the 6th and 7th books of the Republic we reach the highest and most perfect conception, which Plato is able to attain, of the nature of knowledge. The ideas are now finally seen to be one as well as many, causes as well as ideas, and to have a unity which is the idea of good and the cause of all the rest. They seem, however, to have lost their first aspect of universals under which individuals are contained, and to have been converted into forms of another kind, which are inconsistently regarded from the one side as images or ideals of justice, temperance, holiness and the like; from the other as hypotheses, or mathematical truths or principles.
In the Timaeus, which in the series of Plato’s works immediately follows the Republic, though probably written some time afterwards, no mention occurs of the doctrine of ideas. Geometrical forms and arithmetical ratios furnish the laws according to which the world is created. But though the conception of the ideas as genera or species is forgotten or laid aside, the distinction of the visible and intellectual is as firmly maintained as ever (30, 37). The idea of good likewise disappears and is superseded by the conception of a personal God, who works according to a final cause or principle of goodness which he himself is. No doubt is expressed by Plato, either in the Timaeus or in any other dialogue, of the truths which he conceives to be the first and highest. It is not the existence of God or the idea of good which he approaches in a tentative or hesitating manner, but the investigations of physiology. These he regards, not seriously, as a part of philosophy, but as an innocent recreation (Tim. 59 D).
Passing on to the Parmenides (128–136), we find in that dialogue not an exposition or defence of the doctrine of ideas, but an assault upon them, which is put into the mouth of the veteran Parmenides, and might be ascribed to Aristotle himself, or to one of his disciples. The doctrine which is assailed takes two or three forms, but fails in any of them to escape the dialectical difficulties which are urged against it. It is admitted that there are ideas of all things, but the manner in which individuals partake of them, whether of the whole or of the part, and in which they become like them, or how ideas can be either within or without the sphere of human knowledge, or how the human and divine can have any relation to each other, is held to be incapable of explanation. And yet, if there are no universal ideas, what becomes of philosophy? (Parmenides 130–135). In the Sophist the theory of ideas is spoken of as a doctrine held not by Plato, but by another sect of philosophers, called ‘the Friends of Ideas,’ probably the Megarians, who were very distinct from him, if not opposed to him (Sophist 242 ff.). Nor in what may be termed Plato’s abridgement of the history of philosophy (Soph. 241 ff.), is any mention made such as we find in the first book of Aristotle’s Metaphysics, of the derivation of such a theory or of any part of it from the Pythagoreans, the Eleatics, the Heracleiteans, or even from Socrates. In the Philebus, probably one of the latest of the Platonic Dialogues, the conception of a personal or semi-personal deity expressed under the figure of mind, the king of all, who is also the cause, is retained. The one and many of the Phaedrus and Theaetetus is still working in the mind of Plato, and the correlation of ideas, not of ‘all with all,’ but of ‘some with some,’ is asserted and explained. But they are spoken of in a different manner, and are not supposed to be recovered from a former state of existence. The metaphysical conception of truth passes into a psychological one, which is continued in the Laws, and is the final form of the Platonic philosophy, so far as can be gathered from his own writings (see especially Laws v. 727 ff.). In the Laws he harps once more on the old string, and returns to general notions:—these he acknowledges to be many, and yet he insists that they are also one. The guardian must be made to recognize the truth, for which he has contended long ago in the Protagoras, that the virtues are four, but they are also in some sense one (Laws xii. pp. 965–966; cp. Protagoras 329.).
So various, and if regarded on the surface only, inconsistent, are the statements of Plato respecting the doctrine of ideas. If we attempted to harmonize or to combine them, we should make out of them, not a system, but the caricature of a system. They are the ever-varying expression of Plato’s Idealism. The terms used in them are in their substance and general meaning the same, although they seem to be different. They pass from the subject to the object, from earth (diesseits) to heaven (jenseits) without regard to the gulf which later theology and philosophy have made between them. They are also intended to supplement or explain each other. They relate to a subject of which Plato himself would have said that ‘he was not confident of the precise form of his own statements, but was strong in the belief that something of the kind was true.’ It is the spirit, not the letter, in which they agree—the spirit which places the divine above the human, the spiritual above the material, the one above the many, the mind before the body.
The stream of ancient philosophy in the Alexandrian and Roman times widens into a lake or sea, and then disappears underground to reappear after many ages in a distant land. It begins to flow again under new conditions, at first confined between high and narrow banks, but finally spreading over the continent of Europe. It is and is not the same with ancient philosophy. There is a great deal in modern philosophy which is inspired by ancient. There is much in ancient philosophy which was ‘born out of due time’ and before men were capable of understanding it. To the fathers of modern philosophy, their own thoughts appeared to be new and original, but they carried with them an echo or shadow of the past, coming back by recollection from an elder world. Of this the enquirers of the seventeenth century, who to themselves appeared to be working out independently the enquiry into all truth, were unconscious. They stood in a new relation to theology and natural philosophy, and for a time maintained towards both an attitude of reserve and separation. Yet the similarities between modern and ancient thought are greater far than the differences. All philosophy, even that part of it which is said to be based upon experience, is really ideal; and ideas are not only derived from facts, but they are also prior to them and extend far beyond them, just as the mind is prior to the senses.
Early Greek speculation culminates in the ideas of Plato, or rather in the single idea of good. His followers, and perhaps he himself, having arrived at this elevation, instead of going forwards went backwards from philosophy to psychology, from ideas to numbers. But what we perceive to be the real meaning of them, an explanation of the nature and origin of knowledge, will always continue to be one of the first problems of philosophy.
Plato also left behind him a most potent instrument, the forms of logic—arms ready for use, but not yet taken out of their armoury. They were the late birth of the early Greek philosophy, and were the only part of it which has had an uninterrupted hold on the mind of Europe. Philosophies come and go; but the detection of fallacies, the framing of definitions, the invention of methods still continue to be the main elements of the reasoning process.
Modern philosophy, like ancient, begins with very simple conceptions. It is almost wholly a reflection on self. It might be described as a quickening into life of old words and notions latent in the semi-barbarous Latin, and putting a new meaning into them. Unlike ancient philosophy, it has been unaffected by impressions derived from outward nature: it arose within the limits of the mind itself. From the time of Descartes to Hume and Kant it has had little or nothing to do with facts of science. On the other hand, the ancient and mediaeval logic retained a continuous influence over it, and a form like that of mathematics was easily impressed upon it; the principle of ancient philosophy which is most apparent in it is scepticism; we must doubt nearly every traditional or received notion, that we may hold fast one or two. The being of God in a personal or impersonal form was a mental necessity to the first thinkers of modern times: from this alone all other ideas could be deduced. There had been an obscure presentiment of ‘cogito, ergo sum’ more than 2000 years previously. The Eleatic notion that being and thought were the same was revived in a new form by Descartes. But now it gave birth to consciousness and self-reflection: it awakened the ‘ego’ in human nature. The mind naked and abstract has no other certainty but the conviction of its own existence. ‘I think, therefore I am;’ and this thought is God thinking in me, who has also communicated to the reason of man his own attributes of thought and extension—these are truly imparted to him because God is true (cp. Rep. ii. 382 ff.). It has been often remarked that Descartes, having begun by dismissing all presuppositions, introduces several: he passes almost at once from scepticism to dogmatism. It is more important for the illustration of Plato to observe that he, like Plato, insists that God is true and incapable of deception (Rep. ii. 382)—that he proceeds from general ideas, that many elements of mathematics may be found in him. A certain influence of mathematics both on the form and substance of their philosophy is discernible in both of them. After making the greatest opposition between thought and extension, Descartes, like Plato, supposes them to be reunited for a time, not in their own nature but by a special divine act (cp. Phaedrus 246 C), and he also supposes all the parts of the human body to meet in the pineal gland, that alone affording a principle of unity in the material frame of man. It is characteristic of the first period of modern philosophy, that having begun (like the Presocratics) with a few general notions, Des Cartes first falls absolutely under their influence, and then quickly discards them. At the same time he is less able to observe facts, because they are too much magnified by the glasses through which they are seen. The common logic says ‘the greater the extension, the less the comprehension,’ and we may put the same thought in another way and say of abstract or general ideas, that the greater the abstraction of them, the less are they capable of being applied to particular and concrete natures.
Not very different from Descartes in his relation to ancient philosophy is his successor Spinoza, who lived in the following generation. The system of Spinoza is less personal and also less dualistic than that of Descartes. In this respect the difference between them is like that between Xenophanes and Parmenides. The teaching of Spinoza might be described generally as the Jewish religion reduced to an abstraction and taking the form of the Eleatic philosophy. Like Parmenides, he is overpowered and intoxicated with the idea of Being or God. The greatness of both philosophies consists in the immensity of a thought which excludes all other thoughts; their weakness is the necessary separation of this thought from actual existence and from practical life. In neither of them is there any clear opposition between the inward and outward world. The substance of Spinoza has two attributes, which alone are cognizable by man, thought and extension; these are in extreme opposition to one another, and also in inseparable identity. They may be regarded as the two aspects or expressions under which God or substance is unfolded to man. Here a step is made beyond the limits of the Eleatic philosophy. The famous theorem of Spinoza, ‘Omnis determinatio est negatio,’ is already contained in the ‘negation is relation’ of Plato’s Sophist. The grand description of the philosopher in Republic vi, as the spectator of all time and all existence, may be paralleled with another famous expression of Spinoza, ‘Contemplatio rerum sub specie eternitatis.’ According to Spinoza finite objects are unreal, for they are conditioned by what is alien to them, and by one another. Human beings are included in the number of them. Hence there is no reality in human action and no place for right and wrong. Individuality is accident. The boasted freedom of the will is only a consciousness of necessity. Truth, he says, is the direction of the reason towards the infinite, in which all things repose; and herein lies the secret of man’s well-being. In the exaltation of the reason or intellect, in the denial of the voluntariness of evil (Timaeus 86 C, D; Laws, ix. 860) Spinoza approaches nearer to Plato than in his conception of an infinite substance. As Socrates said that virtue is knowledge, so Spinoza would have maintained that knowledge alone is good and what contributes to knowledge useful. Both are equally far from any real experience or observation of nature. And the same difficulty is found in both when we seek to apply their ideas to life and practice. There is a gulf fixed between the infinite substance and finite objects or individuals of Spinoza, just as there is between the ideas of Plato and the world of sense.
Removed from Spinoza by less than a generation is the philosopher Leibnitz, who after deepening and intensifying the opposition between mind and matter, reunites them by his preconcerted harmony (cp. again Phaedrus 246 C). To him all the particles of matter are living beings which reflect on one another, and in the least of them the whole is contained. Here we catch a reminiscence both of the ὁμοιομερη̂ or similar particles of Anaxagoras, and of the world-animal of the Timaeus.
In Bacon and Locke we have another development in which the mind of man is supposed to receive knowledge by a new method and to work by observation and experience. But we may remark that it is the idea of experience, rather than experience itself, with which the mind is filled. It is a symbol of knowledge rather than the reality which is vouchsafed to us. The Organon of Bacon is not much nearer to actual facts than the Organon of Aristotle or the Platonic idea of good. Many of the old rags and ribbons which defaced the garment of philosophy have been stripped off, but some of them still adhere. A crude conception of the ideas of Plato survives in the ‘forms’ of Bacon. And on the other hand, there are many passages of Plato in which the importance of the investigation of facts is as much insisted upon as by Bacon. Both are almost equally superior to the illusions of language, and are constantly crying out against them, as against other idols.
Locke cannot be truly regarded as the author of sensationalism any more than of idealism. His system is based upon experience, but with him experience includes reflection as well as sense. His analysis and construction of ideas has no foundation in fact; it is only the dialectic of the mind ‘talking to herself.’ The philosophy of Berkeley is but the transposition of two words. For objects of sense he would substitute sensations. He imagines himself to have changed the relation of the human mind towards God and nature; they remain the same as before, though he has drawn the imaginary line by which they are divided at a different point. He has annihilated the outward world, but it instantly reappears governed by the same laws and described under the same names.
A like remark applies to David Hume, of whose philosophy the central principle is the denial of the relation of cause and effect. He would deprive men of a familiar term which they can ill afford to lose; but he seems not to have observed that this alteration is merely verbal and does not in any degree affect the nature of things. Still less did he remark that he was arguing from the necessary imperfection of language against the most certain facts. And here, again, we may find a parallel with the ancients. He goes beyond facts in his scepticism, as they did in their idealism. Like the ancient Sophists, he relegates the more important principles of ethics to custom and probability. But crude and unmeaning as this philosophy is, it exercised a great influence on his successors, not unlike that which Locke exercised upon Berkeley and Berkeley upon Hume himself. All three were both sceptical and ideal in almost equal degrees. Neither they nor their predecessors had any true conception of language or of the history of philosophy. Hume’s paradox has been forgotten by the world, and did not any more than the scepticism of the ancients require to be seriously refuted. Like some other philosophical paradoxes, it would have been better left to die out. It certainly could not be refuted by a philosophy such as Kant’s, in which, no less than in the previously mentioned systems, the history of the human mind and the nature of language are almost wholly ignored, and the certainty of objective knowledge is transferred to the subject; while absolute truth is reduced to a figment, more abstract and narrow than Plato’s ideas, of ‘thing in itself,’ to which, if we reason strictly, no predicate can be applied.
The question which Plato has raised respecting the origin and nature of ideas belongs to the infancy of philosophy; in modern times it would no longer be asked. Their origin is only their history, so far as we know it; there can be no other. We may trace them in language, in philosophy, in mythology, in poetry, but we cannot argue à priori about them. We may attempt to shake them off, but they are always returning, and in every sphere of science and human action are tending to go beyond facts. They are thought to be innate, because they have been familiar to us all our lives, and we can no longer dismiss them from our mind. Many of them express relations of terms to which nothing exactly or nothing at all in rerum naturâ corresponds. We are not such free agents in the use of them as we sometimes imagine. Fixed ideas have taken the most complete possession of some thinkers who have been most determined to renounce them, and have been vehemently affirmed when they could be least explained and were incapable of proof. The world has often been led away by a word to which no distinct meaning could be attached. Abstractions such as ‘authority,’ ‘equality,’ ‘utility,’ ‘liberty,’ ‘pleasure,’ ‘experience,’ ‘consciousness,’ ‘chance,’ ‘substance,’ ‘matter,’ ‘atom,’ and a heap of other metaphysical and theological terms, are the source of quite as much error and illusion and have as little relation to actual facts as the ideas of Plato. Few students of theology or philosophy have sufficiently reflected how quickly the bloom of a philosophy passes away; or how hard it is for one age to understand the writings of another; or how nice a judgment is required of those who are seeking to express the philosophy of one age in the terms of another. The ‘eternal truths’ of which metaphysicians speak have hardly ever lasted more than a generation. In our own day schools or systems of philosophy which have once been famous have died before the founders of them. We are still, as in Plato’s age, groping about for a new method more comprehensive than any of those which now prevail; and also more permanent. And we seem to see at a distance the promise of such a method, which can hardly be any other than the method of idealized experience, having roots which strike far down into the history of philosophy. It is a method which does not divorce the present from the past, or the part from the whole, or the abstract from the concrete, or theory from fact, or the divine from the human, or one science from another, but labours to connect them. Along such a road we have proceeded a few steps, sufficient, perhaps, to make us reflect on the want of method which prevails in our own day. In another age, all the branches of knowledge, whether relating to God or man or nature, will become the knowledge of ‘the revelation of a single science’ (Symp. 210, 211), and all things, like the stars in heaven, will shed their light upon one another.
MENO.
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE.
Meno.
Socrates.
A Slave of Meno.
Anytus.
Meno.
Meno.Socrates, Meno.
Can you tell me, Socrates, whether virtue is acquired by teaching or by practice; or if neither by teaching nor by practice, then whether it comes to man by nature, or in what other way?
Socrates.
Meno asks Socrates ‘How virtue can be acquired?’ Before giving an answer Socrates must enquire ‘What is virtue?’
O Meno, there was a time when the Thessalians were famous among the other Hellenes only for their riches and their riding; but now, if I am not mistaken, they are equally famous for their wisdom, especially at Larisa, which is the native city of your friend Aristippus. And this is Gorgias’ doing; for when he came there, the flower of the Aleuadae, among them your admirer Aristippus, and the other chiefs of the Thessalians, fell in love with his wisdom. And he has taught you the habit of answering questions in a grand and bold style, which becomes those who know, and is the style in which he himself answers all comers; and any 71Hellene who likes may ask him anything. How different is our lot! my dear Meno. Here at Athens there is a dearth of the commodity, and all wisdom seems to have emigrated from us to you. I am certain that if you were to ask any Athenian whether virtue was natural or acquired, he would laugh in your face, and say: ‘Stranger, you have far too good an opinion of me, if you think that I can answer your question. For I literally do not know what virtue is, and much less whether it is acquired by teaching or not.’ And I myself, Meno, living as I do in this region of poverty, am as poor as the rest of the world; and I confess with shame that I know literally nothing about virtue; and when I do not know the ‘quid’ of anything how can I know the ‘quale’? How, if I knew nothing at all of Meno, could I tell if he was fair, or the opposite of fair; rich and noble, or the reverse of rich and noble? Do you think that I could?
Men.
No, indeed. But are you in earnest, Socrates, in saying that you do not know what virtue is? And am I to carry back this report of you to Thessaly?
Soc.
He does not know, and never met with any one who did.
Not only that, my dear boy, but you may say further that I have never known of any one else who did, in my judgment.
Men.
Then you have never met Gorgias when he was at Athens?
Soc.
Yes, I have.
Men.
And did you not think that he knew?
Soc.
I have not a good memory, Meno, and therefore I cannot now tell what I thought of him at the time. And I dare say that he did know, and that you know what he said: please, therefore, to remind me of what he said; or, if you would rather, tell me your own view; for I suspect that you and he think much alike.
Men.
Very true.
Soc.
Then as he is not here, never mind him, and do you tell me: By the gods, Meno, be generous, and tell me what you say that virtue is; for I shall be truly delighted to find that I have been mistaken, and that you and Gorgias do really have this knowledge; although I have been just saying that I have never found anybody who had.
Men.
Meno describes the different kinds of virtue, but is unable to give a common notion of them.
There will be no difficulty, Socrates, in answering your question. Let us take first the virtue of a man—he should know how to administer the state, and in the administration of it to benefit his friends and harm his enemies; and he must also be careful not to suffer harm himself. A woman’s virtue, if you wish to know about that, may also be easily described: her duty is to order her house, and keep what is indoors, and obey her husband. Every age, every condition of life, young or old, male or female, bond or free, has a different virtue: there are virtues numberless, 72and no lack of definitions of them; for virtue is relative to the actions and ages of each of us in all that we do. And the same may be said of vice, Socrates1 .
Soc.
Meno, not without difficulty and by help of many illustrations, is made to understand the nature of common notions.
How fortunate I am, Meno! When I ask you for one virtue, you present me with a swarm of them2 which are in your keeping. Suppose that I carry on the figure of the swarm, and ask of you, What is the nature of the bee? and you answer that there are many kinds of bees, and I reply: But do bees differ as bees, because there are many and different kinds of them; or are they not rather to be distinguished by some other quality, as for example beauty, size, or shape? How would you answer me?
Men.
I should answer that bees do not differ from one another, as bees.
Soc.
And if I went on to say: That is what I desire to know, Meno; tell me what is the quality in which they do not differ, but are all alike; would you be able to answer?
Men.
I should.
Soc.
And so of the virtues, however many and different they may be, they have all a common nature which makes them virtues; and on this he who would answer the question, ‘What is virtue?’ would do well to have his eye fixed: Do you understand?
Men.
I am beginning to understand; but I do not as yet take hold of the question as I could wish.
Soc.
When you say, Meno, that there is one virtue of a man, another of a woman, another of a child, and so on, does this apply only to virtue, or would you say the same of health, and size, and strength? Or is the nature of health always the same, whether in man or woman?
Men.
I should say that health is the same, both in man and woman.
Soc.
Health and strength, and virtue and temperance and justice are the same both in men and women.
And is not this true of size and strength? If a woman is strong, she will be strong by reason of the same form and of the same strength subsisting in her which there is in the man. I mean to say that strength, as strength, whether of man or woman, is the same. Is there any difference?
Men.
I think not.
Soc.
And will not virtue, as virtue, be the same, whether 73in a child or in a grown-up person, in a woman or in an man?
Men.
I cannot help feeling, Socrates, that this case is different from the others.
Soc.
But why? Were you not saying that the virtue of a man was to order a state, and the virtue of a woman was to order a house?
Men.
I did say so.
Soc.
And can either house or state or anything be well ordered without temperance and without justice?
Men.
Certainly not.
Soc.
Then they who order a state or a house temperately or justly order them with temperance and justice?
Men.
Certainly.
Soc.
Then both men and women, if they are to be good men and women, must have the same virtues of temperance and justice?
Men.
True.
Soc.
And can either a young man or an elder one be good, if they are intemperate and unjust?
Men.
They cannot.
Soc.
They must be temperate and just?
Men.
Yes.
Soc.
Then all men are good in the same way, and by participation in the same virtues?
Men.
Such is the inference.
Soc.
And they surely would not have been good in the same way, unless their virtue had been the same?
Men.
They would not.
Soc.
Then what is virtue? Gorgias and Meno reply, ‘The power of governing mankind.’
Then now that the sameness of all virtue has been proven, try and remember what you and Gorgias say that virtue is.
Men.
Will you have one definition of them all?
Soc.
That is what I am seeking.
Men.
If you want to have one definition of them all, I know not what to say, but that virtue is the power of governing mankind.
Soc.
And does this definition of virtue include all virtue? Is virtue the same in a child and in a slave, Meno? Can the child govern his father, or the slave his master; and would he who governed be any longer a slave?
Men.
But this cannot apply to all persons.
I think not, Socrates.
Soc.
No, indeed; there would be small reason in that. Yet once more, fair friend; according to you, virtue is ‘the power of governing;’ but do you not add ‘justly and not unjustly’?
Men.
Yes, Socrates; I agree there; for justice is virtue.
Soc.
Would you say ‘virtue,’ Meno, or ‘a virtue’?
Men.
What do you mean?
Soc.
I mean as I might say about anything; that a round, for example, is ‘a figure’ and not simply ‘figure,’ and I should adopt this mode of speaking, because there are other figures.
Men.
Quite right; and that is just what I am saying about virtue—that there are other virtues as well as justice.
Soc.
74What are they? tell me the names of them, as I would tell you the names of the other figures if you asked me.
Men.
Meno names the virtues, but is unable to get at the common notion of them.
Courage and temperance and wisdom and magnanimity are virtues; and there are many others.
Soc.
Yes, Meno; and again we are in the same case: in searching after one virtue we have found many, though not in the same way as before; but we have been unable to find the common virtue which runs through them all.
Men.
Why, Socrates, even now I am not able to follow you in the attempt to get at one common notion of virtue as of other things.
Soc.
No wonder; but I will try to get nearer if I can, for you know that all things have a common notion. Suppose now that some one asked you the question which I asked before: Meno, he would say, what is figure? And if you answered ‘roundness,’ he would reply to you, in my way of speaking, by asking whether you would say that roundness is ‘figure’ or ‘a figure;’ and you would answer ‘a figure.’
Men.
Certainly.
Soc.
And for this reason—that there are other figures?
Men.
Yes.
Soc.
And if he proceeded to ask, What other figures are there? you would have told him.
Men.
I should.
Soc.
And if he similarly asked what colour is, and you answered whiteness, and the questioner rejoined, Would you say that whiteness is colour or a colour? you would reply, A colour, because there are other colours as well.
Men.
I should.
Soc.
And if he had said, Tell me what they are?—you would have told him of other colours which are colours just as much as whiteness.
Men.
Yes.
Soc.
He has a similar difficulty about the nature of Figure.
And suppose that he were to pursue the matter in my way, he would say: Ever and anon we are landed in particulars, but this is not what I want; tell me then, since you call them by a common name, and say that they are all figures, even when opposed to one another, what is that common nature which you designate as figure—which contains straight as well as round, and is no more one than the other—that would be your mode of speaking?
Men.
Yes.
Soc.
And in speaking thus, you do not mean to say that the round is round any more than straight, or the straight any more straight than round?
Men.
Certainly not.
Soc.
You only assert that the round figure is not more a figure than the straight, or the straight than the round?
Men.
Very true.
Soc.
To what then do we give the name of figure? Try and answer. Suppose that when a person asked you this question either about figure or colour, you were to reply, Man, I do not understand what you want, or know what you 75are saying; he would look rather astonished and say: Do you not understand that I am looking for the ‘simile in multis’? And then he might put the question in another form: Meno, he might say, what is that ‘simile in multis’ which you call figure, and which includes not only round and straight figures, but all? Could you not answer that question, Meno? I wish that you would try; the attempt will be good practice with a view to the answer about virtue.
Men.
I would rather that you should answer, Socrates.
Soc.
Shall I indulge you?
Men.
By all means.
Soc.
And then you will tell me about virtue?
Men.
I will.
Soc.
Then I must do my best, for there is a prize to be won.
Men.
Certainly.
Soc.
Figure is defined by Socrates to be that which always follows colour.
Well, I will try and explain to you what figure is. What do you say to this answer?—Figure is the only thing which always follows colour. Will you be satisfied with it, as I am sure that I should be, if you would let me have a similar definition of virtue?
Men.
But, Socrates, it is such a simple answer.
Soc.
Why simple?
Men.
Because, according to you, figure is that which always follows colour.
(Soc. Granted).
Men.
But if a person were to say that he does not know what colour is, any more than what figure is—what sort of answer would you have given him?
Soc.
I should have told him the truth. And if he were a philosopher of the eristic and antagonistic sort, I should say to him: You have my answer, and if I am wrong, your business is to take up the argument and refute me. But if we were friends, and were talking as you and I are now, I should reply in a milder strain and more in the dialectician’s vein; that is to say, I should not only speak the truth, but I should make use of premisses which the person interrogated would be willing to admit. And this is the way in which I shall endeavour to approach you. You will acknowledge, will you not, that there is such a thing as an end, or termination, or extremity?—all which words I use in the same sense, although I am aware that Prodicus might draw distinctions about them: but still you, I am sure, would speak of a thing as ended or terminated—that is all which I am saying—not anything very difficult.
Men.
Yes, I should; and I believe that I understand your meaning.
Soc.
76And you would speak of a surface and also of a solid, as for example in geometry.
Men.
Yes.
Soc.
Well then, you are now in a condition to understand my definition of figure. I define figure to be that in which the solid ends; or, more concisely, the limit of solid.
Men.
And now, Socrates, what is colour?
Soc.
And now, what is colour?
You are outrageous, Meno, in thus plaguing a poor old man to give you an answer, when you will not take the trouble of remembering what is Gorgias’ definition of virtue.
Men.
When you have told me what I ask, I will tell you, Socrates.
Soc.
A man who was blindfolded has only to hear you talking, and he would know that you are a fair creature and have still many lovers.
Men.
Why do you think so?
Soc.
Why, because you always speak in imperatives: like all beauties when they are in their prime, you are tyrannical; and also, as I suspect, you have found out that I have a weakness for the fair, and therefore to humour you I must answer.
Men.
Please do.
Soc.
Would you like me to answer you after the manner of Gorgias, which is familiar to you?
Men.
I should like nothing better.
Soc.
Meno, Gorgias, and Empedocles are all agreed that colour is an effluence of existence, proportioned to certain passages.
Do not he and you and Empedocles say that there are certain effluences of existence?
Men.
Certainly.
Soc.
And passages into which and through which the effluences pass?
Men.
Exactly.
Soc.
And some of the effluences fit into the passages, and some of them are too small or too large?
Men.
True.
Soc.
And there is such a thing as sight?
Men.
Yes.
Soc.
And now, as Pindar says, ‘read my meaning:’—colour is an effluence of form, commensurate with sight, and palpable to sense.
Men.
That, Socrates, appears to me to be an admirable answer.
Soc.
Why, yes, because it happens to be one which you have been in the habit of hearing: and your wit will have discovered, I suspect, that you may explain in the same way the nature of sound and smell, and of many other similar phenomena.
Men.
Quite true.
Soc.
The answer, Meno, was in the orthodox solemn vein, and therefore was more acceptable to you than the other answer about figure.
Men.
Yes.
Soc.
And yet, O son of Alexidemus, I cannot help thinking that the other was the better; and I am sure that you would be of the same opinion, if you would only stay and be initiated, and were not compelled, as you said yesterday, to go away before the mysteries.
Men.
But I will stay, Socrates if you will give me many 77such answers.
Soc.
Virtue, according to Meno, is the desire of the honourable and the good. His definition is analysed by Socrates.
Well then, for my own sake as well as for yours, I will do my very best; but I am afraid that I shall not be able to give you very many as good: and now, in your turn, you are to fulfil your promise, and tell me what virtue is in the universal; and do not make a singular into a plural, as the facetious say of those who break a thing, but deliver virtue to me whole and sound, and not broken into a number of pieces: I have given you the pattern.
Men.
Well then, Socrates, virtue, as I take it, is when he, who desires the honourable, is able to provide it for himself; so the poet says, and I say too—
- ‘Virtue is the desire of things honourable and the power of attaining them.’
Soc.
And does he who desires the honourable also desire the good.
Men.
Certainly.
Soc.
Then are there some who desire the evil and others who desire the good? Do not all men, my dear sir, desire good?
Men.
I think not.
Soc.
There are some who desire evil?
Men.
Yes.
Soc.
Do you mean that they think the evils which they desire, to be good; or do they know that they are evil and yet desire them?
Men.
Both, I think.
Soc.
And do you really imagine, Meno, that a man knows evils to be evils and desires them notwithstanding?
Men.
Certainly I do.
Soc.
And desire is of possession?
Men.
Yes, of possession.
Soc.
Men desire evil, but not what they think to be evil.
And does he think that the evils will do good to him who possesses them, or does he know that they will do him harm?
Men.
There are some who think that the evils will do them good, and others who know that they will do them harm.
Soc.
And, in your opinion, do those who think that they will do them good know that they are evils?
Men.
Certainly not.
Soc.
Is it not obvious that those who are ignorant of their nature do not desire them; but they desire what they suppose to be goods although they are really evils; and if they are mistaken and suppose the evils to be goods they really desire goods?
Men.
Yes, in that case.
Soc.
Well, and do those who, as you say, desire evils, and think that evils are hurtful to the possessor of them, know that they will be hurt by them?
Men.
They must know it.
Soc.
And must they not suppose that those who are hurt 78are miserable in proportion to the hurt which is inflicted upon them?
Men.
How can it be otherwise?
Soc.
But are not the miserable ill-fated?
Men.
Yes, indeed.
Soc.
And does any one desire to be miserable and ill-fated?
Men.
I should say not, Socrates.
Soc.
But if there is no one who desires to be miserable, there is no one, Meno, who desires evil; for what is misery but the desire and possession of evil?
Men.
That appears to be the truth, Socrates, and I admit that nobody desires evil.
Soc.
And yet, were you not saying just now that virtue is the desire and power of attaining good?
Men.
Yes, I did say so.
Soc.
But if this be affirmed, then the desire of good is common to all, and one man is no better than another in that respect?
Men.
The desire of good is really common to all of them.
True.
Soc.
And if one man is not better than another in desiring good, he must be better in the power of attaining it?
Men.
Exactly.
Soc.
Virtue is the power of attaining good with justice.
Then, according to your definition, virtue would appear to be the power of attaining good?
Men.
I entirely approve, Socrates, of the manner in which you now view this matter.
Soc.
Then let us see whether what you say is true from another point of view; for very likely you may be right:—You affirm virtue to be the power of attaining goods?
Men.
Yes.
Soc.
And the goods which you mean are such as health and wealth and the possession of gold and silver, and having office and honour in the state—those are what you would call goods?
Men.
Yes, I should include all those.
Soc.
Then, according to Meno, who is the hereditary friend of the great king, virtue is the power of getting silver and gold; and would you add that they must be gained piously, justly, or do you deem this to be of no consequence? And is any mode of acquisition, even if unjust or dishonest, equally to be deemed virtue?
Men.
Not virtue, Socrates, but vice.
Soc.
Then justice or temperance or holiness, or some other part of virtue, as would appear, must accompany the acquisition, and without them the mere acquisition of good will not be virtue.
Men.
Why, how can there be virtue without these?
Soc.
And the non-acquisition of gold and silver in a dishonest manner for oneself or another, or in other words the want of them, may be equally virtue?
Men.
True.
Soc.
Then the acquisition of such goods is no more virtue than the non-acquisition and want of them, but whatever is accompanied by justice or honesty is virtue, and whatever 79is devoid of justice is vice.
Men.
It cannot be otherwise, in my judgment.
Soc.
And were we not saying just now that justice, temperance, and the like, were each of them a part of virtue?
Men.
But this definition repeats the thing defined:—virtue=the power of attaining good with a part of virtue.
Yes.
Soc.
And so, Meno, this is the way in which you mock me.
Men.
Why do you say that, Socrates?
Soc.
Why, because I asked you to deliver virtue into my hands whole and unbroken, and I gave you a pattern according to which you were to frame your answer; and you have forgotten already, and tell me that virtue is the power of attaining good justly, or with justice; and justice you acknowledge to be a part of virtue.
Men.
Yes.
Soc.
Then it follows from your own admissions, that virtue is doing what you do with a part of virtue; for justice and the like are said by you to be parts of virtue.
Men.
What of that?
Soc.
But if we do not know the nature of virtue as a whole, how can we know what a part of virtue is?
What of that! Why, did not I ask you to tell me the nature of virtue as a whole? And you are very far from telling me this; but declare every action to be virtue which is done with a part of virtue; as though you had told me and I must already know the whole of virtue, and this too when frittered away into little pieces. And, therefore, my dear Meno, I fear that I must begin again and repeat the same question: What is virtue? for otherwise, I can only say, that every action done with a part of virtue is virtue; what else is the meaning of saying that every action done with justice is virtue? Ought I not to ask the question over again; for can any one who does not know virtue know a part of virtue?
Men.
No; I do not say that he can.
Soc.
Do you remember how, in the example of figure, we rejected any answer given in terms which were as yet unexplained or unadmitted?
Men.
Yes, Socrates; and we were quite right in doing so.
Soc.
But then, my friend, do not suppose that we can explain to any one the nature of virtue as a whole through some unexplained portion of virtue, or anything at all in that fashion; we should only have to ask over again the old question, What is virtue? Am I not right?
Men.
I believe that you are.
Soc.
Then begin again, and answer me, What, according to you and your friend Gorgias, is the definition of virtue?
Men.
Meno compares Socrates to a torpedo whose touch has taken away his sense and speech.
O Socrates, I used to be told, before I knew you, that 80you were always doubting yourself and making others doubt; and now you are casting your spells over me, and I am simply getting bewitched and enchanted, and am at my wits’ end. And if I may venture to make a jest upon you, you seem to me both in your appearance and in your power over others to be very like the flat torpedo fish, who torpifies those who come near him and touch him, as you have now torpified me, I think. For my soul and my tongue are really torpid, and I do not know how to answer you; and though I have been delivered of an infinite variety of speeches about virtue before now, and to many persons—and very good ones they were, as I thought—at this moment I cannot even say what virtue is. And I think that you are very wise in not voyaging and going away from home, for if you did in other places as you do in Athens, you would be cast into prison as a magician.
Soc.
You are a rogue, Meno, and had all but caught me.
Men.
What do you mean, Socrates?
Soc.
I can tell why you made a simile about me.
Men.
Why?
Soc.
Socrates is the cause of dulness in others because he is himself dull.
In order that I might make another simile about you. For I know that all pretty young gentlemen like to have pretty similes made about them—as well they may—but I shall not return the compliment. As to my being a torpedo, if the torpedo is torpid as well as the cause of torpidity in others, then indeed I am a torpedo, but not otherwise; for I perplex others, not because I am clear, but because I am utterly perplexed myself. And now I know not what virtue is, and you seem to be in the same case, although you did once perhaps know before you touched me. However, I have no objection to join with you in the enquiry.
Men.
And how will you enquire, Socrates, into that which you do not know? What will you put forth as the subject of enquiry? And if you find what you want, how will you ever know that this is the thing which you did not know?
Soc.
How can you enquire about what you do not know, and if you know why should you enquire?
I know, Meno, what you mean; but just see what a tiresome dispute you are introducing. You argue that a man cannot enquire either about that which he knows, or about that which he does not know; for if he knows, he has no need to enquire; and if not, he cannot; for he does not know the very subject about which he is to enquire1 .
Men.
Well, Socrates, and is not the argument sound? 81
Soc.
I think not.
Men.
Why not?
Soc.
I will tell you why: I have heard from certain wise men and women who spoke of things divine that—
Men.
What did they say?
Soc.
They spoke of a glorious truth, as I conceive.
Men.
What was it? and who were they?
Soc.
The ancient poets tell us that the soul of man is immortal and has a recollection of all that she has ever known in former states of being.Socrates, Meno, Meno’s Slave.
Some of them were priests and priestesses, who had studied how they might be able to give a reason of their profession: there have been poets also, who spoke of these things by inspiration, like Pindar, and many others who were inspired. And they say—mark, now, and see whether their words are true—they say that the soul of man is immortal, and at one time has an end, which is termed dying, and at another time is born again, but is never destroyed. And the moral is, that a man ought to live always in perfect holiness. ‘For in the ninth year Persephone sends the souls of those from whom she has received the penalty of ancient crime back again from beneath into the light of the sun above, and these are they who become noble kings and mighty men and great in wisdom and are called saintly heroes in after ages.’ The soul, then, as being immortal, and having been born again many times, and having seen all things that exist, whether in this world or in the world below, has knowledge of them all; and it is no wonder that she should be able to call to remembrance all that she ever knew about virtue, and about everything; for as all nature is akin, and the soul has learned all things, there is no difficulty in her eliciting or as men say learning, out of a single recollection all the rest, if a man is strenuous and does not faint; for all enquiry and all learning is but recollection. And therefore we ought not to listen to this sophistical argument about the impossibility of enquiry: for it will make us idle, and is sweet only to the sluggard; but the other saying will make us active and inquisitive. In that confiding, I will gladly enquire with you into the nature of virtue.
Men.
Yes, Socrates; but what do you mean by saying that we do not learn, and that what we call learning is only a process of recollection? Can you teach me how this is?
Soc.
I told you, Meno, just now that you were a rogue, and now you ask whether I can teach you, when I am saying that 82there is no teaching, but only recollection; and thus you imagine that you will involve me in a contradiction.
Men.
Indeed, Socrates, I protest that I had no such intention. I only asked the question from habit; but if you can prove to me that what you say is true, I wish that you would.
Soc.
A Greek slave is introduced, from whom certain mathematical conclusions which he has never learned are elicited by Socrates.
It will be no easy matter, but I will try to please you to the utmost of my power. Suppose that you call one of your numerous attendants, that I may demonstrate on him.
Men.
Certainly. Come hither, boy.
Soc.
He is Greek, and speaks Greek, does he not?
Men.
Yes, indeed; he was born in the house.
Soc.
Attend now to the questions which I ask him, and observe whether he learns of me or only remembers.
Men.
I will.
Soc.
Tell me, boy, do you know that a figure like this is a square?
Boy.
I do.
Soc.
And you know that a square figure has these four lines equal?
Boy.
Certainly.
Soc.
And these lines which I have drawn through the middle of the square are also equal?
Boy.
Yes.
Soc.
A square may be of any size?
Boy.
Certainly.
Soc.
And if one side of the figure be of two feet, and the other side be of two feet, how much will the whole be? Let me explain: if in one direction the space was of two feet, and in the other direction of one foot, the whole would be of two feet taken once?
Boy.
Yes.
Soc.
But since this side is also of two feet, there are twice two feet?
Boy.
There are.
Soc.
Then the square is of twice two feet?
Boy.
Yes.
Soc.
And how many are twice two feet? count and tell me.
Boy.
Four, Socrates.
Soc.
And might there not be another square twice as large as this, and having like this the lines equal?
Boy.
Yes.
Soc.
And of how many feet will that be?
Boy.
Of eight feet.
Soc.
And now try and tell me the length of the line which forms the side of that double square: this is two feet—what will that be?
Boy.
Clearly, Socrates, it will be double.
Soc.
He is partly guessing.
Do you observe, Meno, that I am not teaching the boy anything, but only asking him questions; and now he fancies that he knows how long a line is necessary in order to produce a figure of eight square feet; does he not?
Men.
Yes.
Soc.
And does he really know?
Men.
Certainly not.
Soc.
He only guesses that because the square is double, the line is double.
Men.
True.
Soc.
Observe him while he recalls the steps in regular order. (To the Boy.) Tell me, boy, do you assert that a 83double space comes from a double line? Remember that I am not speaking of an oblong, but of a figure equal every way, and twice the size of this—that is to say of eight feet; and I want to know whether you still say that a double square comes from a double line?
Boy.
Yes.
Soc.
But does not this line become doubled if we add another such line here?
Boy.
Certainly.
Soc.
And four such lines will make a space containing eight feet?
Boy.
Yes.
Soc.
Socrates, Meno’s Slave.
Let us describe such a figure: Would you not say that this is the figure of eight feet?
Boy.
Yes.
Soc.
And are there not these four divisions in the figure, each of which is equal to the figure of four feet?
Boy.
True.
Soc.
And is not that four times four?
Boy.
Certainly.
Soc.
And four times is not double?
Boy.
No, indeed.
Soc.
But how much?
Boy.
Four times as much.
Soc.
Therefore the double line, boy, has given a space, not twice, but four times as much.
Boy.
True.
Soc.
Four times four are sixteen—are they not?
Boy.
Yes.
Soc.
What line would give you a space of eight feet, as this gives one of sixteen feet;—do you see?
Boy.
Yes.
Soc.
And the space of four feet is made from this half line?
Boy.
Yes.
Soc.
Good; and is not a space of eight feet twice the size of this, and half the size of the other?
Boy.
Certainly.
Soc.
Such a space, then, will be made out of a line greater than this one, and less than that one?
Boy.
Yes; I think so.
Soc.
Very good; I like to hear you say what you think. And now tell me, is not this a line of two feet and that of four?
Boy.
Yes.
Soc.
He has now learned to realize his own ignorance, and therefore will endeavour to remedy it.
Then the line which forms the side of eight feet ought to be more than this line of two feet, and less than the other of four feet?
Boy.
It ought.
Soc.
Try and see if you can tell me how much it will be.
Boy.
Three feet.
Soc.
Socrates, Meno, Meno’s Slave.
Then if we add a half to this line of two, that will be the line of three. Here are two and there is one; and on the other side, here are two also and there is one: and that makes the figure of which you speak?
Boy.
Yes.
Soc.
But if there are three feet this way and three feet that way, the whole space will be three times three feet?
Boy.
That is evident.
Soc.
And how much are three times three feet?
Boy.
Nine.
Soc.
And how much is the double of four?
Boy.
Eight.
Soc.
Then the figure of eight is not made out of a line of three?
Boy.
No.
Soc.
But from what line?—tell me exactly; and if you 84would rather not reckon, try and show me the line.
Boy.
Indeed, Socrates, I do not know.
Soc.
Do you see, Meno, what advances he has made in his power of recollection? He did not know at first, and he does not know now, what is the side of a figure of eight feet: but then he thought that he knew, and answered confidently as if he knew, and had no difficulty; now he has a difficulty, and neither knows nor fancies that he knows.
Men.
True.
Soc.
Is he not better off in knowing his ignorance?
Men.
I think that he is.
Soc.
If we have made him doubt, and given him the ‘torpedo’s shock,’ have we done him any harm?
Men.
I think not.
Soc.
We have certainly, as would seem, assisted him in some degree to the discovery of the truth; and now he will wish to remedy his ignorance, but then he would have been ready to tell all the world again and again that the double space should have a double side.
Men.
True.
Soc.
But do you suppose that he would ever have enquired into or learned what he fancied that he knew, though he was really ignorant of it, until he had fallen into perplexity under the idea that he did not know, and had desired to know?
Men.
I think not, Socrates.
Soc.
Then he was the better for the torpedo’s touch?
Men.
I think so.
Soc.
The boy arrives at another true conclusion:
Mark now the farther development. I shall only ask him, and not teach him, and he shall share the enquiry with me: and do you watch and see if you find me telling or explaining anything to him, instead of eliciting his opinion. Tell me, boy, is not this a square of four feet which I have drawn?
Boy.
Yes.
Soc.
And now I add another square equal to the former one?
Boy.
Yes.
Soc.
And a third, which is equal to either of them?
Boy.
Yes.
Soc.
Suppose that we fill up the vacant corner?
Boy.
Very good.
Soc.
Here, then, there are four equal spaces?
Boy.
Yes.
Soc.
which is, that the square of the diagonal is double the square of the side.
And how many times larger is this space than this other?
Boy.
Four times.
Soc.
But it ought to have been twice only, as you will remember.
Boy.
True.
Soc.
And does not this line, reaching from corner to corner, 85bisect each of these spaces?
Boy.
Yes.
Soc.
And are there not here four equal lines which contain this space?
Boy.
There are.
Soc.
Look and see how much this space is.
Boy.
I do not understand.
Soc.
Has not each interior line cut off half of the four spaces?
Boy.
Yes.
Soc.
And how many such spaces are there in this section?
Boy.
Four.
Soc.
And how many in this?
Boy.
Two.
Soc.
And four is how many times two?
Boy.
Twice.
Soc.
And this space is of how many feet?
Boy.
Of eight feet.
Soc.
And from what line do you get this figure?
Boy.
From this.
Soc.
That is, from the line which extends from corner to corner of the figure of four feet?
Boy.
Yes.
Soc.
And that is the line which the learned call the diagonal. And if this is the proper name, then you, Meno’s slave, are prepared to affirm that the double space is the square of the diagonal?
Boy.
Certainly, Socrates.
Soc.
What do you say of him, Meno? Were not all these answers given out of his own head?
Men.
Yes, they were all his own.
Soc.
And yet, as we were just now saying, he did not know?
Men.
True.
Soc.
But still he had in him those notions of his—had he not?
Men.
Yes.
Soc.
Then he who does not know may still have true notions of that which he does not know?
Men.
He has.
Soc.
At present he is in a dream; he will soon grow clearer.
And at present these notions have just been stirred up in him, as in a dream; but if he were frequently asked the same questions, in different forms, he would know as well as any one at last?
Men.
I dare say.
Soc.
Without any one teaching him he will recover his knowledge for himself, if he is only asked questions?
Men.
Yes.
Soc.
And this spontaneous recovery of knowledge in him is recollection?
Men.
True.
Soc.
And this knowledge which he now has must he not either have acquired or always possessed?
Men.
Yes.
Soc.
Socrates, Meno.Either this knowledge was acquired by him in a former state of existence, or was always known to him.
But if he always possessed this knowledge he would always have known; or if he has acquired the knowledge he could not have acquired it in this life, unless he has been taught geometry; for he may be made to do the same with all geometry and every other branch of knowledge. Now, has any one ever taught him all this? You must know about him, if, as you say, he was born and bred in your house.
Men.
And I am certain that no one ever did teach him.
Soc.
And yet he has the knowledge?
Men.
The fact, Socrates, is undeniable.
Soc.
But if he did not acquire the knowledge in this life, 86then he must have had and learned it at some other time?
Men.
Clearly he must.
Soc.
Which must have been the time when he was not a man?
Men.
Yes.
Soc.
And if there have been always true thoughts in him, both at the time when he was and was not a man, which only need to be awakened into knowledge by putting questions to him, his soul must have always possessed this knowledge, for he always either was or was not a man?
Men.
Obviously.
Soc.
And if the truth of all things always existed in the soul, then the soul is immortal. Wherefore be of good cheer, and try to recollect what you do not know, or rather what you do not remember.
Men.
I feel, somehow, that I like what you are saying.
Soc.
Better to enquire than to fancy that there is no such thing as enquiry and no use in it.
And I, Meno, like what I am saying. Some things I have said of which I am not altogether confident. But that we shall be better and braver and less helpless if we think that we ought to enquire, than we should have been if we indulged in the idle fancy that there was no knowing and no use in seeking to know what we do not know;—that is a theme upon which I am ready to fight, in word and deed, to the utmost of my power.
Men.
There again, Socrates, your words seem to me excellent.
Soc.
Then, as we are agreed that a man should enquire about that which he does not know, shall you and I make an effort to enquire together into the nature of virtue?
Men.
By all means, Socrates. And yet I would much rather return to my original question, Whether in seeking to acquire virtue we should regard it as a thing to be taught, or as a gift of nature, or as coming to men in some other way?
Soc.
Socrates cannot enquire whether virtue can be taught until he knows what virtue is, except upon an hypothesis, such as geometricians sometimes employ: e. g. can a triangle of given area be inscribed in a given circle, if when the side of it is produced this or that consequence follows? [The hypothesis appears to be rather trivial and to have no mathematical value.]Upon the hypothesis ‘that virtue is knowledge,’ can it be taught?
Had I the command of you as well as of myself, Meno, I would not have enquired whether virtue is given by instruction or not, until we had first ascertained ‘what it is.’ But as you think only of controlling me who am your slave, and never of controlling yourself,—such being your notion of freedom, I must yield to you, for you are irresistible. And therefore I have now to enquire into the qualities of a thing of which I do not as yet know the nature. At any rate, will you condescend a little, and allow the question ‘Whether virtue is given by instruction, or in any other way,’ to be argued upon hypothesis? As the geometrician, when he is asked 1 whether 87a certain triangle is capable of being inscribed in a certain circle1 , will reply: ‘I cannot tell you as yet; but I will offer a hypothesis which may assist us in forming a conclusion: If the figure be such that 2 when you have produced a given side of it2 , the given area of the triangle falls short by an area 3 corresponding to the part produced3 , then one consequence follows, and if this is impossible then some other; and therefore I wish to assume a hypothesis before I tell you whether this triangle is capable of being inscribed in the circle:’—that is a geometrical hypothesis. And we too, as we know not the nature and qualities of virtue, must ask, whether virtue is or is not taught, under a hypothesis: as thus, if virtue is of such a class of mental goods, will it be taught or not? Let the first hypothesis be that virtue is or is not knowledge,—in that case will it be taught or not? or, as we were just now saying, ‘remembered’? For there is no use in disputing about the name. But is virtue taught or not? or rather, does not every one see that knowledge alone is taught?
Men.
I agree.
Soc.
Then if virtue is knowledge, virtue will be taught?
Men.
Certainly.
Soc.
Then now we have made a quick end of this question: if virtue is of such a nature, it will be taught; and if not, not?
Men.
Certainly.
Soc.
Of course.
The next question is, whether virtue is knowledge or of another species?
Men.
Yes, that appears to be the question which comes next in order.
Soc.
But is virtue knowledge?
Do we not say that virtue is a good?—This is a hypothesis which is not set aside.
Men.
Certainly.
Soc.
Virtue is a good, and profitable: and all profitable things are either profitable or the reverse according as they are or are not under the guidance of knowledge.
Now, if there be any sort of good which is distinct from knowledge, virtue may be that good; but if knowledge embraces all good, then we shall be right in thinking that virtue is knowledge?
Men.
True.
Soc.
And virtue makes us good?
Men.
Yes.
Soc.
And if we are good, then we are profitable; for all good things are profitable?
Men.
Yes.
Soc.
Then virtue is profitable?
Men.
That is the only inference.
Soc.
Then now let us see what are the things which severally profit us. Health and strength, and beauty and wealth—these, and the like of these, we call profitable?
Men.
True.
Soc.
88And yet these things may also sometimes do us harm: would you not think so?
Men.
Yes.
Soc.
And what is the guiding principle which makes them profitable or the reverse? Are they not profitable when they are rightly used, and hurtful when they are not rightly used?
Men.
Certainly.
Soc.
Next, let us consider the goods of the soul: they are temperance, justice, courage, quickness of apprehension, memory, magnanimity, and the like?
Men.
Surely.
Soc.
And such of these as are not knowledge, but of another sort, are sometimes profitable and sometimes hurtful; as, for example, courage wanting prudence, which is only a sort of confidence? When a man has no sense he is harmed by courage, but when he has sense he is profited?
Men.
True.
Soc.
And the same may be said of temperance and quickness of apprehension; whatever things are learned or done with sense are profitable, but when done without sense they are hurtful?
Men.
Very true.
Soc.
And in general, all that the soul attempts or endures, when under the guidance of wisdom, ends in happiness; but when she is under the guidance of folly, in the opposite?
Men.
That appears to be true.
Soc.
And so all virtue must be a sort of wisdom or knowledge.
If then virtue is a quality of the soul, and is admitted to be profitable, it must be wisdom or prudence, since none of the things of the soul are either profitable or hurtful in themselves, but they are all made profitable or hurtful by the addition of wisdom or of folly; and therefore if virtue is profitable, virtue must be a sort of wisdom or prudence?
Men.
I quite agree.
Soc.
And the other goods, such as wealth and the like, of which we were just now saying that they are sometimes good and sometimes evil, do not they also become profitable or hurtful, accordingly as the soul guides and uses them rightly or wrongly; just as the things of the soul herself are benefited when under the guidance of wisdom and harmed by folly?
Men.
True.
Soc.
And the wise soul guides them rightly, and the foolish soul wrongly?
Men.
Yes.
Soc.
And is not this universally true of human nature? All other things hang upon the soul, and the things of the soul herself hang upon wisdom, if they are to be good; and 89so wisdom is inferred to be that which profits—and virtue, as we say, is profitable?
Men.
Certainly.
Soc.
Virtue is either wholly or partly wisdom.
And thus we arrive at the conclusion that virtue is either wholly or partly wisdom?
Men.
I think that what you are saying, Socrates, is very true.
Soc.
But if this is true, then the good are not by nature good?
Men.
I think not.
Soc.
If this is true, virtue must be taught; but then where are the teachers?
If they had been, there would assuredly have been discerners of characters among us who would have known our future great men; and on their showing we should have adopted them, and when we had got them, we should have kept them in the citadel out of the way of harm, and set a stamp upon them far rather than upon a piece of gold, in order that no one might tamper with them; and when they grew up they would have been useful to the state?
Men.
Yes, Socrates, that would have been the right way.
Soc.
But if the good are not by nature good, are they made good by instruction?
Men.
There appears to be no other alternative, Socrates. On the supposition that virtue is knowledge, there can be no doubt that virtue is taught.
Soc.
Yes, indeed; but what if the supposition is erroneous?
Men.
I certainly thought just now that we were right.
Soc.
Yes, Meno; but a principle which has any soundness should stand firm not only just now, but always.
Men.
Well; and why are you so slow of heart to believe that knowledge is virtue?
Soc.
I will try and tell you why, Meno. I do not retract the assertion that if virtue is knowledge it may be taught; but I fear that I have some reason in doubting whether virtue is knowledge: for consider now and say whether virtue, and not only virtue but anything that is taught, must not have teachers and disciples?
Men.
Surely.
Soc.
And conversely, may not the art of which neither teachers nor disciples exist be assumed to be incapable of being taught?
Men.
True; but do you think that there are no teachers of virtue?
Soc.
Can Anytus tell us who they are?
I have certainly often enquired whether there were any, and taken great pains to find them, and have never succeeded; and many have assisted me in the search, and they were the persons whom I thought the most likely to know. 90Here at the moment when he is wanted we fortunately have sitting by us Anytus, the very person of whom we should make enquiry; to him then let us repair. In the first place, he is the son of a wealthy and wise father, Anthemion, who acquired his wealth, not by accident or gift, like Ismenias the Theban (who has recently made himself as rich as Polycrates), but by his own skill and industry, and who is a well-conditioned, modest man, not insolent, or overbearing, or annoying; moreover, this son of his has received a good education, as the Athenian people certainly appear to think, for they choose him to fill the highest offices. And these are the sort of men from whom you are likely to learn whether there are any teachers of virtue, and who they are. Please, Anytus, to help me and your friend Meno in answering our question, Who are the teachers? Consider the matter thus: If we wanted Meno to be a good physician, to whom should we send him? Should we not send him to the physicians?
Any.
Certainly.
Soc.
Or if we wanted him to be a good cobbler, should we not send him to the cobblers?
Any.
Yes.
Soc.
And so forth?
Any.
Yes.
Soc.
The arts are taught by the professors of them. And have we not heard of those who profess to teach virtue at a fixed price?
Let me trouble you with one more question. When we say that we should be right in sending him to the physicians if we wanted him to be a physician, do we mean that we should be right in sending him to those who profess the art, rather than to those who do not, and to those who demand payment for teaching the art, and profess to teach it to any one who will come and learn? And if these were our reasons, should we not be right in sending him?
Any.
Yes.
Soc.
And might not the same be said of flute-playing, and of the other arts? Would a man who wanted to make another a flute-player refuse to send him to those who profess to teach the art for money, and be plaguing other persons to give him instruction, who are not professed teachers and who never had a single disciple in that branch of knowledge which he wishes him to acquire—would not such conduct be the height of folly?
Any.
Yes, by Zeus, and of ignorance too.
Soc.
Very good. And now you are in a position to advise with me about my friend Meno. He has been telling me, Anytus, that he desires to attain that kind of wisdom and virtue by which men order the state or the house, and honour their parents, and know when to receive and when to send away citizens and strangers, as a good man should. Now, to whom should he go in order that he may learn this virtue? Does not the previous argument imply clearly that we should send him to those who profess and avouch that they are the common teachers of all Hellas, and are ready to impart instruction to any one who likes, at a fixed price?
Any.
Whom do you mean, Socrates?
Soc.
You surely know, do you not, Anytus, that these are the people whom mankind call Sophists?
Any.
Anytus inveighs against the corrupting influence of the Sophists.
By Heracles, Socrates, forbear! I only hope that no friend or kinsman or acquaintance of mine, whether citizen or stranger, will ever be so mad as to allow himself to be corrupted by them; for they are a manifest pest and corrupting influence to those who have to do with them.
Soc.
Why surely they cannot really be corrupters? See what fortunes they make, and what an excellent reputation many of them bear!
What, Anytus? Of all the people who profess that they know how to do men good, do you mean to say that these are the only ones who not only do them no good, but positively corrupt those who are entrusted to them, and in return for this disservice have the face to demand money? Indeed, I cannot believe you; for I know of a single man, Protagoras, who made more out of his craft than the illustrious Pheidias, who created such noble works, or any ten other statuaries. How could that be? A mender of old shoes, or patcher up of clothes, who made the shoes or clothes worse than he received them, could not have remained thirty days undetected, and would very soon have starved; whereas during more than forty years, Protagoras was corrupting all Hellas, and sending his disciples from him worse than he received them, and he was never found out. For, if I am not mistaken, he was about seventy years old at his death, forty of which were spent in the practice of his profession; and during all that time he had a good reputation, which to this day he retains: and not only Protagoras, but many others are well spoken of; some who lived before him, and others who are still living. Now, when you say that they deceived and 92corrupted the youth, are they to be supposed to have corrupted them consciously or unconsciously? Can those who were deemed by many to be the wisest men of Hellas have been out of their minds?
Any.
The wisest men in Hellas could not have been out of their minds? No:—the people who gave their money to them were out of their minds.
Out of their minds! No, Socrates; the young men who gave their money to them were out of their minds, and their relations and guardians who entrusted their youth to the care of these men were still more out of their minds, and most of all, the cities who allowed them to come in, and did not drive them out, citizen and stranger alike.
Soc.
Has any of the Sophists wronged you, Anytus? What makes you so angry with them?
Any.
No, indeed, neither I nor any of my belongings has ever had, nor would I suffer them to have, anything to do with them.
Soc.
Then you are entirely unacquainted with them?
Any.
And I have no wish to be acquainted.
Soc.
How can Anytus know that they are bad, if he does not know them at all?
Then, my dear friend, how can you know whether a thing is good or bad of which you are wholly ignorant?
Any.
Quite well; I am sure that I know what manner of men these are, whether I am acquainted with them or not.
Soc.
Then who will teach Meno virtue?
You must be a diviner, Anytus, for I really cannot make out, judging from your own words, how, if you are not acquainted with them, you know about them. But I am not enquiring of you who are the teachers who will corrupt Meno (let them be, if you please, the Sophists); I only ask you to tell him who there is in this great city who will teach him how to become eminent in the virtues which I was just now describing. He is the friend of your family, and you will oblige him.
Any.
Why do you not tell him yourself?
Soc.
I have told him whom I supposed to be the teachers of these things; but I learn from you that I am utterly at fault, and I dare say that you are right. And now I wish that you, on your part, would tell me to whom among the Athenians he should go. Whom would you name?
Any.
Any Athenian gentleman who has learned of a previous generation of gentlemen.
Why single out individuals? Any Athenian gentleman, taken at random, if he will mind him, will do far more good to him than the Sophists.
Soc.
And did those gentlemen grow of themselves; and without having been taught by any one, were they nevertheless 93able to teach others that which they had never learned themselves?
Any.
I imagine that they learned of the previous generation of gentlemen. Have there not been many good men in this city?
Soc.
Yes, certainly, Anytus; and many good statesmen also there always have been and there are still, in the city of Athens. But the question is whether they were also good teachers of their own virtue;—not whether there are, or have been, good men in this part of the world, but whether virtue can be taught, is the question which we have been discussing. Now, do we mean to say that the good men of our own and of other times knew how to impart to others that virtue which they had themselves; or is virtue a thing incapable of being communicated or imparted by one man to another? That is the question which I and Meno have been arguing. Look at the matter in your own way: Would you not admit that Themistocles was a good man?
Any.
Certainly; no man better.
Soc.
Good men may not have been good teachers. There never was a better man than Themistocles; but he did not make much of his own son.
And must not he then have been a good teacher, if any man ever was a good teacher, of his own virtue?
Any.
Yes, certainly,—if he wanted to be so.
Soc.
But would he not have wanted? He would, at any rate, have desired to make his own son a good man and a gentleman; he could not have been jealous of him, or have intentionally abstained from imparting to him his own virtue. Did you never hear that he made his son Cleophantus a famous horseman; and had him taught to stand upright on horseback and hurl a javelin, and to do many other marvellous things; and in anything which could be learned from a master he was well trained? Have you not heard from our elders of him?
Any.
I have.
Soc.
Then no one could say that his son showed any want of capacity?
Any.
Very likely not.
Soc.
But did any one, old or young, ever say in your hearing that Cleophantus, son of Themistocles, was a wise or good man, as his father was?
Any.
I have certainly never heard any one say so.
Soc.
He had him taught accomplishments because there was no one to teach virtue.
And if virtue could have been taught, would his father Themistocles have sought to train him in these minor accomplishments, and allowed him who, as you must remember, was his own son, to be no better than his neighbours in those qualities in which he himself excelled?
Any.
Indeed, indeed, I think not.
Soc.
Here was a teacher of virtue whom you admit to be among the best men of the past. Let us take another,—Aristides, 94the son of Lysimachus: would you not acknowledge that he was a good man?
Any.
To be sure I should.
Soc.
Aristides was also a good man, and Pericles and Thucydides:—they made their sons good horsemen, and wrestlers, and the like, but they did not have them taught to be good, because virtue cannot be taught.
And did not he train his son Lysimachus better than any other Athenian in all that could be done for him by the help of masters? But what has been the result? Is he a bit better than any other mortal? He is an acquaintance of yours, and you see what he is like. There is Pericles, again, magnificent in his wisdom; and he, as you are aware, had two sons, Paralus and Xanthippus.
Any.
I know.
Soc.
And you know, also, that he taught them to be unrivalled horsemen, and had them trained in music and gymnastics and all sorts of arts—in these respects they were on a level with the best—and had he no wish to make good men of them? Nay, he must have wished it. But virtue, as I suspect, could not be taught. And that you may not suppose the incompetent teachers to be only the meaner sort of Athenians and few in number, remember again that Thucydides had two sons, Melesias and Stephanus, whom, besides giving them a good education in other things, he trained in wrestling, and they were the best wrestlers in Athens: one of them he committed to the care of Xanthias, and the other of Eudorus, who had the reputation of being the most celebrated wrestlers of that day. Do you remember them?
Any.
I have heard of them.
Soc.
Socrates, Anytus, Meno.
Now, can there be a doubt that Thucydides, whose children were taught things for which he had to spend money, would have taught them to be good men, which would have cost him nothing, if virtue could have been taught? Will you reply that he was a mean man, and had not many friends among the Athenians and allies? Nay, but he was of a great family, and a man of influence at Athens and in all Hellas, and, if virtue could have been taught, he would have found out some Athenian or foreigner who would have made good men of his sons, if he could not himself spare the time from cares of state. Once more, I suspect, friend Anytus, that virtue is not a thing which can be taught?
Any.
Anytus gives an angry warning to Socrates.
Socrates, I think that you are too ready to speak evil of men: and, if you will take my advice, I would recommend you to be careful. Perhaps there is no city in which it is not easier to do men harm than to do them good, and 95this is certainly the case at Athens, as I believe that you know.
Soc.
O Meno, I think that Anytus is in a rage. And he may well be in a rage, for he thinks, in the first place, that I am defaming these gentlemen; and in the second place, he is of opinion that he is one of them himself. But some day he will know what is the meaning of defamation, and if he ever does, he will forgive me. Meanwhile I will return to you, Meno; for I suppose that there are gentlemen in your region too?
Men.
Certainly there are.
Soc.
And are they willing to teach the young? and do they profess to be teachers? and do they agree that virtue is taught?
Men.
The Thessalian gentry are not agreed about the possibility of teaching virtue.
No indeed, Socrates, they are anything but agreed; you may hear them saying at one time that virtue can be taught, and then again the reverse.
Soc.
Can we call those teachers who do not acknowledge the possibility of their own vocation?
Men.
I think not, Socrates.
Soc.
And what do you think of these Sophists, who are the only professors? Do they seem to you to be teachers of virtue?
Men.
Gorgias professes to teach rhetoric, but laughs at those who pretend to teach virtue.
I often wonder, Socrates, that Gorgias is never heard promising to teach virtue: and when he hears others promising he only laughs at them; but he thinks that men should be taught to speak.
Soc.
Then do you not think that the Sophists are teachers?
Men.
Socrates, Meno.
I cannot tell you, Socrates; like the rest of the world, I am in doubt, and sometimes I think that they are teachers and sometimes not.
Soc.
And are you aware that not you only and other politicians have doubts whether virtue can be taught or not, but that Theognis the poet says the very same thing?
Men.
Where does he say so?
Soc.
In these elegiac verses1 :—
Theognis implies in one passage that virtue can, and in another that it cannot, be taught.
‘Eat and drink and sit with the mighty, and make yourself agreeable to them; for from the good you will learn what is good, but if you mix with the bad you will lose the intelligence which you already have.’
Do you observe that here he seems to imply that virtue can be taught?
Men.
Clearly.
Soc.
But in some other verses he shifts about and says2 :—
‘If understanding could be created and put into a man, then they’ [who were able to perform this feat] ‘would have obtained great rewards.’
And again:—
‘Never would a bad son have sprung from a good sire, for he would have 96heard the voice of instruction; but not by teaching will you ever make a bad man into a good one.’
And this, as you may remark, is a contradiction of the other.
Men.
Clearly.
Soc.
How can they be teachers who are so inconsistent with themselves?
And is there anything else of which the professors are affirmed not only not to be teachers of others, but to be ignorant themselves, and bad at the knowledge of that which they are professing to teach? or is there anything about which even the acknowledged ‘gentlemen’ are sometimes saying that ‘this thing can be taught,’ and sometimes the opposite? Can you say that they are teachers in any true sense whose ideas are in such confusion?
Men.
I should say, certainly not.
Soc.
But if neither the Sophists nor the gentlemen are teachers, clearly there can be no other teachers?
Men.
No.
Soc.
And if there are no teachers, neither are there disciples?
Men.
Agreed.
Soc.
And we have admitted that a thing cannot be taught of which there are neither teachers nor disciples?
Men.
We have.
Soc.
If there are no teachers and no scholars, virtue cannot be taught.
And there are no teachers of virtue to be found anywhere?
Men.
There are not.
Soc.
And if there are no teachers, neither are there scholars?
Men.
That, I think, is true.
Soc.
Then virtue cannot be taught?
Men.
Not if we are right in our view. But I cannot believe, Socrates, that there are no good men: And if there are, how did they come into existence?
Soc.
But were we not mistaken in our view? There may be another guide to good action as well as knowledge,
I am afraid, Meno, that you and I are not good for much, and that Gorgias has been as poor an educator of you as Prodicus has been of me. Certainly we shall have to look to ourselves, and try to find some one who will help in some way or other to improve us. This I say, because I observe that in the previous discussion none of us remarked that right and good action is possible to man under other guidance than that of knowledge (ἐπιστήμη);—and indeed if this be denied, there is no seeing how there can be any good men at all.
Men.
How do you mean, Socrates?
Soc.
I mean that good men are necessarily useful or 97profitable. Were we not right in admitting this? It must be so.
Men.
Yes.
Soc.
And in supposing that they will be useful only if they are true guides to us of action—there we were also right?
Men.
Yes.
Soc.
But when we said that a man cannot be a good guide unless he have knowledge (ϕρόνησις), in this we were wrong.
Men.
What do you mean by the word ‘right’?
Soc.
I will explain. If a man knew the way to Larisa, or anywhere else, and went to the place and led others thither, would he not be a right and good guide?
Men.
Certainly.
Soc.
And a person who had a right opinion about the way, but had never been and did not know, might be a good guide also, might he not?
Men.
Certainly.
Soc.
And while he has true opinion about that which the other knows, he will be just as good a guide if he thinks the truth, as he who knows the truth?
Men.
Exactly.
Soc.
Right opinion is as good a guide to action as knowledge.
Then true opinion is as good a guide to correct action as knowledge; and that was the point which we omitted in our speculation about the nature of virtue, when we said that knowledge only is the guide of right action; whereas there is also right opinion.
Men.
True.
Soc.
Then right opinion is not less useful than knowledge?
Men.
The difference, Socrates, is only that he who has knowledge will always be right; but he who has right opinion will sometimes be right, and sometimes not.
Soc.
What do you mean? Can he be wrong who has right opinion, so long as he has right opinion?
Men.
I admit the cogency of your argument, and therefore, Socrates, I wonder that knowledge should be preferred to right opinion—or why they should ever differ.
Soc.
And shall I explain this wonder to you?
Men.
Do tell me.
Soc.
You would not wonder if you had ever observed the images of Daedalus1 ; but perhaps you have not got them in your country?
Men.
What have they to do with the question?
Soc.
Because they require to be fastened in order to keep them, and if they are not fastened they will play truant and run away.
Men.
Well, what of that?
Soc.
But right opinions are apt to walk away, like the images of Daedalus.
I mean to say that they are not very valuable possessions if they are at liberty, for they will walk off like runaway slaves; but when fastened, they are of great value, for they are really beautiful works of art. Now this is an illustration of the nature of true opinions: while they abide 98with us they are beautiful and fruitful, but they run away out of the human soul, and do not remain long, and therefore they are not of much value until they are fastened by the tie of the cause; and this fastening of them, friend Meno, is recollection, as you and I have agreed to call it. But when they are bound, in the first place, they have the nature of knowledge; and, in the second place, they are abiding. And this is why knowledge is more honourable and excellent than true opinion, because fastened by a chain.
Men.
What you are saying, Socrates, seems to be very like the truth.
Soc.
I too speak rather in ignorance; I only conjecture. And yet that knowledge differs from true opinion is no matter of conjecture with me. There are not many things which I profess to know, but this is most certainly one of them.
Men.
Yes, Socrates; and you are quite right in saying so.
Soc.
And am I not also right in saying that true opinion leading the way perfects action quite as well as knowledge?
Men.
There again, Socrates, I think that you are right.
Soc.
Then right opinion is not a whit inferior to knowledge, or less useful in action; nor is the man who has right opinion inferior to him who has knowledge?
Men.
True.
Soc.
And surely the good man has been acknowledged by us to be useful?
Men.
Yes.
Soc.
Seeing then that men become good and useful to states, not only because they have knowledge, but because they have right opinion, and that neither knowledge nor right opinion is given to man by nature or acquired by him—(do you imagine either of them to be given by nature?
Men.
Not I.)
Soc.
Then if they are not given by nature, neither are the good by nature good?
Men.
Certainly not.
Soc.
And nature being excluded, then came the question whether virtue is acquired by teaching?
Men.
Yes.
Soc.
If virtue was wisdom [or knowledge], then, as we thought, it was taught?
Men.
Yes.
Soc.
And if it was taught it was wisdom?
Men.
Certainly.
Soc.
And if there were teachers, it might be taught; and if there were no teachers, not?
Men.
True.
Soc.
But surely we acknowledged that there were no teachers of virtue?
Men.
Yes.
Soc.
Then we acknowledged that it was not taught, and was not wisdom?
Men.
Certainly.
Soc.
And yet we admitted that it was a good?
Men.
Yes.
Soc.
And the right guide is useful and good? 99
Men.
Certainly.
Soc.
If virtue and knowledge cannot be taught, the only right guides of men are true opinions.
And the only right guides are knowledge and true opinion—these are the guides of man; for things which happen by chance are not under the guidance of man: but the guides of man are true opinion and knowledge.
Men.
I think so too.
Soc.
But if virtue is not taught, neither is virtue knowledge.
Men.
Clearly not.
Soc.
Then of two good and useful things, one, which is knowledge, has been set aside, and cannot be supposed to be our guide in political life.
Men.
I think not.
Soc.
And therefore not by any wisdom, and not because they were wise, did Themistocles and those others of whom Anytus spoke govern states. This was the reason why they were unable to make others like themselves—because their virtue was not grounded on knowledge.
Men.
That is probably true, Socrates.
Soc.
Right opinion is in politics what divination is in religion; diviners, prophets, poets, statesmen, may all be truly called ‘divine men.
But if not by knowledge, the only alternative which remains is that statesmen must have guided states by right opinion, which is in politics what divination is in religion; for diviners and also prophets say many things truly, but they know not what they say.
Men.
So I believe.
Soc.
And may we not, Meno, truly call those men ‘divine’ who, having no understanding, yet succeed in many a grand deed and word?
Men.
Certainly.
Soc.
Then we shall also be right in calling divine those whom we were just now speaking of as diviners and prophets, including the whole tribe of poets. Yes, and statesmen above all may be said to be divine and illumined, being inspired and possessed of God, in which condition they say many grand things, not knowing what they say.
Men.
Yes.
Soc.
And the women too, Meno, call good men divine—do they not? and the Spartans, when they praise a good man, say ‘that he is a divine man.’
Men.
And I think, Socrates, that they are right; although very likely our friend Anytus may take offence at the word.
Soc.
I do not care; as for Anytus, there will be another opportunity of talking with him. To sum up our enquiry—the result seems to be, if we are at all right in our view, that virtue is neither natural nor acquired, but an instinct given 100by God to the virtuous. Nor is the instinct accompanied by reason, unless there may be supposed to be among statesmen some one who is capable of educating statesmen. And if there be such an one, he may be said to be among the living what Homer says that Tiresias was among the dead, ‘he alone has understanding; but the rest are flitting shades;’ and he and his virtue in like manner will be a reality among shadows.
Men.
That is excellent, Socrates.
Soc.
Virtue comes by the gift of God.
Then, Meno, the conclusion is that virtue comes to the virtuous by the gift of God. But we shall never know the certain truth until, before asking how virtue is given, we enquire into the actual nature of virtue. I fear that I must go away, but do you, now that you are persuaded yourself, persuade our friend Anytus. And do not let him be so exasperated; if you can conciliate him, you will have done good service to the Athenian people.
EUTHYPHRO.
INTRODUCTION.
Euthyphro.Introduction.
In the Meno, Anytus had parted from Socrates with the significant words: ‘That in any city, and particularly in the city of Athens, it is easier to do men harm than to do them good’ (94 E); and Socrates was anticipating another opportunity of talking with him (99 E). In the Euthyphro, Socrates is awaiting his trial for impiety. But before the trial begins, Plato would like to put the world on their trial, and convince them of ignorance in that very matter touching which Socrates is accused. An incident which may perhaps really have occurred in the family of Euthyphro, a learned Athenian diviner and soothsayer, furnishes the occasion of the discussion.
Analysis.
This Euthyphro and Socrates are represented as meeting in the 2porch of the King Archon. (Cp. Theaet. sub fin.) Both have legal business in hand. Socrates is defendant in a suit for impiety 3which Meletus has brought against him (it is remarked by the way that he is not a likely man himself to have brought a suit against another); and Euthyphro too is plaintiff in an action for 4murder, which he has brought against his own father. The latter has originated in the following manner:—A poor dependant of the family had slain one of their domestic slaves in Naxos. The guilty person was bound and thrown into a ditch by the command of Euthyphro’s father, who sent to the interpreters of religion at Athens to ask what should be done with him. Before the messenger came back the criminal had died from hunger and exposure.
This is the origin of the charge of murder which Euthyphro brings against his father. Socrates is confident that before he could have undertaken the responsibility of such a prosecution, he must have been perfectly informed of the nature of piety and 5impiety; and as he is going to be tried for impiety himself, he thinks that he cannot do better than learn of Euthyphro (who will be admitted by everybody, including the judges, to be an unimpeachable authority) what piety is, and what is impiety. What then is piety?
Euthyphro, who, in the abundance of his knowledge, is very willing to undertake all the responsibility, replies: That piety is doing as I do, prosecuting your father (if he is guilty) on a charge of murder; doing as the gods do—as Zeus did to Cronos, and Cronos to Uranus.
Socrates has a dislike to these tales of mythology, and he fancies 6that this dislike of his may be the reason why he is charged with impiety. ‘Are they really true?’ ‘Yes, they are;’ and Euthyphro will gladly tell Socrates some more of them. But Socrates would like first of all to have a more satisfactory answer to the question, ‘What is piety?’ ‘Doing as I do, charging a father with murder,’ may be a single instance of piety, but can hardly be regarded as a general definition.
Euthyphro replies, that ‘Piety is what is dear to the gods, 7and impiety is what is not dear to them.’ But may there not be differences of opinion, as among men, so also among the gods? Especially, about good and evil, which have no fixed rule; and these are precisely the sort of differences which give rise to quarrels. And therefore what may be dear to one 8god may not be dear to another, and the same action may be both pious and impious; e. g. your chastisement of your father, Euthyphro, may be dear or pleasing to Zeus (who inflicted a similar chastisement on his own father), but not equally pleasing to Cronos or Uranus (who suffered at the hands of their sons).
Euthyphro answers that there is no difference of opinion, either among gods or men, as to the propriety of punishing a murderer. Yes, rejoins Socrates, when they know him to be a murderer; but you are assuming the point at issue. If all the circumstances of the case are considered, are you able to show that your father 9was guilty of murder, or that all the gods are agreed in approving of our prosecution of him? And must you not allow that what is hated by one god may be liked by another? Waiving this last, however, Socrates proposes to amend the definition, and say that ‘what all the gods love is pious, and what they all hate is impious.’ To this Euthyphro agrees.
10Socrates proceeds to analyze the new form of the definition. He shows that in other cases the act precedes the state; e.g. the act of being carried, loved, &c. precedes the state of being carried, loved, &c., and therefore that which is dear to the gods is dear to the gods because it is first loved of them, not loved of them because it is dear to them. But the pious or holy is loved by the gods because it is pious or holy, which is equivalent to saying, that it is loved by them because it is dear to them. Here 11then appears to be a contradiction,—Euthyphro has been giving an attribute or accident of piety only, and not the essence. Euthyphro acknowledges himself that his explanations seem to walk away or go round in a circle, like the moving figures of Daedalus, the ancestor of Socrates, who has communicated his art to his descendants.
12Socrates, who is desirous of stimulating the indolent intelligence of Euthyphro, raises the question in another manner: ‘Is all the pious just?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Is all the just pious?’ ‘No.’ ‘Then what part of justice is piety?’ Euthyphro replies that piety is that part of justice which ‘attends’ to the gods, as there is another 13part of justice which ‘attends’ to men. But what is the meaning of ‘attending’ to the gods? The word ‘attending,’ when applied to dogs, horses, and men, implies that in some way they are made better. But how do pious or holy acts make the gods any better? Euthyphro explains that he means by pious acts, acts of service or ministration. Yes; but the ministrations of the husbandman, the physician, and the builder have an end. To what end do 14we serve the gods, and what do we help them to accomplish? Euthyphro replies, that all these difficult questions cannot be resolved in a short time; and he would rather say simply that piety is knowing how to please the gods in word and deed, by prayers and sacrifices. In other words, says Socrates, piety is ‘a 15science of asking and giving’—asking what we want and giving what they want; in short, a mode of doing business between gods and men. But although they are the givers of all good, how can we give them any good in return? ‘Nay, but we give them honour.’ Then we give them not what is beneficial, but what is pleasing or dear to them; and this is the point which has been already disproved.
Socrates, although weary of the subterfuges and evasions of Euthyphro, remains unshaken in his conviction that he must know the nature of piety, or he would never have prosecuted his old father. He is still hoping that he will condescend to instruct him. But Euthyphro is in a hurry and cannot stay. And Socrates’ last 16hope of knowing the nature of piety before he is prosecuted for impiety has disappeared. As in the Euthydemus the irony is carried on to the end.
Introduction.
The Euthyphro is manifestly designed to contrast the real nature of piety and impiety with the popular conceptions of them. But when the popular conceptions of them have been overthrown, Socrates does not offer any definition of his own: as in the Laches and Lysis, he prepares the way for an answer to the question which he has raised; but true to his own character, refuses to answer himself.
Euthyphro is a religionist, and is elsewhere spoken of, if he be the same person, as the author of a philosophy of names, by whose ‘prancing steeds’ Socrates in the Cratylus is carried away (p. 396). He has the conceit and self-confidence of a Sophist; no doubt that he is right in prosecuting his father has ever entered into his mind. Like a Sophist too, he is incapable either of framing a general definition or of following the course of an argument. His wrong-headedness, one-sidedness, narrowness, positiveness, are characteristic of his priestly office. His failure to apprehend an argument may be compared to a similar defect which is observable in the rhapsode Ion. But he is not a bad man, and he is friendly to Socrates, whose familiar sign he recognizes with interest. Though unable to follow him he is very willing to be led by him, and eagerly catches at any suggestion which saves him from the trouble of thinking. Moreover he is the enemy of Meletus, who, as he says, is availing himself of the popular dislike to innovations in religion in order to injure Socrates; at the same time he is amusingly confident that he has weapons in his own armoury which would be more than a match for him. He is quite sincere in his prosecution of his father, who has accidentally been guilty of homicide, and is not wholly free from blame. To purge away the crime appears to him in the light of a duty, whoever may be the criminal.
Thus begins the contrast between the religion of the letter, or of the narrow and unenlightened conscience, and the higher notion of religion which Socrates vainly endeavours to elicit from him. ‘Piety is doing as I do’ is the idea of religion which first occurs to him, and to many others who do not say what they think with equal frankness. For men are not easily persuaded that any other religion is better than their own; or that other nations, e. g. the Greeks in the time of Socrates, were equally serious in their religious beliefs and difficulties. The chief difference between us and them is, that they were slowly learning what we are in process of forgetting. Greek mythology hardly admitted of the distinction between accidental homicide and murder: that the pollution of blood was the same in both cases is also the feeling of the Athenian diviner. He had not as yet learned the lesson, which philosophy was teaching, that Homer and Hesiod, if not banished from the state, or whipped out of the assembly, as Heracleitus more rudely proposed, at any rate were not to be appealed to as authorities in religion; and he is ready to defend his conduct by the examples of the gods. These are the very tales which Socrates cannot abide; and his dislike of them, as he suspects, has branded him with the reputation of impiety. Here is one answer to the question, ‘Why Socrates was put to death,’ suggested by the way. Another is conveyed in the words, ‘The Athenians do not care about any man being thought wise until he begins to make other men wise; and then for some reason or other they are angry:’ which may be said to be the rule of popular toleration in most other countries, and not at Athens only. In the course of the argument (7 A, B) Socrates remarks that the controversial nature of morals and religion arises out of the difficulty of verifying them. There is no measure or standard to which they can be referred.
The next definition, ‘Piety is that which is loved of the gods,’ is shipwrecked on a refined distinction between the state and the act, corresponding respectively to the adjective (ϕίλον) and the participle (ϕιλούμενον), or rather perhaps to the participle and the verb (ϕιλούμενον and ϕιλεɩ̂ται). The act is prior to the state (as in Aristotle the ἐνέργεια precedes the δύναμις); and the state of being loved is preceded by the act of being loved. But piety or holiness is preceded by the act of being pious, not by the act of being loved; and therefore piety and the state of being loved are different. Through such subtleties of dialectic Socrates is working his way into a deeper region of thought and feeling. He means to say that the words ‘loved of the gods’ express an attribute only, and not the essence of piety.
Then follows the third and last definition, ‘Piety is a part of justice.’ Thus far Socrates has proceeded in placing religion on a moral foundation. He is seeking to realize the harmony of religion and morality, which the great poets Æschylus, Sophocles, and Pindar had unconsciously anticipated, and which is the universal want of all men. To this the soothsayer adds the ceremonial element, ‘attending upon the gods.’ When further interrogated by Socrates as to the nature of this ‘attention to the gods,’ he replies, that piety is an affair of business, a science of giving and asking, and the like. Socrates points out the anthropomorphism of these notions. (Cp. Symp. 202 E; Rep. ii. 365 E; Politicus 290 C, D.) But when we expect him to go on and show that the true service of the gods is the service of the spirit and the co-operation with them in all things true and good, he stops short; this was a lesson which the soothsayer could not have been made to understand, and which every one must learn for himself.
There seem to be altogether three aims or interests in this little Dialogue: (1) the dialectical development of the idea of piety; (2) the antithesis of true and false religion, which is carried to a certain extent only; (3) the defence of Socrates.
The subtle connection with the Apology and the Crito; the holding back of the conclusion, as in the Charmides, Lysis, Laches, Protagoras, and other Dialogues; the deep insight into the religious world; the dramatic power and play of the two characters; the inimitable irony, are reasons for believing that the Euthyphro is a genuine Platonic writing. The spirit in which the popular representations of mythology are denounced recalls Republic II (378 ff.) The virtue of piety has been already mentioned as one of five in the Protagoras, but is not reckoned among the four cardinal virtues of Republic IV (428 ff.). The figure of Daedalus (15 C) has occurred in the Meno (97 D); that of Proteus (15 D) in the Euthydemus (288 B) and Io (541 E). The kingly science has already appeared in the Euthydemus, and will reappear in the Republic and Statesman. But neither from these nor any other indications of similarity or difference, and still less from arguments respecting the suitableness of this little work to aid Socrates at the time of his trial or the reverse, can any evidence of the date be obtained.
EUTHYPHRO.
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE.
Socrates.
Euthyphro.
Scene:—The Porch of the King Archon.
Euthyphro.
Euthyphro.Socrates, Euthyphro.Euthyphro and Socrates meet at the Porch of the King Archon. Both have legal business on hand.
2Why have you left the Lyceum, Socrates? and what are you doing in the Porch of the King Archon? Surely you cannot be concerned in a suit before the King, like myself?
Socrates.
Not in a suit, Euthyphro; impeachment is the word which the Athenians use.
Euth.
What! I suppose that some one has been prosecuting you, for I cannot believe that you are the prosecutor of another.
Soc.
Certainly not.
Euth.
Then some one else has been prosecuting you?
Soc.
Yes.
Euth.
And who is he?
Soc.
A young man who is little known, Euthyphro; and I hardly know him: his name is Meletus, and he is of the deme of Pitthis. Perhaps you may remember his appearance; he has a beak, and long straight hair, and a beard which is ill grown.
Euth.
No, I do not remember him, Socrates. But what is the charge which he brings against you?
Soc.
Meletus has brought a charge against Socrates.
What is the charge? Well, a very serious charge, which shows a good deal of character in the young man, and for which he is certainly not to be despised. He says he knows how the youth are corrupted and who are their corruptors. I fancy that he must be a wise man, and seeing that I am the reverse of a wise man, he has found me out, and is going to accuse me of corrupting his young friends. And of this our mother the state is to be the judge. Of all our political men he is the only one who seems to me to begin in the right way, with the cultivation of virtue in youth; like a good husbandman, he makes the young shoots his first 3care, and clears away us who are the destroyers of them. This is only the first step; he will afterwards attend to the elder branches; and if he goes on as he has begun, he will be a very great public benefactor.
Euth.
I hope that he may; but I rather fear, Socrates, that the opposite will turn out to be the truth. My opinion is that in attacking you he is simply aiming a blow at the foundation of the state. But in what way does he say that you corrupt the young?
Soc.
The nature of the charge against Socrates.
He brings a wonderful accusation against me, which at first hearing excites surprise: he says that I am a poet or maker of gods, and that I invent new gods and deny the existence of old ones; this is the ground of his indictment.
Euth.
I understand, Socrates; he means to attack you about the familiar sign which occasionally, as you say, comes to you. He thinks that you are a neologian, and he is going to have you up before the court for this. He knows that such a charge is readily received by the world, as I myself know too well; for when I speak in the assembly about divine things, and foretell the future to them, they laugh at me and think me a madman. Yet every word that I say is true. But they are jealous of us all; and we must be brave and go at them.
Soc.
Their laughter, friend Euthyphro, is not a matter of much consequence. For a man may be thought wise; but the Athenians, I suspect, do not much trouble themselves about him until he begins to impart his wisdom to others; and then for some reason or other, perhaps, as you say, from jealousy, they are angry.
Euth.
I am never likely to try their temper in this way.
Soc.
I dare say not, for you are reserved in your behaviour, and seldom impart your wisdom. But I have a benevolent habit of pouring out myself to everybody, and would even pay for a listener, and I am afraid that the Athenians may think me too talkative. Now if, as I was saying, they would only laugh at me, as you say that they laugh at you, the time might pass gaily enough in the court; but perhaps they may be in earnest, and then what the end will be you soothsayers only can predict.
Euth.
I dare say that the affair will end in nothing, Socrates, and that you will win your cause; and I think that I shall win my own.
Soc.
And what is your suit, Euthyphro? are you the pursuer or the defendant?
Euth.
I am the pursuer.
Soc.
Of whom?
Euth.
4You will think me mad when I tell you.
Soc.
Why, has the fugitive wings?
Euth.
Nay, he is not very volatile at his time of life.
Soc.
Who is he?
Euth.
My father.
Soc.
Your father! my good man?
Euth.
Yes.
Soc.
And of what is he accused?
Euth.
Of murder, Socrates.
Soc.
The irony of Socrates.
By the powers, Euthyphro! how little does the common herd know of the nature of right and truth. A man must be an extraordinary man, and have made great strides in wisdom, before he could have seen his way to bring such an action.
Euth.
Indeed, Socrates, he must.
Soc.
Euthyphro is under a sacred obligation to prosecute a homicide, even if he be his own father.
I suppose that the man whom your father murdered was one of your relatives—clearly he was; for if he had been a stranger you would never have thought of prosecuting him.
Euth.
I am amused, Socrates, at your making a distinction between one who is a relation and one who is not a relation; for surely the pollution is the same in either case, if you knowingly associate with the murderer when you ought to clear yourself and him by proceeding against him. The real question is whether the murdered man has been justly slain. If justly, then your duty is to let the matter alone; but if unjustly, then even if the murderer lives under the same roof with you and eats at the same table, proceed against him. Now the man who is dead was a poor dependant of mine who worked for us as a field labourer on our farm in Naxos, and one day in a fit of drunken passion he got into a quarrel with one of our domestic servants and slew him. My father bound him hand and foot and threw him into a ditch, and then sent to Athens to ask of a diviner what he should do with him. Meanwhile he never attended to him and took no care about him, for he regarded him as a murderer; and thought that no great harm would be done even if he did die. Now this was just what happened. For such was the effect of cold and hunger and chains upon him, that before the messenger returned from the diviner, he was dead. And my father and family are angry with me for taking the part of the murderer and prosecuting my father. They say that he did not kill him, and that if he did, the dead man was but a murderer, and I ought not to take any notice, for that a son is impious who prosecutes a father. Which shows, Socrates, how little they know what the gods think about piety and impiety.
Soc.
Good heavens, Euthyphro! and is your knowledge of religion and of things pious and impious so very exact, that, supposing the circumstances to be as you state them, you are not afraid lest you too may be doing an impious thing in bringing an action against your father?
Euth.
The best of Euthyphro, and that which distinguishes him, Socrates, from other men, is his exact knowledge of all 5such matters. What should I be good for without it?
Soc.
Socrates, who is accused of false theology, thinks that he cannot do better than become the disciple of so great a theologian as Euthyphro.
Rare friend! I think that I cannot do better than be your disciple. Then before the trial with Meletus comes on I shall challenge him, and say that I have always had a great interest in religious questions, and now, as he charges me with rash imaginations and innovations in religion, I have become your disciple. You, Meletus, as I shall say to him, acknowledge Euthyphro to be a great theologian, and sound in his opinions; and if you approve of him you ought to approve of me, and not have me into court; but if you disapprove, you should begin by indicting him who is my teacher, and who will be the ruin, not of the young, but of the old; that is to say, of myself whom he instructs, and of his old father whom he admonishes and chastises. And if Meletus refuses to listen to me, but will go on, and will not shift the indictment from me to you, I cannot do better than repeat this challenge in the court.
Euth.
Yes, indeed, Socrates; and if he attempts to indict me I am mistaken if I do not find a flaw in him; the court shall have a great deal more to say to him than to me.
Soc.
He asks, ‘What is piety?’
And I, my dear friend, knowing this, am desirous of becoming your disciple. For I observe that no one appears to notice you—not even this Meletus; but his sharp eyes have found me out at once, and he has indicted me for impiety. And therefore, I adjure you to tell me the nature of piety and impiety, which you said that you knew so well, and of murder, and of other offences against the gods. What are they? Is not piety in every action always the same? and impiety, again—is it not always the opposite of piety, and also the same with itself, having, as impiety, one notion which includes whatever is impious?
Euth.
To be sure, Socrates.
Soc.
And what is piety, and what is impiety?
Euth.
Piety is doing as I am doing;—like Zeus, I am proceeding against my father.
Piety is doing as I am doing; that is to say, prosecuting any one who is guilty of murder, sacrilege, or of any similar crime—whether he be your father or mother, or whoever he may be—that makes no difference; and not to prosecute them is impiety. And please to consider, Socrates, what a notable proof I will give you of the truth of my words, a proof which I have already given to others:—of the principle, I mean, that the impious, whoever he may be, ought not to go unpunished. For do not men regard 6Zeus as the best and most righteous of the gods?—and yet they admit that he bound his father (Cronos) because he wickedly devoured his sons, and that he too had punished his own father (Uranus) for a similar reason, in a nameless manner. And yet when I proceed against my father, they are angry with me. So inconsistent are they in their way of talking when the gods are concerned, and when I am concerned.
Soc.
Does Euthyphro believe these amazing stories about the gods?
May not this be the reason, Euthyphro, why I am charged with impiety—that I cannot away with these stories about the gods? and therefore I suppose that people think me wrong. But, as you who are well informed about them approve of them, I cannot do better than assent to your superior wisdom. What else can I say, confessing as I do, that I know nothing about them? Tell me, for the love of Zeus, whether you really believe that they are true.
Euth.
Yes, Socrates; and things more wonderful still, of which the world is in ignorance.
Soc.
And do you really believe that the gods fought with one another, and had dire quarrels, battles, and the like, as the poets say, and as you may see represented in the works of great artists? The temples are full of them; and notably the robe of Athene, which is carried up to the Acropolis at the great Panathenaea, is embroidered with them. Are all these tales of the gods true, Euthyphro?
Euth.
Yes, and things more amazing still.
Yes, Socrates; and, as I was saying, I can tell you, if you would like to hear them, many other things about the gods which would quite amaze you.
Soc.
I dare say; and you shall tell me them at some other time when I have leisure. But just at present I would rather hear from you a more precise answer, which you have not as yet given, my friend, to the question, What is ‘piety’? When asked, you only replied, Doing as you do, charging your father with murder.
Euth.
And what I said was true, Socrates.
Soc.
No doubt, Euthyphro; but you would admit that there are many other pious acts?
Euth.
There are.
Soc.
Remember that I did not ask you to give me two or three examples of piety, but to explain the general idea which makes all pious things to be pious. Do you not recollect that there was one idea which made the impious impious, and the pious pious?
Euth.
I remember.
Soc.
Tell me what is the nature of this idea, and then I shall have a standard to which I may look, and by which I may measure actions, whether yours or those of any one else, and then I shall be able to say that such and such an action is pious, such another impious.
Euth.
A more correct definition:—Piety is that which is dear to the gods.
I will tell you, if you like.
Soc.
I should very much like.
Euth.
Piety, then, is that which is dear to the gods, and impiety is that which is not dear to them.
Soc.
Very good, Euthyphro; you have now given me the 7 sort of answer which I wanted. But whether what you say is true or not I cannot as yet tell, although I make no doubt that you will prove the truth of your words.
Euth.
Of course.
Soc.
Come, then, and let us examine what we are saying. That thing or person which is dear to the gods is pious, and that thing or person which is hateful to the gods is impious, these two being the extreme opposites of one another. Was not that said?
Euth.
It was.
Soc.
And well said?
Euth.
Yes, Socrates, I thought so; it was certainly said.
Soc.
And further, Euthyphro, the gods were admitted to have enmities and hatreds and differences?
Euth.
Yes, that was also said.
Soc.
Differences about numbers and figures create no ill-will because they can be settled by a sum or by a weighing machine, but enmities about the just and unjust are the occasions of quarrels, both among gods and men.
And what sort of difference creates enmity and anger? Suppose for example that you and I, my good friend, differ about a number; do differences of this sort make us enemies and set us at variance with one another? Do we not go at once to arithmetic, and put an end to them by a sum?
Euth.
True.
Soc.
Or suppose that we differ about magnitudes, do we not quickly end the difference by measuring?
Euth.
Very true.
Soc.
And we end a controversy about heavy and light by resorting to a weighing machine?
Euth.
To be sure.
Soc.
But what differences are there which cannot be thus decided, and which therefore make us angry and set us at enmity with one another? I dare say the answer does not occur to you at the moment, and therefore I will suggest that these enmities arise when the matters of difference are the just and unjust, good and evil, honourable and dishonourable. Are not these the points about which men differ, and about which when we are unable satisfactorily to decide our differences, you and I and all of us quarrel, when we do quarrel1 ?
Euth.
Yes, Socrates, the nature of the differences about which we quarrel is such as you describe.
Soc.
And the quarrels of the gods, noble Euthyphro, when they occur, are of a like nature?
Euth.
Certainly they are.
Soc.
They have differences of opinion, as you say, about good and evil, just and unjust, honourable and dishonourable: there would have been no quarrels among them, if there had been no such differences—would there now?
Euth.
You are quite right.
Soc.
Men and gods alike love the things which they deem noble and just, but they are not agreed what these are.
Does not every man love that which he deems noble and just and good, and hate the opposite of them?
Euth.
Very true.
Soc.
But, as you say, people regard the same things, some as just and others as unjust,—about these they dispute; and so there arise wars and fightings among them. 8
Euth.
Very true.
Soc.
Then the same things are hated by the gods and loved by the gods, and are both hateful and dear to them?
Euth.
True.
Soc.
And upon this view the same things, Euthyphro, will be pious and also impious?
Euth.
So I should suppose.
Soc.
Then, my friend, I remark with surprise that you have not answered the question which I asked. For I certainly did not ask you to tell me what action is both pious and impious: but now it would seem that what is loved by the gods is also hated by them. And therefore, Euthyphro, in thus chastising your father you may very likely be doing what is agreeable to Zeus but disagreeable to Cronos or Uranus, and what is acceptable to Hephaestus but unacceptable to Herè, and there may be other gods who have similar differences of opinion.
Euth.
But I believe, Socrates, that all the gods would be agreed as to the propriety of punishing a murderer: there would be no difference of opinion about that.
Soc.
Well, but speaking of men, Euthyphro, did you ever hear any one arguing that a murderer or any sort of evil-doer ought to be let off?
Euth.
I should rather say that these are the questions which they are always arguing, especially in courts of law: they commit all sorts of crimes, and there is nothing which they will not do or say in their own defence.
Soc.
But do they admit their guilt, Euthyphro, and yet say that they ought not to be punished?
Euth.
No; they do not.
Soc.
Then there are some things which they do not venture to say and do: for they do not venture to argue that the guilty are to be unpunished, but they deny their guilt, do they not?
Euth.
Yes.
Soc.
Then they do not argue that the evil-doer should not be punished, but they argue about the fact of who the evil-doer is, and what he did and when?
Euth.
True.
Soc.
Neither God nor man will say that the doer of evil is not to be punished, but they are doubtful about particular acts. What proof is there that all the gods approve of the prosecution of your father?
And the gods are in the same case, if as you assert they quarrel about just and unjust, and some of them say while others deny that injustice is done among them. For surely neither God nor man will ever venture to say that the doer of injustice is not to be punished?
Euth.
That is true, Socrates, in the main.
Soc.
But they join issue about the particulars—gods and men alike; and, if they dispute at all, they dispute about some act which is called in question, and which by some is affirmed to be just, by others to be unjust. Is not that true?
Euth.
Quite true.
Soc.
9Well then, my dear friend Euthyphro, do tell me, for my better instruction and information, what proof have you that in the opinion of all the gods a servant who is guilty of murder, and is put in chains by the master of the dead man, and dies because he is put in chains before he who bound him can learn from the interpreters of the gods what he ought to do with him, dies unjustly; and that on behalf of such an one a son ought to proceed against his father and accuse him of murder. How would you show that all the gods absolutely agree in approving of his act? Prove to me that they do, and I will applaud your wisdom as long as I live.
Euth.
It will be a difficult task; but I could make the matter very clear indeed to you.
Soc.
I understand; you mean to say that I am not so quick of apprehension as the judges: for to them you will be sure to prove that the act is unjust, and hateful to the gods.
Euth.
Yes indeed, Socrates; at least if they will listen to me.
Soc.
Let us say then that what all the gods approve is pious and holy.
But they will be sure to listen if they find that you are a good speaker. There was a notion that came into my mind while you were speaking; I said to myself: ‘Well, and what if Euthyphro does prove to me that all the gods regarded the death of the serf as unjust, how do I know anything more of the nature of piety and impiety? for granting that this action may be hateful to the gods, still piety and impiety are not adequately defined by these distinctions, for that which is hateful to the gods has been shown to be also pleasing and dear to them.’ And therefore, Euthyphro, I do not ask you to prove this; I will suppose, if you like, that all the gods condemn and abominate such an action. But I will amend the definition so far as to say that what all the gods hate is impious, and what they love pious or holy; and what some of them love and others hate is both or neither. Shall this be our definition of piety and impiety?
Euth.
Why not, Socrates?
Soc.
Why not! certainly, as far as I am concerned, Euthyphro, there is no reason why not. But whether this admission will greatly assist you in the task of instructing me as you promised, is a matter for you to consider.
Euth.
Yes, I should say that what all the gods love is pious and holy, and the opposite which they all hate, impious.
Soc.
Ought we to enquire into the truth of this, Euthyphro, or simply to accept the mere statement on our own authority and that of others? What do you say?
Euth.
We should enquire; and I believe that the statement will stand the test of enquiry.
Soc.
But does the state follow the act, or the act the state?
We shall know better, my good friend, in a little while. The point which I should first wish to understand is whether the pious or holy is beloved by the gods because it 10is holy, or holy because it is beloved of the gods.
Euth.
I do not understand your meaning, Socrates.
Soc.
I will endeavour to explain: we speak of carrying and we speak of being carried, of leading and being led, seeing and being seen. You know that in all such cases there is a difference, and you know also in what the difference lies?
Euth.
I think that I understand.
Soc.
And is not that which is beloved distinct from that which loves?
Euth.
Certainly.
Soc.
Well; and now tell me, is that which is carried in this state of carrying because it is carried, or for some other reason?
Euth.
No; that is the reason.
Soc.
And the same is true of what is led and of what is seen?
Euth.
True.
Soc.
And a thing is not seen because it is visible, but conversely, visible because it is seen; nor is a thing led because it is in the state of being led, or carried because it is in the state of being carried, but the converse of this. And now I think, Euthyphro, that my meaning will be intelligible; and my meaning is, that any state of action or passion implies previous action or passion. It does not become because it is becoming, but it is in a state of becoming because it becomes; neither does it suffer because it is in a state of suffering, but it is in a state of suffering because it suffers. Do you not agree?
Euth.
Yes.
Soc.
Is not that which is loved in some state either of becoming or suffering?
Euth.
Yes.
Soc.
The latter is the truer account, and therefore we can only say that what is loved by all the gods is in a state to be loved by them; but holiness has a wider meaning than this.
And the same holds as in the previous instances; the state of being loved follows the act of being loved, and not the act the state.
Euth.
Certainly.
Soc.
And what do you say of piety, Euthyphro: is not piety, according to your definition, loved by all the gods?
Euth.
Yes.
Soc.
Because it is pious or holy, or for some other reason?
Euth.
No, that is the reason.
Soc.
It is loved because it is holy, not holy because it is loved?
Euth.
Yes.
Soc.
And that which is dear to the gods is loved by them, and is in a state to be loved of them because it is loved of them?
Euth.
Certainly.
Soc.
Then that which is dear to the gods, Euthyphro, is not holy, nor is that which is holy loved of God, as you affirm; but they are two different things.
Euth.
How do you mean, Socrates?
Soc.
I mean to say that the holy has been acknowledged by us to be loved of God because it is holy, not to be holy because it is loved.
Euth.
Yes.
Soc.
But that which is dear to the gods is dear to them because it is loved by them, not loved by them because it is dear to them.
Euth.
True.
Soc.
What is the essential meaning of holiness or piety?
But, friend Euthyphro, if that which is holy is the same with that which is dear to God, and is loved because it is holy, then that which is dear to God would have been 11loved as being dear to God; but if that which is dear to God is dear to him because loved by him, then that which is holy would have been holy because loved by him. But now you see that the reverse is the case, and that they are quite different from one another. For one (θεοϕιλὲς) is of a kind to be loved because it is loved, and the other (ὅσιον) is loved because it is of a kind to be loved. Thus you appear to me, Euthyphro, when I ask you what is the essence of holiness, to offer an attribute only, and not the essence—the attribute of being loved by all the gods. But you still refuse to explain to me the nature of holiness. And therefore, if you please, I will ask you not to hide your treasure, but to tell me once more what holiness or piety really is, whether dear to the gods or not (for that is a matter about which we will not quarrel); and what is impiety?
Euth.
I really do not know, Socrates, how to express what I mean. For somehow or other our arguments, on whatever ground we rest them, seem to turn round and walk away from us.
Soc.
Your words, Euthyphro, are like the handiwork of my ancestor Daedalus; and if I were the sayer or propounder of them, you might say that my arguments walk away and will not remain fixed where they are placed because I am a descendant of his. But now, since these notions are your own, you must find some other gibe, for they certainly, as you yourself allow, show an inclination to be on the move.
Euth.
Nay, Socrates, I shall still say that you are the Daedalus who sets arguments in motion; not I, certainly, but you make them move or go round, for they would never have stirred, as far as I am concerned.
Soc.
Then I must be a greater than Daedalus: for whereas he only made his own inventions to move, I move those of other people as well. And the beauty of it is, that I would rather not. For I would give the wisdom of Daedalus, and the wealth of Tantalus, to be able to detain them and keep them fixed. But enough of this. As I perceive that you are lazy, I will myself endeavour to show you how you might instruct me in the nature of piety; and I hope that you will not grudge your labour. Tell me, then,—Is not that which is pious necessarily just?
Euth.
Yes.
Soc.
All which is pious is just:—is therefore all which is just pious?
And is, then, all which is just pious? or, is that which 12is pious all just, but that which is just, only in part and not all, pious?
Euth.
I do not understand you, Socrates.
Soc.
And yet I know that you are as much wiser than I am, as you are younger. But, as I was saying, revered friend, the abundance of your wisdom makes you lazy. Please to exert yourself, for there is no real difficulty in understanding me. What I mean I may explain by an illustration of what I do not mean. The poet (Stasinus) sings—
- ‘Of Zeus, the author and creator of all these things,
- You will not tell: for where there is fear there is also reverence.’
Now I disagree with this poet. Shall I tell you in what respect?
Euth.
By all means.
Soc.
We may say, e.g., that wherever there is reverence there will be fear, but not that wherever there is fear there will be reverence.
I should not say that where there is fear there is also reverence; for I am sure that many persons fear poverty and disease, and the like evils, but I do not perceive that they reverence the objects of their fear.
Euth.
Very true.
Soc.
But where reverence is, there is fear; for he who has a feeling of reverence and shame about the commission of any action, fears and is afraid of an ill reputation.
Euth.
No doubt.
Soc.
Then we are wrong in saying that where there is fear there is also reverence; and we should say, where there is reverence there is also fear. But there is not always reverence where there is fear; for fear is a more extended notion, and reverence is a part of fear, just as the odd is a part of number, and number is a more extended notion than the odd. I suppose that you follow me now?
Euth.
Quite well.
Soc.
That was the sort of question which I meant to raise when I asked whether the just is always the pious, or the pious always the just; and whether there may not be justice where there is not piety; for justice is the more extended notion of which piety is only a part. Do you dissent?
Euth.
No, I think that you are quite right.
Soc.
Then, if piety is a part of justice, I suppose that we should enquire what part? If you had pursued the enquiry in the previous cases; for instance, if you had asked me what is an even number, and what part of number the even is, I should have had no difficulty in replying, a number which represents a figure having two equal sides. Do you not agree?
Euth.
Yes, I quite agree.
Soc.
Piety or holiness is that part of justice which attends upon the gods.
In like manner, I want you to tell me what part of justice is piety or holiness, that I may be able to tell Meletus not to do me injustice, or indict me for impiety, as I am now adequately instructed by you in the nature of piety or holiness, and their opposites.
Euth.
Piety or holiness, Socrates, appears to me to be that part of justice which attends to the gods, as there is the other part of justice which attends to men.
Soc.
That is good, Euthyphro; yet still there is a little 13point about which I should like to have further information, What is the meaning of ‘attention’? For attention can hardly be used in the same sense when applied to the gods as when applied to other things. For instance, horses are said to require attention, and not every person is able to attend to them, but only a person skilled in horsemanship. Is it not so?
Euth.
Certainly.
Soc.
I should suppose that the art of horsemanship is the art of attending to horses?
Euth.
Yes.
Soc.
Nor is every one qualified to attend to dogs, but only the huntsman?
Euth.
True.
Soc.
And I should also conceive that the art of the huntsman is the art of attending to dogs?
Euth.
Yes.
Soc.
As the art of the oxherd is the art of attending to oxen?
Euth.
Very true.
Soc.
In like manner holiness or piety is the art of attending to the gods?—that would be your meaning, Euthyphro?
Euth.
Yes.
Soc.
Attention to others is designed to benefit and improve them. But how are the gods benefited or improved by the holy acts of men?
And is not attention always designed for the good or benefit of that to which the attention is given? As in the case of horses, you may observe that when attended to by the horseman’s art they are benefited and improved, are they not?
Euth.
True.
Soc.
As the dogs are benefited by the huntsman’s art, and the oxen by the art of the oxherd, and all other things are tended or attended for their good and not for their hurt?
Euth.
Certainly, not for their hurt.
Soc.
But for their good?
Euth.
Of course.
Soc.
And does piety or holiness, which has been defined to be the art of attending to the gods, benefit or improve them? Would you say that when you do a holy act you make any of the gods better?
Euth.
No, no; that was certainly not what I meant.
Soc.
And I, Euthyphro, never supposed that you did. I asked you the question about the nature of the attention, because I thought that you did not.
Euth.
You do me justice, Socrates; that is not the sort of attention which I mean.
Soc.
The attention to the gods called piety is such as servants show their masters.
Good: but I must still ask what is this attention to the gods which is called piety?
Euth.
It is such, Socrates, as servants show to their masters.
Soc.
I understand—a sort of ministration to the gods.
Euth.
Exactly.
Soc.
Medicine is also a sort of ministration or service, having in view the attainment of some object—would you not say of health?
Euth.
I should.
Soc.
Again, there is an art which ministers to the ship-builder with a view to the attainment of some result?
Euth.
Yes, Socrates, with a view to the building of a ship.
Soc.
As there is an art which ministers to the house-builder with a view to the building of a house?
Euth.
Yes.
Soc.
But in what way do men help the work of God?
And now tell me, my good friend, about the art which ministers to the gods: what work does that help to accomplish? For you must surely know if, as you say, you are of all men living the one who is best instructed in religion.
Euth.
And I speak the truth, Socrates.
Soc.
Tell me then, oh tell me—what is that fair work which the gods do by the help of our ministrations?
Euth.
Many and fair, Socrates, are the works which they do.
Soc.
Why, my friend, and so are those of a general. But 14the chief of them is easily told. Would you not say that victory in war is the chief of them?
Euth.
Certainly.
Soc.
Many and fair, too, are the works of the husbandman, if I am not mistaken; but his chief work is the production of food from the earth?
Euth.
Exactly.
Soc.
And of the many and fair things done by the gods, which is the chief or principal one?
Euth.
I have told you already, Socrates, that to learn all these things accurately will be very tiresome. Let me simply say that piety or holiness is learning how to please the gods in word and deed, by prayers and sacrifices. Such piety is the salvation of families and states, just as the impious, which is unpleasing to the gods, is their ruin and destruction.
Soc.
I think that you could have answered in much fewer words the chief question which I asked, Euthyphro, if you had chosen. But I see plainly that you are not disposed to instruct me—clearly not: else why, when we reached the point, did you turn aside? Had you only answered me I should have truly learned of you by this time the nature of piety. Now, as the asker of a question is necessarily dependent on the answerer, whither he leads I must follow; and can only ask again, what is the pious, and what is piety? Do you mean that they are a sort of science of praying and sacrificing?
Euth.
Yes, I do.
Soc.
And sacrificing is giving to the gods, and prayer is asking of the gods?
Euth.
Yes, Socrates.
Soc.
Upon this view, then, piety is a science of asking and giving?
Euth.
You understand me capitally, Socrates.
Soc.
Yes, my friend; the reason is that I am a votary of your science, and give my mind to it, and therefore nothing which you say will be thrown away upon me. Please then to tell me, what is the nature of this service to the gods? Do you mean that we prefer requests and give gifts to them?
Euth.
Yes, I do.
Soc.
Is not the right way of asking to ask of them what we want?
Euth.
Certainly.
Soc.
Men give to the gods, and the gods give to men; they do business with one another.
And the right way of giving is to give to them in return what they want of us. There would be no meaning in an art which gives to any one that which he does not want.
Euth.
Very true, Socrates.
Soc.
Then piety, Euthyphro, is an art which gods and men have of doing business with one another?
Euth.
That is an expression which you may use, if you like.
Soc.
But I have no particular liking for anything but the truth. I wish, however, that you would tell me what benefit accrues to the gods from our gifts. There is no doubt about 15what they give to us; for there is no good thing which they do not give; but how we can give any good thing to them in return is far from being equally clear. If they give everything and we give nothing, that must be an affair of business in which we have very greatly the advantage of them.
Euth.
And do you imagine, Socrates, that any benefit accrues to the gods from our gifts?
Soc.
But if not, Euthyphro, what is the meaning of gifts which are conferred by us upon the gods?
Euth.
What else, but tributes of honour; and, as I was just now saying, what pleases them?
Soc.
Piety, then, is pleasing to the gods, but not beneficial or dear to them?
Euth.
I should say that nothing could be dearer.
Soc.
Then once more the assertion is repeated that piety is dear to the gods?
Euth.
Certainly.
Soc.
Again, the argument walks away.
And when you say this, can you wonder at your words not standing firm, but walking away? Will you accuse me of being the Daedalus who makes them walk away, not perceiving that there is another and far greater artist than Daedalus who makes them go round in a circle, and he is yourself; for the argument, as you will perceive, comes round to the same point. Were we not saying that the holy or pious was not the same with that which is loved of the gods? Have you forgotten?
Euth.
I quite remember.
Soc.
And are you not saying that what is loved of the gods is holy; and is not this the same as what is dear to them—do you see?
Euth.
True.
Soc.
Then either we were wrong in our former assertion; or, if we were right then, we are wrong now.
Euth.
One of the two must be true.
Soc.
Nevertheless, Socrates is confident that Euthyphro knows the truth, but will not tell him.
Then we must begin again and ask, What is piety? That is an enquiry which I shall never be weary of pursuing as far as in me lies; and I entreat you not to scorn me, but to apply your mind to the utmost, and tell me the truth. For, if any man knows, you are he; and therefore I must detain you, like Proteus, until you tell. If you had not certainly known the nature of piety and impiety, I am confident that you would never, on behalf of a serf, have charged your aged father with murder. You would not have run such a risk of doing wrong in the sight of the gods, and you would have had too much respect for the opinions of men. I am sure, therefore, that you know the nature of piety and impiety. Speak out then, my dear Euthyphro, and do not hide your knowledge.
Euth.
Euthyphro is in a hurry to depart, and finally leaves Socrates to his fate.
Another time, Socrates; for I am in a hurry, and must go now.
Soc.
Alas! my companion, and will you leave me in despair? I was hoping that you would instruct me in the nature of piety and impiety; and then I might have cleared myself of Meletus and his indictment. I would have told 16him that I had been enlightened by Euthyphro, and had given up rash innovations and speculations, in which I indulged only through ignorance, and that now I am about to lead a better life.
APOLOGY.
INTRODUCTION.
Apology.Introduction.
In what relation the Apology of Plato stands to the real defence of Socrates, there are no means of determining. It certainly agrees in tone and character with the description of Xenophon, who says in the Memorabilia (iv. 4, 4) that Socrates might have been acquitted ‘if in any moderate degree he would have conciliated the favour of the dicasts;’ and who informs us in another passage (iv. 8, 4), on the testimony of Hermogenes, the friend of Socrates, that he had no wish to live; and that the divine sign refused to allow him to prepare a defence, and also that Socrates himself declared this to be unnecessary, on the ground that all his life long he had been preparing against that hour. For the speech breathes throughout a spirit of defiance, ‘ut non supplex aut reus sed magister aut dominus videretur esse judicum’ (Cic. de Orat. i. 54); and the loose and desultory style is an imitation of the ‘accustomed manner’ in which Socrates spoke in ‘the agora and among the tables of the money-changers.’ The allusion in the Crito (45 B) may, perhaps, be adduced as a further evidence of the literal accuracy of some parts (37 C, D). But in the main it must be regarded as the ideal of Socrates, according to Plato’s conception of him, appearing in the greatest and most public scene of his life, and in the height of his triumph, when he is weakest, and yet his mastery over mankind is greatest, and his habitual irony acquires a new meaning and a sort of tragic pathos in the face of death. The facts of his life are summed up, and the features of his character are brought out as if by accident in the course of the defence. The conversational manner, the seeming want of arrangement, the ironical simplicity, are found to result in a perfect work of art, which is the portrait of Socrates.
Yet some of the topics may have been actually used by Socrates; and the recollection of his very words may have rung in the ears of his disciple. The Apology of Plato may be compared generally with those speeches of Thucydides in which he has embodied his conception of the lofty character and policy of the great Pericles, and which at the same time furnish a commentary on the situation of affairs from the point of view of the historian. So in the Apology there is an ideal rather than a literal truth; much is said which was not said, and is only Plato’s view of the situation. Plato was not, like Xenophon, a chronicler of facts; he does not appear in any of his writings to have aimed at literal accuracy. He is not therefore to be supplemented from the Memorabilia and Symposium of Xenophon, who belongs to an entirely different class of writers. The Apology of Plato is not the report of what Socrates said, but an elaborate composition, quite as much so in fact as one of the Dialogues. And we may perhaps even indulge in the fancy that the actual defence of Socrates was as much greater than the Platonic defence as the master was greater than the disciple. But in any case, some of the words used by him must have been remembered, and some of the facts recorded must have actually occurred. It is significant that Plato is said to have been present at the defence (Apol. 38 B), as he is also said to have been absent at the last scene in the Phaedo (59 B). Is it fanciful to suppose that he meant to give the stamp of authenticity to the one and not to the other?—especially when we consider that these two passages are the only ones in which Plato makes mention of himself. The circumstance that Plato was to be one of his sureties for the payment of the fine which he proposed has the appearance of truth. More suspicious is the statement that Socrates received the first impulse to his favourite calling of cross-examining the world from the Oracle of Delphi; for he must already have been famous before Chaerephon went to consult the Oracle (Riddell, i. p. xvi), and the story is of a kind which is very likely to have been invented. On the whole we arrive at the conclusion that the Apology is true to the character of Socrates, but we cannot show that any single sentence in it was actually spoken by him. It breathes the spirit of Socrates, but has been cast anew in the mould of Plato.
There is not much in the other Dialogues which can be compared with the Apology. The same recollection of his master may have been present to the mind of Plato when depicting the sufferings of the Just in the Republic (ii. 361 foll., vi. 500 A). The Crito may also be regarded as a sort of appendage to the Apology, in which Socrates, who has defied the judges, is nevertheless represented as scrupulously obedient to the laws. The idealization of the sufferer is carried still further in the Gorgias (476 foll.), in which the thesis is maintained, that ‘to suffer is better than to do evil;’ and the art of rhetoric is described as only useful for the purpose of self-accusation. The parallelisms which occur in the so-called Apology of Xenophon are not worth noticing, because the writing in which they are contained is manifestly spurious. The statements of the Memorabilia (i. 2; iv. 8) respecting the trial and death of Socrates agree generally with Plato; but they have lost the flavour of Socratic irony in the narrative of Xenophon.
The Apology or Platonic defence of Socrates is divided into three parts: 1st. The defence properly so called; 2nd. The shorter address in mitigation of the penalty; 3rd. The last words of prophetic rebuke and exhortation.
Analysis.
17The first part commences with an apology for his colloquial style; he is, as he has always been, the enemy of rhetoric, and knows of no rhetoric but truth; he will not falsify his character by 18making a speech. Then he proceeds to divide his accusers into two classes; first, there is the nameless accuser—public opinion. All the world from their earliest years had heard that he was a corrupter of youth, and had seen him caricatured in the Clouds of Aristophanes. Secondly, there are the professed accusers, who are but the mouth-piece of the others. The accusations of both might be summed up in a formula. The first say, ‘Socrates is an evil-doer and a curious person, searching into things under the earth and above the heaven; and making the worse appear the better cause, and teaching all this to others.’ The second, ‘Socrates is an evil-doer and corrupter of the youth, who does not receive the gods whom the state receives, but introduces other new divinities.’ These last words appear to have been the actual indictment (cp. Xen. Mem. i. 1); and the previous formula, which is a summary of public opinion, assumes the same legal style.
19The answer begins by clearing up a confusion. In the representations of the Comic poets, and in the opinion of the multitude, he had been identified with the teachers of physical science and with the Sophists. But this was an error. For both of them he professes a respect in the open court, which contrasts with his manner of speaking about them in other places. (Cp. for Anaxagoras, Phaedo 98 B, Laws xii. 967; for the Sophists, Meno 95 D, Rep. vi. 492, Tim. 19 E, Theaet. 154 E, Soph. 265 foll., etc.) But at the same time he shows that he is not one of them. Of natural philosophy he knows nothing; not that he despises such pursuits, but the fact is that he is ignorant of them, and never says a word about them. Nor is he paid for giving instruction—that is another mistaken notion:—he has nothing to teach. But he commends 20Evenus for teaching virtue at such a ‘moderate’ rate as five minae. Something of the ‘accustomed irony,’ which may perhaps be expected to sleep in the ear of the multitude, is lurking here.
He then goes on to explain the reason why he is in such an evil name. That had arisen out of a peculiar mission which he had taken upon himself. The enthusiastic Chaerephon (probably in 21anticipation of the answer which he received) had gone to Delphi and asked the oracle if there was any man wiser than Socrates; and the answer was, that there was no man wiser. What could be the meaning of this—that he who knew nothing, and knew that he knew nothing, should be declared by the oracle to be the wisest of men? Reflecting upon the answer, he determined to refute it by finding ‘a wiser;’ and first he went to the politicians, and then to the poets, and then to the craftsmen, but 22always with the same result—he found that they knew nothing, or hardly anything more than himself; and that the little advantage which in some cases they possessed was more than counterbalanced by their conceit of knowledge. He knew nothing, and knew that he knew nothing: they knew little or nothing, and imagined that they knew all things. Thus he had passed his 23life as a sort of missionary in detecting the pretended wisdom of mankind; and this occupation had quite absorbed him and taken him away both from public and private affairs. Young men of the richer sort had made a pastime of the same pursuit, ‘which was not unamusing.’ And hence bitter enmities had arisen; the professors of knowledge had revenged themselves by calling him a villainous corrupter of youth, and by repeating the commonplaces about atheism and materialism and sophistry, 24which are the stock-accusations against all philosophers when there is nothing else to be said of them.
The second accusation he meets by interrogating Meletus, who is present and can be interrogated. ‘If he is the corrupter, who is the improver of the citizens?’ (Cp. Meno 91 C.) ‘All men 25everywhere.’ But how absurd, how contrary to analogy is this! How inconceivable too, that he should make the citizens worse when he has to live with them. This surely cannot be intentional; 26and if unintentional, he ought to have been instructed by Meletus, and not accused in the court.
But there is another part of the indictment which says that he teaches men not to receive the gods whom the city receives, and has other new gods. ‘Is that the way in which he is supposed to corrupt the youth?’ ‘Yes, it is.’ ‘Has he only new gods, or none at all?’ ‘None at all.’ ‘What, not even the sun and moon?’ ‘No; why, he says that the sun is a stone, and the moon earth.’ That, replies Socrates, is the old confusion about Anaxagoras; the Athenian people are not so ignorant as to attribute to the influence of Socrates notions which have found their way into the drama, and may be learned at the theatre. Socrates undertakes 27to show that Meletus (rather unjustifiably) has been compounding a riddle in this part of the indictment: ‘There are no gods, but Socrates believes in the existence of the sons of gods, which is absurd.’
28Leaving Meletus, who has had enough words spent upon him, he returns to the original accusation. The question may be asked, Why will he persist in following a profession which leads him to death? Why?—because he must remain at his post where the god has placed him, as he remained at Potidaea, and Amphipolis, 29and Delium, where the generals placed him. Besides, he is not so overwise as to imagine that he knows whether death is a good or an evil; and he is certain that desertion of his duty 30is an evil. Anytus is quite right in saying that they should never have indicted him if they meant to let him go. For he will certainly obey God rather than man; and will continue to preach to all men of all ages the necessity of virtue and improvement; and if they refuse to listen to him he will still persevere and reprove them. This is his way of corrupting the youth, which he will not cease to follow in obedience to the god, even if a thousand deaths await him.
He is desirous that they should let him live—not for his own sake, but for theirs; because he is their heaven-sent friend (and 31they will never have such another), or, as he may be ludicrously described, he is the gadfly who stirs the generous steed into motion. Why then has he never taken part in public affairs? Because the familiar divine voice has hindered him; if he had been a public man, and had fought for the right, as he would certainly have fought against the many, he would not have lived, and could therefore have done no good. Twice in public matters 32he has risked his life for the sake of justice—once at the trial of the generals; and again in resistance to the tyrannical commands of the Thirty.
But, though not a public man, he has passed his days in instructing the citizens without fee or reward—this was his mission. Whether his disciples have turned out well or ill, he cannot justly be charged with the result, for he never promised to teach them 33anything. They might come if they liked, and they might stay away if they liked: and they did come, because they found an amusement in hearing the pretenders to wisdom detected. If they have been corrupted, their elder relatives (if not themselves) might surely come into court and witness against him, and there is an opportunity still for them to appear. But their fathers 34and brothers all appear in court (including ‘this’ Plato), to witness on his behalf; and if their relatives are corrupted, at least they are uncorrupted; ‘and they are my witnesses. For they know that I am speaking the truth, and that Meletus is lying.’
This is about all that he has to say. He will not entreat the judges to spare his life; neither will he present a spectacle of weeping children, although he, too, is not made of ‘rock or oak.’ 35Some of the judges themselves may have complied with this practice on similar occasions, and he trusts that they will not be angry with him for not following their example. But he feels that such conduct brings discredit on the name of Athens: he feels, too, that the judge has sworn not to give away justice; and he cannot be guilty of the impiety of asking the judge to break his oath, when he is himself being tried for impiety.
36As he expected, and probably intended, he is convicted. And now the tone of the speech, instead of being more conciliatory, becomes more lofty and commanding. Anytus proposes death as the penalty: and what counter-proposition shall he make? He, the benefactor of the Athenian people, whose whole life has been spent in doing them good, should at least have the Olympic 37victor’s reward of maintenance in the Prytaneum. Or why should he propose any counter-penalty when he does not know whether death, which Anytus proposes, is a good or an evil? and he is certain that imprisonment is an evil, exile is an evil. Loss of money might be no evil, but then he has none to give; 38perhaps he can make up a mina. Let that be the penalty, or, if his friends wish, thirty minae; for which they will be excellent securities.
[He is condemned to death.]
He is an old man already, and the Athenians will gain nothing but disgrace by depriving him of a few years of life. Perhaps he could have escaped, if he had chosen to throw down his arms and entreat for his life. But he does not at all repent of the manner of his defence; he would rather die in his own fashion than live 39in theirs. For the penalty of unrighteousness is swifter than death; that penalty has already overtaken his accusers as death will soon overtake him.
And now, as one who is about to die, he will prophesy to them. They have put him to death in order to escape the necessity of giving an account of their lives. But his death ‘will be the seed’ of many disciples who will convince them of their evil ways, and will come forth to reprove them in harsher terms, because they are younger and more inconsiderate.
40He would like to say a few words, while there is time, to those who would have acquitted him. He wishes them to know that the divine sign never interrupted him in the course of his defence; the reason of which, as he conjectures, is that the death to which he is going is a good and not an evil. For either death is a long sleep, the best of sleeps, or a journey to another world in which the souls of the dead are gathered together, and in which 41there may be a hope of seeing the heroes of old—in which, too, there are just judges; and as all are immortal, there can be no fear of any one suffering death for his opinions.
Nothing evil can happen to the good man either in life or death, and his own death has been permitted by the gods, because it was better for him to depart; and therefore he forgives his judges because they have done him no harm, although they never meant to do him any good.
He has a last request to make to them—that they will trouble 42his sons as he has troubled them, if they appear to prefer riches to virtue, or to think themselves something when they are nothing.
Introduction.
‘Few persons will be found to wish that Socrates should have defended himself otherwise,’—if, as we must add, his defence was that with which Plato has provided him. But leaving this question, which does not admit of a precise solution, we may go on to ask what was the impression which Plato in the Apology intended to give of the character and conduct of his master in the last great scene? Did he intend to represent him (1) as employing sophistries; (2) as designedly irritating the judges? Or are these sophistries to be regarded as belonging to the age in which he lived and to his personal character, and this apparent haughtiness as flowing from the natural elevation of his position?
For example, when he says that it is absurd to suppose that one man is the corrupter and all the rest of the world the improvers of the youth; or, when he argues that he never could have corrupted the men with whom he had to live; or, when he proves his belief in the gods because he believes in the sons of gods, is he serious or jesting? It may be observed that these sophisms all occur in his cross-examination of Meletus, who is easily foiled and mastered in the hands of the great dialectician. Perhaps he regarded these answers as good enough for his accuser, of whom he makes very light. Also there is a touch of irony in them, which takes them out of the category of sophistry. (Cp. Euthyph. 2.)
That the manner in which he defends himself about the lives of his disciples is not satisfactory, can hardly be denied. Fresh in the memory of the Athenians, and detestable as they deserved to be to the newly restored democracy, were the names of Alcibiades, Critias, Charmides. It is obviously not a sufficient answer that Socrates had never professed to teach them anything, and is therefore not justly chargeable with their crimes. Yet the defence, when taken out of this ironical form, is doubtless sound: that his teaching had nothing to do with their evil lives. Here, then, the sophistry is rather in form than in substance, though we might desire that to such a serious charge Socrates had given a more serious answer.
Truly characteristic of Socrates is another point in his answer, which may also be regarded as sophistical. He says that ‘if he has corrupted the youth, he must have corrupted them involuntarily.’ But if, as Socrates argues, all evil is involuntary, then all criminals ought to be admonished and not punished. In these words the Socratic doctrine of the involuntariness of evil is clearly intended to be conveyed. Here again, as in the former instance, the defence of Socrates is untrue practically, but may be true in some ideal or transcendental sense. The commonplace reply, that if he had been guilty of corrupting the youth their relations would surely have witnessed against him, with which he concludes this part of his defence, is more satisfactory.
Again, when Socrates argues that he must believe in the gods because he believes in the sons of gods, we must remember that this is a refutation not of the original indictment, which is consistent enough—‘Socrates does not receive the gods whom the city receives, and has other new divinities’—but of the interpretation put upon the words by Meletus, who has affirmed that he is a downright atheist. To this Socrates fairly answers, in accordance with the ideas of the time, that a downright atheist cannot believe in the sons of gods or in divine things. The notion that demons or lesser divinities are the sons of gods is not to be regarded as ironical or sceptical. He is arguing ‘ad hominem’ according to the notions of mythology current in his age. Yet he abstains from saying that he believed in the gods whom the State approved. He does not defend himself, as Xenophon has defended him, by appealing to his practice of religion. Probably he neither wholly believed, nor disbelieved, in the existence of the popular gods; he had no means of knowing about them. According to Plato (cp. Phaedo 118 B; Symp. 220 D), as well as Xenophon (Memor. i. 1, 30), he was punctual in the performance of the least religious duties; and he must have believed in his own oracular sign, of which he seemed to have an internal witness. But the existence of Apollo or Zeus, or the other gods whom the State approves, would have appeared to him both uncertain and unimportant in comparison of the duty of self-examination, and of those principles of truth and right which he deemed to be the foundation of religion. (Cp. Phaedr. 230; Euthyph. 6, 7; Rep. ii. 373 ff.).
The second question, whether Plato meant to represent Socrates as braving or irritating his judges, must also be answered in the negative. His irony, his superiority, his audacity, ‘regarding not the person of man,’ necessarily flow out of the loftiness of his situation. He is not acting a part upon a great occasion, but he is what he has been all his life long, ‘a king of men.’ He would rather not appear insolent, if he could avoid it (οὐχ ὡς αὐθαδιζόμενος τον̂το λέγω). Neither is he desirous of hastening his own end, for life and death are simply indifferent to him. But such a defence as would be acceptable to his judges and might procure an acquittal, it is not in his nature to make. He will not say or do anything that might pervert the course of justice; he cannot have his tongue bound even ‘in the throat of death.’ With his accusers he will only fence and play, as he had fenced with other ‘improvers of youth,’ answering the Sophist according to his sophistry all his life long. He is serious when he is speaking of his own mission, which seems to distinguish him from all other reformers of mankind, and originates in an accident. The dedication of himself to the improvement of his fellow-citizens is not so remarkable as the ironical spirit in which he goes about doing good only in vindication of the credit of the oracle, and in the vain hope of finding a wiser man than himself. Yet this singular and almost accidental character of his mission agrees with the divine sign which, according to our notions, is equally accidental and irrational, and is nevertheless accepted by him as the guiding principle of his life. Socrates is nowhere represented to us as a freethinker or sceptic. There is no reason to doubt his sincerity when he speculates on the possibility of seeing and knowing the heroes of the Trojan war in another world. On the other hand, his hope of immortality is uncertain;—he also conceives of death as a long sleep (in this respect differing from the Phaedo), and at last falls back on resignation to the divine will, and the certainty that no evil can happen to the good man either in life or death. His absolute truthfulness seems to hinder him from asserting positively more than this; and he makes no attempt to veil his ignorance in mythology and figures of speech. The gentleness of the first part of the speech contrasts with the aggravated, almost threatening, tone of the conclusion. He characteristically remarks that he will not speak as a rhetorician, that is to say, he will not make a regular defence such as Lysias or one of the orators might have composed for him, or, according to some accounts, did compose for him. But he first procures himself a hearing by conciliatory words. He does not attack the Sophists; for they were open to the same charges as himself; they were equally ridiculed by the Comic poets, and almost equally hateful to Anytus and Meletus. Yet incidentally the antagonism between Socrates and the Sophists is allowed to appear. He is poor and they are rich; his profession that he teaches nothing is opposed to their readiness to teach all things; his talking in the marketplace to their private instructions; his tarry-at-home life to their wandering from city to city. The tone which he assumes towards them is one of real friendliness, but also of concealed irony. Towards Anaxagoras, who had disappointed him in his hopes of learning about mind and nature, he shows a less kindly feeling, which is also the feeling of Plato in other passages (Laws xii. 967 B). But Anaxagoras had been dead thirty years, and was beyond the reach of persecution.
It has been remarked that the prophecy of a new generation of teachers who would rebuke and exhort the Athenian people in harsher and more violent terms was, as far as we know, never fulfilled. No inference can be drawn from this circumstances as to the probability of the words attributed to him having been actually uttered. They express the aspiration of the first martyr of philosophy, that he would leave behind him many followers, accompanied by the not unnatural feeling that they would be fiercer and more inconsiderate in their words when emancipated from his control.
The above remarks must be understood as applying with any degree of certainty to the Platonic Socrates only. For, although these or similar words may have been spoken by Socrates himself, we cannot exclude the possibility, that like so much else, e.g. the wisdom of Critias, the poem of Solon, the virtues of Charmides, they may have been due only to the imagination of Plato. The arguments of those who maintain that the Apology was composed during the process, resting on no evidence, do not require a serious refutation. Nor are the reasonings of Schleiermacher, who argues that the Platonic defence is an exact or nearly exact reproduction of the words of Socrates, partly because Plato would not have been guilty of the impiety of altering them, and also because many points of the defence might have been improved and strengthened, at all more conclusive. (See English Translation, p. 137.) What effect the death of Socrates produced on the mind of Plato, we cannot certainly determine; nor can we say how he would or must have written under the circumstances. We observe that the enmity of Aristophanes to Socrates does not prevent Plato from introducing them together in the Symposium engaged in friendly intercourse. Nor is there any trace in the Dialogues of an attempt to make Anytus or Meletus personally odious in the eyes of the Athenian public.
APOLOGY.
Apology.Socrates.Socrates begs to be allowed to speak in his accustomed manner.The judges must excuse Socrates if he defends himself in his own fashion.
17How you, O Athenians, have been affected by my accusers, I cannot tell; but I know that they almost made me forget who I was—so persuasively did they speak; and yet they have hardly uttered a word of truth. But of the many falsehoods told by them, there was one which quite amazed me;—I mean when they said that you should be upon your guard and not allow yourselves to be deceived by the force of my eloquence. To say this, when they were certain to be detected as soon as I opened my lips and proved myself to be anything but a great speaker, did indeed appear to me most shameless—unless by the force of eloquence they mean the force of truth; for if such is their meaning, I admit that I am eloquent. But in how different a way from theirs! Well, as I was saying, they have scarcely spoken the truth at all; but from me you shall hear the whole truth: not, however, delivered after their manner in a set oration duly ornamented with words and phrases. No, by heaven! but I shall use the words and arguments which occur to me at the moment; for I am confident in the justice of my cause1 : at my time of life I ought not to be appearing before you, O men of Athens, in the character of a juvenile orator—let no one expect it of me. And I must beg of you to grant me a favour:—If I defend myself in my accustomed manner, and you hear me using the words which I have been in the habit of using in the agora, at the tables of the money-changers, or anywhere else, I would ask you not to be surprised, and not to interrupt me on this account. For I am more than seventy years of age, and appearing now for the first time in a court of law, I am quite a stranger to the language of the place; and therefore I would have you regard me as if I were really a stranger, whom you would excuse if 18he spoke in his native tongue, and after the fashion of his country:—Am I making an unfair request of you? Never mind the manner, which may or may not be good; but think only of the truth of my words, and give heed to that: let the speaker speak truly and the judge decide justly.
He has to meet two sorts of accusers.
And first, I have to reply to the older charges and to my first accusers, and then I will go on to the later ones. For of old I have had many accusers, who have accused me falsely to you during many years; and I am more afraid of them than of Anytus and his associates, who are dangerous, too, in their own way. But far more dangerous are the others, who began when you were children, and took possession of your minds with their falsehoods, telling of one Socrates, a wise man, who speculated about the heaven above, and searched into the earth beneath, and made the worse appear the better cause. The disseminators of this tale are the accusers whom I dread; for their hearers are apt to fancy that such enquirers do not believe in the existence of the gods. And they are many, and their charges against me are of ancient date, and they were made by them in the days when you were more impressible than you are now—in childhood, or it may have been in youth—and the cause when heard went by default, for there was none to answer. And hardest of all, I do not know and cannot tell the names of my accusers; unless in the chance case of a Comic poet. All who from envy and malice have persuaded you—some of them having first convinced themselves—all this class of men are most difficult to deal with; for I cannot have them up here, and cross-examine them, and therefore I must simply fight with shadows in my own defence, and argue when there is no one who answers. I will ask you then to assume with me, as I was saying, that my opponents are of two kinds; one recent, the other ancient: and I hope that you will see the propriety of my answering the latter first, for these accusations you heard long before the others, and much oftener.
Well, then, I must make my defence, and endeavour to clear 19away in a short time, a slander which has lasted a long time. May I succeed, if to succeed be for my good and yours, or likely to avail me in my cause! The task is not an easy one; I quite understand the nature of it. And so leaving the event with God, in obedience to the law I will now make my defence.
There is the accusation of the theatres; which declares that he is a student of natural philosophy.
I will begin at the beginning, and ask what is the accusation which has given rise to the slander of me, and in fact has encouraged Meletus to prefer this charge against me. Well, what do the slanderers say? They shall be my prosecutors, and I will sum up their words in an affidavit: ‘Socrates is an evil-doer, and a curious person, who searches into things under the earth and in heaven, and he makes the worse appear the better cause; and he teaches the aforesaid doctrines to others.’ Such is the nature of the accusation: it is just what you have yourselves seen in the comedy of Aristophanes1 , who has introduced a man whom he calls Socrates, going about and saying that he walks in air, and talking a deal of nonsense concerning matters of which I do not pretend to know either much or little—not that I mean to speak disparagingly of any one who is a student of natural philosophy. I should be very sorry if Meletus could bring so grave a charge against me. But the simple truth is, O Athenians, that I have nothing to do with physical speculations. Very many of those here present are witnesses to the truth of this, and to them I appeal. Speak then, you who have heard me, and tell your neighbours whether any of you have ever known me hold forth in few words or in many upon such matters. . . . You hear their answer. And from what they say of this part of the charge you will be able to judge of the truth of the rest.
There is the report that he is a Sophist who receives money.The ironical question which Socrates put to Callias.
As little foundation is there for the report that I am a teacher, and take money; this accusation has no more truth in it than the other. Although, if a man were really able to instruct mankind, to receive money for giving instruction would, in my opinion, be an honour to him. There is Gorgias of Leontium, and Prodicus of Ceos, and Hippias of Elis, who go the round of the cities, and are able to persuade the young men to leave their own citizens by whom 20they might be taught for nothing, and come to them whom they not only pay, but are thankful if they may be allowed to pay them. There is at this time a Parian philosopher residing in Athens, of whom I have heard; and I came to hear of him in this way:—I came across a man who has spent a world of money on the Sophists, Callias, the son of Hipponicus, and knowing that he had sons, I asked him: ‘Callias,’ I said, ‘if your two sons were foals or calves, there would be no difficulty in finding some one to put over them; we should hire a trainer of horses, or a farmer probably, who would improve and perfect them in their own proper virtue and excellence; but as they are human beings, whom are you thinking of placing over them? Is there any one who understands human and political virtue? You must have thought about the matter, for you have sons; is there any one?’ ‘There is,’ he said. ‘Who is he?’ said I; ‘and of what country? and what does he charge?’ ‘Evenus the Parian,’ he replied; ‘he is the man, and his charge is five minae.’ Happy is Evenus, I said to myself, if he really has this wisdom, and teaches at such a moderate charge. Had I the same, I should have been very proud and conceited; but the truth is that I have no knowledge of the kind.
The accusations against me have arisen out of a sort of wisdom which I practise.My practice of it arose out of a declaration of the Delphian Oracle that I was the wisest of men.
I dare say, Athenians, that some one among you will reply, ‘Yes, Socrates, but what is the origin of these accusations which are brought against you; there must have been something strange which you have been doing? All these rumours and this talk about you would never have arisen if you had been like other men: tell us, then, what is the cause of them, for we should be sorry to judge hastily of you.’ Now I regard this as a fair challenge, and I will endeavour to explain to you the reason why I am called wise and have such an evil fame. Please to attend then. And although some of you may think that I am joking, I declare that I will tell you the entire truth. Men of Athens, this reputation of mine has come of a certain sort of wisdom which I possess. If you ask me what kind of wisdom, I reply, wisdom such as may perhaps be attained by man, for to that extent I am inclined to believe that I am wise; whereas the persons of whom I was speaking have a superhuman wisdom, which I may fail to describe, because I have it not myself; and he who says that I have, speaks falsely, and is taking away my character. And here, O men of Athens, I must beg you not to interrupt me, even if I seem to say something extravagant. For the word which I will speak is not mine. I will refer you to a witness who is worthy of credit; that witness shall be the God of Delphi—he will tell you about my wisdom, if I have any, and of what sort it is. You must have known Chaerephon; he was early 21a friend of mine, and also a friend of yours, for he shared in the recent exile of the people, and returned with you. Well, Chaerephon, as you know, was very impetuous in all his doings, and he went to Delphi and boldly asked the oracle to tell him whether—as I was saying, I must beg you not to interrupt—he asked the oracle to tell him whether any one was wiser than I was, and the Pythian prophetess answered, that there was no man wiser. Chaerephon is dead himself; but his brother, who is in court, will confirm the truth of what I am saying.
I went about searching after a man who was wiser than myself: at first among the politicians; then among the philosophers; and found that I had an advantage over them, because I had no conceit of knowledge.
Why do I mention this? Because I am going to explain to you why I have such an evil name. When I heard the answer, I said to myself, What can the god mean? and what is the interpretation of his riddle? for I know that I have no wisdom, small or great. What then can he mean when he says that I am the wisest of men? And yet he is a god, and cannot lie; that would be against his nature. After long consideration, I thought of a method of trying the question. I reflected that if I could only find a man wiser than myself, then I might go to the god with a refutation in my hand. I should say to him, ‘Here is a man who is wiser than I am; but you said that I was the wisest.’ Accordingly I went to one who had the reputation of wisdom, and observed him—his name I need not mention; he was a politician whom I selected for examination—and the result was as follows: When I began to talk with him, I could not help thinking that he was not really wise, although he was thought wise by many, and still wiser by himself; and thereupon I tried to explain to him that he thought himself wise, but was not really wise; and the consequence was that he hated me, and his enmity was shared by several who were present and heard me. So I left him, saying to myself, as I went away: Well, although I do not suppose that either of us knows anything really beautiful and good. I am better off than he is,—for he knows nothing, and thinks that he knows; I neither know nor think that I know. In this latter particular, then, I seem to have slightly the advantage of him. Then I went to another who had still higher pretensions to wisdom, and my conclusion was exactly the same. Whereupon I made another enemy of him, and of many others besides him.
I found that the poets were the worst possible interpreters of their own writings.
Then I went to one man after another, being not unconscious of the enmity which I provoked, and I lamented and feared this: but necessity was laid upon me,—the word of God, I thought, ought to be considered first. And I said to myself, Go I must to all who appear to know, and find out the meaning of the oracle. And I swear to you, Athenians, 22by the dog I swear!—for I must tell you the truth—the result of my mission was just this: I found that the men most in repute were all but the most foolish; and that others less esteemed were really wiser and better. I will tell you the tale of my wanderings and of the ‘Herculean’ labours, as I may call them, which I endured only to find at last the oracle irrefutable. After the politicians, I went to the poets; tragic, dithyrambic, and all sorts. And there, I said to myself, you will be instantly detected; now you will find out that you are more ignorant than they are. Accordingly, I took them some of the most elaborate passages in their own writings, and asked what was the meaning of them—thinking that they would teach me something. Will you believe me? I am almost ashamed to confess the truth, but I must say that there is hardly a person present who would not have talked better about their poetry than they did themselves. Then I knew that not by wisdom do poets write poetry, but by a sort of genius and inspiration; they are like diviners or soothsayers who also say many fine things, but do not understand the meaning of them. The poets appeared to me to be much in the same case; and I further observed that upon the strength of their poetry they believed themselves to be the wisest of men in other things in which they were not wise. So I departed, conceiving myself to be superior to them for the same reason that I was superior to the politicians.
The artisans had some real knowledge, but they had also a conceit that they knew things which were beyond them.
At last I went to the artisans, for I was conscious that I knew nothing at all, as I may say, and I was sure that they knew many fine things; and here I was not mistaken, for they did know many things of which I was ignorant, and in this they certainly were wiser than I was. But I observed that even the good artisans fell into the same error as the poets;—because they were good workmen they thought that they also knew all sorts of high matters, and this defect in them overshadowed their wisdom; and therefore I asked myself on behalf of the oracle, whether I would like to be as I was, neither having their knowledge nor their ignorance, or like them in both; and I made answer to myself and to the oracle that I was better off as I was.
The oracle was intended to apply, not to Socrates, but to all men who know that their wisdom is worth nothing.
This inquisition has led to my having many enemies of 23the worst and most dangerous kind, and has given occasion also to many calumnies. And I am called wise, for my hearers always imagine that I myself possess the wisdom which I find wanting in others: but the truth is, O men of Athens, that God only is wise; and by his answer he intends to show that the wisdom of men is worth little or nothing; he is not speaking of Socrates, he is only using my name by way of illustration, as if he said, He, O men, is the wisest, who, like Socrates, knows that his wisdom is in truth worth nothing. And so I go about the world, obedient to the god, and search and make enquiry into the wisdom of any one, whether citizen or stranger, who appears to be wise; and if he is not wise, then in vindication of the oracle I show him that he is not wise; and my occupation quite absorbs me, and I have no time to give either to any public matter of interest or to any concern of my own, but I am in utter poverty by reason of my devotion to the god.
There are my imitators who go about detecting pretenders, and the enmity which they arouse falls upon me.Socrates, Meletus.
There is another thing:—young men of the richer classes, who have not much to do, come about me of their own accord; they like to hear the pretenders examined, and they often imitate me, and proceed to examine others; there are plenty of persons, as they quickly discover, who think that they know something, but really know little or nothing; and then those who are examined by them instead of being angry with themselves are angry with me: This confounded Socrates, they say; this villainous misleader of youth!—and then if somebody asks them, Why, what evil does he practise or teach? they do not know, and cannot tell; but in order that they may not appear to be at a loss, they repeat the ready-made charges which are used against all philosophers about teaching things up in the clouds and under the earth, and having no gods, and making the worse appear the better cause; for they do not like to confess that their pretence of knowledge has been detected—which is the truth; and as they are numerous and ambitious and energetic, and are drawn up in battle array and have persuasive tongues, they have filled your ears with their loud and inveterate calumnies. And this is the reason why my three accusers, Meletus and Anytus and Lycon, have set upon me; Meletus, who has a quarrel with me on behalf of the poets; Anytus, on behalf of the craftsmen and politicians; Lycon, on behalf of the rhetoricians: and as I said 24at the beginning, I cannot expect to get rid of such a mass of calumny all in a moment. And this, O men of Athens, is the truth and the whole truth; I have concealed nothing, I have dissembled nothing. And yet, I know that my plainness of speech makes them hate me, and what is their hatred but a proof that I am speaking the truth? Hence has arisen the prejudice against me; and this is the reason of it, as you will find out either in this or in any future enquiry.
The second class of accusers.
I have said enough in my defence against the first class of my accusers; I turn to the second class. They are headed by Meletus, that good man and true lover of his country, as he calls himself. Against these, too, I must try to make a defence:—Let their affidavit be read: it contains something of this kind: It says that Socrates is a doer of evil, who corrupts the youth; and who does not believe in the gods of the state, but has other new divinities of his own. Such is the charge; and now let us examine the particular counts. He says that I am a doer of evil, and corrupt the youth; but I say, O men of Athens, that Meletus is a doer of evil, in that he pretends to be in earnest when he is only in jest, and is so eager to bring men to trial from a pretended zeal and interest about matters in which he really never had the smallest interest. And the truth of this I will endeavour to prove to you.
Come hither, Meletus, and let me ask a question of you. You think a great deal about the improvement of youth?
Yes, I do.
All men are discovered to be improvers of youth with the single exception of Socrates.
Tell the judges, then, who is their improver; for you must know, as you have taken the pains to discover their corrupter, and are citing and accusing me before them. Speak, then, and tell the judges who their improver is.—Observe, Meletus, that you are silent, and have nothing to say. But is not this rather disgraceful, and a very considerable proof of what I was saying, that you have no interest in the matter? Speak up, friend, and tell us who their improver is.
The laws.
But that, my good sir, is not my meaning. I want to know who the person is, who, in the first place, knows the laws.
The judges, Socrates, who are present in court.
What, do you mean to say, Meletus, that they are able to instruct and improve youth?
Certainly they are.
What, all of them, or some only and not others?
All of them.
By the goddess Herè, that is good news! There are plenty of improvers, then. And what do you say of the 25audience,—do they improve them?
Yes, they do.
And the senators?
Yes, the senators improve them.
But perhaps the members of the assembly corrupt them?—or do they too improve them?
They improve them.
Then every Athenian improves and elevates them; all with the exception of myself; and I alone am their corrupter? Is that what you affirm?
That is what I stoutly affirm.
But this rather unfortunate fact does not accord with the analogy of the animals.
I am very unfortunate if you are right. But suppose I ask you a question: How about horses? Does one man do them harm and all the world good? Is not the exact opposite the truth? One man is able to do them good, or at least not many;—the trainer of horses, that is to say, does them good, and others who have to do with them rather injure them? Is not that true, Meletus, of horses, or of any other animals? Most assuredly it is; whether you and Anytus say yes or no. Happy indeed would be the condition of youth if they had one corrupter only, and all the rest of the world were their improvers. But you, Meletus, have sufficiently shown that you never had a thought about the young: your carelessness is seen in your not caring about the very things which you bring against me.
And now, Meletus, I will ask you another question—by Zeus I will: Which is better, to live among bad citizens, or among good ones? Answer, friend, I say; the question is one which may be easily answered. Do not the good do their neighbours good, and the bad do them evil?
Certainly.
And is there any one who would rather be injured than benefited by those who live with him? Answer, my good friend, the law requires you to answer—does any one like to be injured?
Certainly not.
When I do harm to my neighbour I must do harm to myself: and therefore I cannot be supposed to injure them intentionally.
And when you accuse me of corrupting and deteriorating the youth, do you allege that I corrupt them intentionally or unintentionally?
Intentionally, I say.
But you have just admitted that the good do their neighbours good, and the evil do them evil. Now, is that a truth which your superior wisdom has recognized thus early in life, and am I, at my age, in such darkness and ignorance as not to know that if a man with whom I have to live is corrupted by me, I am very likely to be harmed by him; and yet I corrupt him, and intentionally, too—so you say, although neither I nor any other human being is ever likely to be convinced by you. But either I do not corrupt them, or 26I corrupt them unintentionally; and on either view of the case you lie. If my offence is unintentional, the law has no cognizance of unintentional offences: you ought to have taken me privately, and warned and admonished me; for if I had been better advised, I should have left off doing what I only did unintentionally—no doubt I should; but you would have nothing to say to me and refused to teach me. And now you bring me up in this court, which is a place not of instruction, but of punishment.
It will be very clear to you, Athenians, as I was saying, that Meletus has no care at all, great or small, about the matter. But still I should like to know, Meletus, in what I am affirmed to corrupt the young. I suppose you mean, as I infer from your indictment, that I teach them not to acknowledge the gods which the state acknowledges, but some other new divinities or spiritual agencies in their stead. These are the lessons by which I corrupt the youth, as you say.
Yes, that I say emphatically.
Socrates is declared by Meletus to be an atheist and to corrupt the religion of the young.
Then, by the gods, Meletus, of whom we are speaking, tell me and the court, in somewhat plainer terms, what you mean! for I do not as yet understand whether you affirm that I teach other men to acknowledge some gods, and therefore that I do believe in gods, and am not an entire atheist—this you do not lay to my charge,—but only you say that they are not the same gods which the city recognizes—the charge is that they are different gods. Or, do you mean that I am an atheist simply, and a teacher of atheism?
I mean the latter—that you are a complete atheist.
What an extraordinary statement! Why do you think so, Meletus? Do you mean that I do not believe in the godhead of the sun or moon, like other men?
I assure you, judges, that he does not: for he says that the sun is stone, and the moon earth.
Meletus has confounded Socrates with Anaxagoras;
Friend Meletus, you think that you are accusing Anaxagoras: and you have but a bad opinion of the judges, if you fancy them illiterate to such a degree as not to know that these doctrines are found in the books of Anaxagoras the Clazomenian, which are full of them. And so, forsooth, the youth are said to be taught them by Socrates, when there are not unfrequently exhibitions of them at the theatre1 (price of admission one drachma at the most); and they might pay their money, and laugh at Socrates if he pretends to father these extraordinary views. And so, Meletus, you really think that I do not believe in any god?
and he has contradicted himself in the indictment.
I swear by Zeus that you believe absolutely in none at all.
Nobody will believe you, Meletus, and I am pretty sure that you do not believe yourself. I cannot help thinking, men of Athens, that Meletus is reckless and impudent, and that he has written this indictment in a spirit of mere wantonness and youthful bravado. Has he not compounded a 27riddle, thinking to try me? He said to himself:—I shall see whether the wise Socrates will discover my facetious contradiction, or whether I shall be able to deceive him and the rest of them. For he certainly does appear to me to contradict himself in the indictment as much as if he said that Socrates is guilty of not believing in the gods, and yet of believing in them—but this is not like a person who is in earnest.
I should like you, O men of Athens, to join me in examining what I conceive to be his inconsistency; and do you, Meletus, answer. And I must remind the audience of my request that they would not make a disturbance if I speak in my accustomed manner:
How can Socrates believe in divine agencies and not believe in gods?
Did ever man, Meletus, believe in the existence of human things, and not of human beings? . . . I wish, men of Athens, that he would answer, and not be always trying to get up an interruption. Did ever any man believe in horsemanship, and not in horses? or in flute-playing, and not in flute-players? No, my friend; I will answer to you and to the court, as you refuse to answer for yourself. There is no man who ever did. But now please to answer the next question: Can a man believe in spiritual and divine agencies, and not in spirits or demigods?
He cannot.
How lucky I am to have extracted that answer, by the assistance of the court! But then you swear in the indictment that I teach and believe in divine or spiritual agencies (new or old, no matter for that); at any rate, I believe in spiritual agencies,—so you say and swear in the affidavit; and yet if I believe in divine beings, how can I help believing in spirits or demigods;—must I not? To be sure I must; and therefore I may assume that your silence gives consent. Now what are spirits or demigods? are they not either gods or the sons of gods?
Certainly they are.
Apology.Socrates.
But this is what I call the facetious riddle invented by you: the demigods or spirits are gods, and you say first that I do not believe in gods, and then again that I do believe in gods; that is, if I believe in demigods. For if the demigods are the illegitimate sons of gods, whether by the nymphs or by any other mothers, of whom they are said to be the sons—what human being will ever believe that there are no gods if they are the sons of gods? You might as well affirm the existence of mules, and deny that of horses and asses. Such nonsense, Meletus, could only have been intended by you to make trial of me. You have put this into the indictment because you had nothing real of which to accuse me. But no one who has a particle of understanding will ever be convinced by you that the same men can believe in divine and superhuman things, and yet not believe that 28there are gods and demigods and heroes.
I have said enough in answer to the charge of Meletus: any elaborate defence is unnecessary; but I know only too well how many are the enmities which I have incurred, and this is what will be my destruction if I am destroyed;—not Meletus, nor yet Anytus, but the envy and detraction of the world, which has been the death of many good men, and will probably be the death of many more; there is no danger of my being the last of them.
Let no man fear death or fear anything but disgrace.
Some one will say: And are you not ashamed, Socrates, of a course of life which is likely to bring you to an untimely end? To him I may fairly answer: There you are mistaken: a man who is good for anything ought not to calculate the chance of living or dying; he ought only to consider whether in doing anything he is doing right or wrong—acting the part of a good man or of a bad. Whereas, upon your view, the heroes who fell at Troy were not good for much, and the son of Thetis above all, who altogether despised danger in comparison with disgrace; and when he was so eager to slay Hector, his goddess mother said to him, that if he avenged his companion Patroclus, and slew Hector, he would die himself—‘Fate,’ she said, in these or the like words, ‘waits for you next after Hector;’ he, receiving this warning, utterly despised danger and death, and instead of fearing them, feared rather to live in dishonour, and not to avenge his friend. ‘Let me die forthwith,’ he replies, ‘and be avenged of my enemy, rather than abide here by the beaked ships, a laughing-stock and a burden of the earth.’ Had Achilles any thought of death and danger? For wherever a man’s place is, whether the place which he has chosen or that in which he has been placed by a commander, there he ought to remain in the hour of danger; he should not think of death or of anything but of disgrace. And this, O men of Athens, is a true saying.
Socrates, who has often faced death in battle, will not make any condition in order to save his own life; for he does not know whether death is a good or an evil.He must always be a preacher of philosophy.‘Necessity is laid upon me:’ ‘I must obey God rather than man.’
Strange, indeed, would be my conduct, O men of Athens, if I who, when I was ordered by the generals whom you chose to command me at Potidaea and Amphipolis and Delium, remained where they placed me, like any other man, facing death—if now, when, as I conceive and imagine, God orders me to fulfil the philosopher’s mission of searching into myself and other men, I were to desert my post through fear 29of death, or any other fear; that would indeed be strange, and I might justly be arraigned in court for denying the existence of the gods, if I disobeyed the oracle because I was afraid of death, fancying that I was wise when I was not wise. For the fear of death is indeed the pretence of wisdom, and not real wisdom, being a pretence of knowing the unknown; and no one knows whether death, which men in their fear apprehend to be the greatest evil, may not be the greatest good. Is not this ignorance of a disgraceful sort, the ignorance which is the conceit that a man knows what he does not know? And in this respect only I believe myself to differ from men in general, and may perhaps claim to be wiser than they are:—that whereas I know but little of the world below, I do not suppose that I know: but I do know that injustice and disobedience to a better, whether God or man, is evil and dishonourable, and I will never fear or avoid a possible good rather than a certain evil. And therefore if you let me go now, and are not convinced by Anytus, who said that since I had been prosecuted I must be put to death; (or if not that I ought never to have been prosecuted at all); and that if I escape now, your sons will all be utterly ruined by listening to my words—if you say to me, Socrates, this time we will not mind Anytus, and you shall be let off, but upon one condition, that you are not to enquire and speculate in this way any more, and that if you are caught doing so again you shall die;—if this was the condition on which you let me go, I should reply: Men of Athens, I honour and love you; but I shall obey God rather than you, and while I have life and strength I shall never cease from the practice and teaching of philosophy, exhorting any one whom I meet and saying to him after my manner: You, my friend,—a citizen of the great and mighty and wise city of Athens,—are you not ashamed of heaping up the greatest amount of money and honour and reputation, and caring so little about wisdom and truth and the greatest improvement of the soul, which you never regard or heed at all? And if the person with whom I am arguing, says: Yes, but I do care; then I do not leave him or let him go at once; but I proceed to interrogate and examine and cross-examine him, and if I think that he has no virtue in him, but only says that he has, I reproach him with undervaluing the 30greater, and overvaluing the less. And I shall repeat the same words to every one whom I meet, young and old, citizen and alien, but especially to the citizens, inasmuch as they are my brethren. For know that this is the command of God; and I believe that no greater good has ever happened in the state than my service to the God. For I do nothing but go about persuading you all, old and young alike, not to take thought for your persons or your properties, but first and chiefly to care about the greatest improvement of the soul. I tell you that virtue is not given by money, but that from virtue comes money and every other good of man, public as well as private. This is my teaching, and if this is the doctrine which corrupts the youth, I am a mischievous person. But if any one says that this is not my teaching, he is speaking an untruth. Wherefore, O men of Athens, I say to you, do as Anytus bids or not as Anytus bids, and either acquit me or not; but whichever you do, understand that I shall never alter my ways, not even if I have to die many times.
Neither you nor Meletus can ever injure me.
Men of Athens, do not interrupt, but hear me; there was an understanding between us that you should hear me to the end: I have something more to say, at which you may be inclined to cry out; but I believe that to hear me will be good for you, and therefore I beg that you will not cry out. I would have you know, that if you kill such an one as I am, you will injure yourselves more than you will injure me. Nothing will injure me, not Meletus nor yet Anytus—they cannot, for a bad man is not permitted to injure a better than himself. I do not deny that Anytus may, perhaps, kill him, or drive him into exile, or deprive him of civil rights; and he may imagine, and others may imagine, that he is inflicting a great injury upon him: but there I do not agree. For the evil of doing as he is doing—the evil of unjustly taking away the life of another—is greater far.
I am the gadfly of the Athenian people, given to them by God, and they will never have another, if they kill me.
And now, Athenians, I am not going to argue for my own sake, as you may think, but for yours, that you may not sin against the God by condemning me, who am his gift to you. For if you kill me you will not easily find a successor to me, who, if I may use such a ludicrous figure of speech, am a sort of gadfly, given to the state by God; and the state is a great and noble steed who is tardy in his motions owing to his very size, and requires to be stirred into life. I am that gadfly which God has attached to the state, and all day long 31and in all places am always fastening upon you, arousing and persuading and reproaching you. You will not easily find another like me, and therefore I would advise you to spare me. I dare say that you may feel out of temper (like a person who is suddenly awakened from sleep), and you think that you might easily strike me dead as Anytus advises, and then you would sleep on for the remainder of your lives, unless God in his care of you sent you another gadfly. When I say that I am given to you by God, the proof of my mission is this:—if I had been like other men, I should not have neglected all my own concerns or patiently seen the neglect of them during all these years, and have been doing yours, coming to you individually like a father or elder brother, exhorting you to regard virtue; such conduct, I say, would be unlike human nature. If I had gained anything, or if my exhortations had been paid, there would have been some sense in my doing so; but now, as you will perceive, not even the impudence of my accusers dares to say that I have ever exacted or sought pay of any one; of that they have no witness. And I have a sufficient witness to the truth of what I say—my poverty.
The internal sign always forbade him to engage in politics; and if he had done so, he would have perished long ago.
Some one may wonder why I go about in private giving advice and busying myself with the concerns of others, but do not venture to come forward in public and advise the state. I will tell you why. You have heard me speak at sundry times and in divers places of an oracle or sign which comes to me, and is the divinity which Meletus ridicules in the indictment. This sign, which is a kind of voice, first began to come to me when I was a child; it always forbids but never commands me to do anything which I am going to do. This is what deters me from being a politician. And rightly, as I think. For I am certain, O men of Athens, that if I had engaged in politics, I should have perished long ago, and done no good either to you or to myself. And do not be offended at my telling you the truth: for the truth is, that no man who goes to war with you or any other multitude, honestly striving against the many lawless and unrighteous 32deeds which are done in a state, will save his life; he who will fight for the right, if he would live even for a brief space, must have a private station and not a public one.
He had shown that he would sooner die than commit injustice at the trial of the generals and under the tyranny of the Thirty.
I can give you convincing evidence of what I say, not words only, but what you value far more—actions. Let me relate to you a passage of my own life which will prove to you that I should never have yielded to injustice from any fear of death, and that ‘as I should have refused to yield’ I must have died at once. I will tell you a tale of the courts, not very interesting perhaps, but nevertheless true. The only office of state which I ever held, O men of Athens, was that of senator: the tribe Antiochis, which is my tribe, had the presidency at the trial of the generals who had not taken up the bodies of the slain after the battle of Arginusae; and you proposed to try them in a body, contrary to law, as you all thought afterwards; but at the time I was the only one of the Prytanes who was opposed to the illegality, and I gave my vote against you; and when the orators threatened to impeach and arrest me, and you called and shouted, I made up my mind that I would run the risk, having law and justice with me, rather than take part in your injustice because I feared imprisonment and death. This happened in the days of the democracy. But when the oligarchy of the Thirty was in power, they sent for me and four others into the rotunda, and bade us bring Leon the Salaminian from Salamis, as they wanted to put him to death. This was a specimen of the sort of commands which they were always giving with the view of implicating as many as possible in their crimes; and then I showed, not in word only but in deed, that, if I may be allowed to use such an expression, I cared not a straw for death, and that my great and only care was lest I should do an unrighteous or unholy thing. For the strong arm of that oppressive power did not frighten me into doing wrong; and when we came out of the rotunda the other four went to Salamis and fetched Leon, but I went quietly home. For which I might have lost my life, had not the power of the Thirty shortly afterwards come to an end. And many will witness to my words.
He is always talking to the citizens, but he teaches nothing; he takes no pay and has no secrets.
Now do you really imagine that I could have survived all these years, if I had led a public life, supposing that like a good man I had always maintained the right and had made justice, as I ought, the first thing? No indeed, men of Athens, neither I nor any other man. But I have been 33always the same in all my actions, public as well as private, and never have I yielded any base compliance to those who are slanderously termed my disciples, or to any other. Not that I have any regular disciples. But if any one likes to come and hear me while I am pursuing my mission, whether he be young or old, he is not excluded. Nor do I converse only with those who pay; but any one, whether he be rich or poor, may ask and answer me and listen to my words; and whether he turns out to be a bad man or a good one, neither result can be justly imputed to me; for I never taught or professed to teach him anything. And if any one says that he has ever learned or heard anything from me in private which all the world has not heard, let me tell you that he is lying.
The parents and kinsmen of those whom he is supposed to have corrupted do not come forward and testify against him.
But I shall be asked, Why do people delight in continually conversing with you? I have told you already, Athenians, the whole truth about this matter: they like to hear the cross-examination of the pretenders to wisdom; there is amusement in it. Now this duty of cross-examining other men has been imposed upon me by God; and has been signified to me by oracles, visions, and in every way in which the will of divine power was ever intimated to any one. This is true, O Athenians; or, if not true, would be soon refuted. If I am or have been corrupting the youth, those of them who are now grown up and have become sensible that I gave them bad advice in the days of their youth should come forward as accusers, and take their revenge; or if they do not like to come themselves, some of their relatives, fathers, brothers, or other kinsmen, should say what evil their families have suffered at my hands. Now is their time. Many of them I see in the court. There is Crito, who is of the same age and of the same deme with myself, and there is Critobulus his son, whom I also see. Then again there is Lysanias of Sphettus, who is the father of Aeschines—he is present; and also there is Antiphon of Cephisus, who is the father of Epigenes; and there are the brothers of several who have associated with me. There is Nicostratus the son of Theosdotides, and the brother of Theodotus (now Theodotus himself is dead, and therefore he, at any rate, will not seek to stop him); and there is Paralus the son of Demodocus, who had a brother Theages; 34and Adeimantus the son of Ariston, whose brother Plato is present; and Aeantodorus, who is the brother of Apollodorus, whom I also see. I might mention a great many others, some of whom Meletus should have produced as witnesses in the course of his speech; and let him still produce them, if he has forgotten—I will make way for him. And let him say, if he has any testimony of the sort which he can produce. Nay, Athenians, the very opposite is the truth. For all these are ready to witness on behalf of the corrupter, of the injurer of their kindred, as Meletus and Anytus call me; not the corrupted youth only—there might have been a motive for that—but their uncorrupted elder relatives. Why should they too support me with their testimony? Why, indeed, except for the sake of truth and justice, and because they know that I am speaking the truth, and that Meletus is a liar.
He is flesh and blood, but he will not appeal to the pity of his judges: or make a scene in the court such as he has often witnessed.
Well, Athenians, this and the like of this is all the defence which I have to offer. Yet a word more. Perhaps there may be some one who is offended at me, when he calls to mind how he himself on a similar, or even a less serious occasion, prayed and entreated the judges with many tears, and how he produced his children in court, which was a moving spectacle, together with a host of relations and friends; whereas I, who am probably in danger of my life, will do none of these things. The contrast may occur to his mind, and he may be set against me, and vote in anger because he is displeased at me on this account. Now if there be such a person among you,—mind, I do not say that there is,—to him I may fairly reply: My friend, I am a man, and like other men, a creature of flesh and blood, and not ‘of wood or stone,’ as Homer says; and I have a family, yes, and sons, O Athenians, three in number, one almost a man, and two others who are still young; and yet I will not bring any of them hither in order to petition you for an acquittal. And why not? Not from any self-assertion or want of respect for you. Whether I am or am not afraid of death is another question, of which I will not now speak. But, having regard to public opinion, I feel that such conduct would be discreditable to myself, and to you, and to the whole state. One who has reached my years, and who has a name for wisdom, ought not to demean himself. Whether this opinion of me be deserved or not, at any rate the world has decided that Socrates is in some way superior to other men. And if those 35among you who are said to be superior in wisdom and courage, and any other virtue, demean themselves in this way, how shameful is their conduct! I have seen men of reputation, when they have been condemned, behaving in the strangest manner: they seemed to fancy that they were going to suffer something dreadful if they died, and that they could be immortal if you only allowed them to live; and I think that such are a dishonour to the state, and that any stranger coming in would have said of them that the most eminent men of Athens, to whom the Athenians themselves give honour and command, are no better than women. And I say that these things ought not to be done by those of us who have a reputation; and if they are done, you ought not to permit them; you ought rather to show that you are far more disposed to condemn the man who gets up a doleful scene and makes the city ridiculous, than him who holds his peace.
The judge should not be influenced by his feelings, but convinced by reason.
But, setting aside the question of public opinion, there seems to be something wrong in asking a favour of a judge, and thus procuring an acquittal, instead of informing and convincing him. For his duty is, not to make a present of justice, but to give judgment; and he has sworn that he will judge according to the laws, and not according to his own good pleasure; and we ought not to encourage you, nor should you allow yourselves to be encouraged, in this habit of perjury—there can be no piety in that. Do not then require me to do what I consider dishonourable and impious and wrong, especially now, when I am being tried for impiety on the indictment of Meletus. For if, O men of Athens, by force of persuasion and entreaty I could overpower your oaths, then I should be teaching you to believe that there are no gods, and in defending should simply convict myself of the charge of not believing in them. But that is not so—far otherwise. For I do believe that there are gods, and in a sense higher than that in which any of my accusers believe in them. And to you and to God I commit my cause, to be determined by you as is best for you and me.
There are many reasons why I am not grieved, O men of 36Athens, at the vote of condemnation. I expected it, and am only surprised that the votes are so nearly equal; for I had thought that the majority against me would have been far larger; but now, had thirty votes gone over to the other side, I should have been acquitted. And I may say, I think, that I have escaped Meletus. I may say more; for without the assistance of Anytus and Lycon, any one may see that he would not have had a fifth part of the votes, as the law requires, in which case he would have incurred a fine of a thousand drachmae.
Socrates all his life long has been seeking to do the greatest good to the Athenians.Should he not be rewarded with maintenance in the Prytaneum?
And so he proposes death as the penalty. And what shall I propose on my part, O men of Athens? Clearly that which is my due. And what is my due? What return shall be made to the man who has never had the wit to be idle during his whole life; but has been careless of what the many care for—wealth, and family interests, and military offices, and speaking in the assembly, and magistracies, and plots, and parties. Reflecting that I was really too honest a man to be a politician and live, I did not go where I could do no good to you or to myself; but where I could do the greatest good privately to every one of you, thither I went, and sought to persuade every man among you that he must look to himself, and seek virtue and wisdom before he looks to his private interests, and look to the state before he looks to the interests of the state; and that this should be the order which he observes in all his actions. What shall be done to such an one? Doubtless some good thing, O men of Athens, if he has his reward; and the good should be of a kind suitable to him. What would be a reward suitable to a poor man who is your benefactor, and who desires leisure that he may instruct you? There can be no reward so fitting as maintenance in the Prytaneum, O men of Athens, a reward which he deserves far more than the citizen who has won the prize at Olympia in the horse or chariot race, whether the chariots were drawn by two horses or by many. For I am in want, and he has enough; and he only gives you the appearance of happiness, and I give you the reality. And if I am to estimate the penalty fairly, I should say that maintenance in the Prytaneum 37is the just return.
The consciousness of innocence gives him confidence.No alternative in his own judgment preferable to death.
Perhaps you think that I am braving you in what I am saying now, as in what I said before about the tears and prayers. But this is not so. I speak rather because I am convinced that I never intentionally wronged any one, although I cannot convince you—the time has been too short; if there were a law at Athens, as there is in other cities, that a capital cause should not be decided in one day, then I believe that I should have convinced you. But I cannot in a moment refute great slanders; and, as I am convinced that I never wronged another, I will assuredly not wrong myself. I will not say of myself that I deserve any evil, or propose any penalty. Why should I? Because I am afraid of the penalty of death which Meletus proposes? When I do not know whether death is a good or an evil, why should I propose a penalty which would certainly be an evil? Shall I say imprisonment? And why should I live in prison, and be the slave of the magistrates of the year—of the Eleven? Or shall the penalty be a fine, and imprisonment until the fine is paid? There is the same objection. I should have to lie in prison, for money I have none, and cannot pay. And if I say exile (and this may possibly be the penalty which you will affix), I must indeed be blinded by the love of life, if I am so irrational as to expect that when you, who are my own citizens, cannot endure my discourses and words, and have found them so grievous and odious that you will have no more of them, others are likely to endure me. No indeed, men of Athens, that is not very likely. And what a life should I lead, at my age, wandering from city to city, ever changing my place of exile, and always being driven out! For I am quite sure that wherever I go, there, as here, the young men will flock to me; and if I drive them away, their elders will drive me out at their request; and if I let them come, their fathers and friends will drive me out for their sakes.
For wherever he goes he must speak out.
Some one will say: Yes, Socrates, but cannot you hold your tongue, and then you may go into a foreign city, and no one will interfere with you? Now I have great difficulty in making you understand my answer to this. For if I tell you that to do as you say would be a disobedience to the God, and therefore that I cannot hold my tongue, you will not 38believe that I am serious; and if I say again that daily to discourse about virtue, and of those other things about which you hear me examining myself and others, is the greatest good of man, and that the unexamined life is not worth living, you are still less likely to believe me. Yet I say what is true, although a thing of which it is hard for me to persuade you. Also, I have never been accustomed to think that I deserve to suffer any harm. Had I money I might have estimated the offence at what I was able to pay, and not have been much the worse. But I have none, and therefore I must ask you to proportion the fine to my means. Well, perhaps I could afford a mina, and therefore I propose that penalty: Plato, Crito, Critobulus, and Apollodorus, my friends here, bid me say thirty minae, and they will be the sureties. Let thirty minae be the penalty; for which sum they will be ample security to you.
They will be accused of killing a wise man.Why could they not wait a few years?
Not much time will be gained, O Athenians, in return for the evil name which you will get from the detractors of the city, who will say that you killed Socrates, a wise man; for they will call me wise, even although I am not wise, when they want to reproach you. If you had waited a little while, your desire would have been fulfilled in the course of nature. For I am far advanced in years, as you may perceive, and not far from death. I am speaking now not to all of you, but only to those who have condemned me to death. And I have another thing to say to them: You think that I was convicted because I had no words of the sort which would have procured my acquittal—I mean, if I had thought fit to leave nothing undone or unsaid. Not so; the deficiency which led to my conviction was not of words—certainly not. But I had not the boldness or impudence or inclination to address you as you would have liked me to do, weeping and wailing and lamenting, and saying and doing many things which you have been accustomed to hear from others, and which, as I maintain, are unworthy of me. I thought at the time that I ought not to do anything common or mean when in danger: nor do I now repent of the style of my defence; I would rather die having spoken after my manner, than speak in your manner and live. For neither in war nor yet at law ought I or any man to use every way of escaping death. 39Often in battle there can be no doubt that if a man will throw away his arms, and fall on his knees before his pursuers, he may escape death; and in other dangers there are other ways of escaping death, if a man is willing to say and do anything. The difficulty, my friends, is not to avoid death, but to avoid unrighteousness; for that runs faster than death. I am old and move slowly, and the slower runner has overtaken me, and my accusers are keen and quick, and the faster runner, who is unrighteousness, has overtaken them. And now I depart hence condemned by you to suffer the penalty of death,—they too go their ways condemned by the truth to suffer the penalty of villainy and wrong; and I must abide by my award—let them abide by theirs. I suppose that these things may be regarded as fated,—and I think that they are well.
They are about to slay Socrates because he has been their accuser: other accusers will rise up and denounce them more vehemently.
And now, O men who have condemned me, I would fain prophesy to you; for I am about to die, and in the hour of death men are gifted with prophetic power. And I prophesy to you who are my murderers, that immediately after my departure punishment far heavier than you have inflicted on me will surely await you. Me you have killed because you wanted to escape the accuser, and not to give an account of your lives. But that will not be as you suppose: far otherwise. For I say that there will be more accusers of you than there are now; accusers whom hitherto I have restrained: and as they are younger they will be more inconsiderate with you, and you will be more offended at them. If you think that by killing men you can prevent some one from censuring your evil lives, you are mistaken; that is not a way of escape which is either possible or honourable; the easiest and the noblest way is not to be disabling others, but to be improving yourselves. This is the prophecy which I utter before my departure to the judges who have condemned me.
He believes that what is happening to him will be good, because the internal oracle gives no sign of opposition.
Friends, who would have acquitted me, I would like also to talk with you about the thing which has come to pass, while the magistrates are busy, and before I go to the place at which I must die. Stay then a little, for we may as well talk 40with one another while there is time. You are my friends, and I should like to show you the meaning of this event which has happened to me. O my judges—for you I may truly call judges—I should like to tell you of a wonderful circumstance. Hitherto the divine faculty of which the internal oracle is the source has constantly been in the habit of opposing me even about trifles, if I was going to make a slip or error in any matter; and now as you see there has come upon me that which may be thought, and is generally believed to be, the last and worst evil. But the oracle made no sign of opposition, either when I was leaving my house in the morning, or when I was on my way to the court, or while I was speaking, at anything which I was going to say; and yet I have often been stopped in the middle of a speech, but now in nothing I either said or did touching the matter in hand has the oracle opposed me. What do I take to be the explanation of this silence? I will tell you. It is an intimation that what has happened to me is a good, and that those of us who think that death is an evil are in error. For the customary sign would surely have opposed me had I been going to evil and not to good.
Death either a good or nothing:=a profound sleep.How blessed to have a just judgment passed on us; to converse with Homer and Hesiod; to see the heroes of Troy, and to continue the search after knowledge in another world!
Let us reflect in another way, and we shall see that there is great reason to hope that death is a good; for one of two things—either death is a state of nothingness and utter unconsciousness, or, as men say, there is a change and migration of the soul from this world to another. Now if you suppose that there is no consciousness, but a sleep like the sleep of him who is undisturbed even by dreams, death will be an unspeakable gain. For if a person were to select the night in which his sleep was undisturbed even by dreams, and were to compare with this the other days and nights of his life, and then were to tell us how many days and nights he had passed in the course of his life better and more pleasantly than this one, I think that any man, I will not say a private man, but even the great king will not find many such days or nights, when compared with the others. Now if death be of such a nature, I say that to die is gain; for eternity is then only a single night. But if death is the journey to another place, and there, as men say, all the dead abide, what good, O my friends and judges, can be greater than this? If indeed when the pilgrim arrives in the world below, he is delivered from the professors 41of justice in this world, and finds the true judges who are said to give judgment there, Minos and Rhadamanthus and Aeacus and Triptolemus, and other sons of God who were righteous in their own life, that pilgrimage will be worth making. What would not a man give if he might converse with Orpheus and Musaeus and Hesiod and Homer? Nay, if this be true, let me die again and again. I myself, too, shall have a wonderful interest in there meeting and conversing with Palamedes, and Ajax the son of Telamon, and any other ancient hero who has suffered death through an unjust judgment; and there will be no small pleasure, as I think, in comparing my own sufferings with theirs. Above all, I shall then be able to continue my search into true and false knowledge; as in this world, so also in the next; and I shall find out who is wise, and who pretends to be wise, and is not. What would not a man give, O judges, to be able to examine the leader of the great Trojan expedition; or Odysseus or Sisyphus, or numberless others, men and women too! What infinite delight would there be in conversing with them and asking them questions! In another world they do not put a man to death for asking questions: assuredly not. For besides being happier than we are, they will be immortal, if what is said is true.
Wherefore, O judges, be of good cheer about death, and know of a certainty, that no evil can happen to a good man, either in life or after death. He and his are not neglected by the gods; nor has my own approaching end happened by mere chance. But I see clearly that the time had arrived when it was better for me to die and be released from trouble; wherefore the oracle gave no sign. For which reason, also, I am not angry with my condemners, or with my accusers; they have done me no harm, although they did not mean to do me any good; and for this I may gently blame them.
Do to my sons as I have done to you.
Still I have a favour to ask of them. When my sons are grown up, I would ask you, O my friends, to punish them; and I would have you trouble them, as I have troubled you, if they seem to care about riches, or anything, more than about virtue; or if they pretend to be something when they are really nothing,—then reprove them, as I have reproved you, for not caring about that for which they ought to care, and thinking that they are something when they are really 42nothing. And if you do this, both I and my sons will have received justice at your hands.
The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways—I to die, and you to live. Which is better God only knows.
CRITO.
INTRODUCTION.
Crito.Introduction.
The Crito seems intended to exhibit the character of Socrates in one light only, not as the philosopher, fulfilling a divine mission and trusting in the will of heaven, but simply as the good citizen, who having been unjustly condemned is willing to give up his life in obedience to the laws of the state. . . . .
Analysis.
43The days of Socrates are drawing to a close; the fatal ship has been seen off Sunium, as he is informed by his aged friend and contemporary Crito, who visits him before the dawn has broken; he himself has been warned in a dream that on the 44third day he must depart. Time is precious, and Crito has come early in order to gain his consent to a plan of escape. This can be easily accomplished by his friends, who will incur no 45danger in making the attempt to save him, but will be disgraced for ever if they allow him to perish. He should think of his duty to his children, and not play into the hands of his enemies. Money is already provided by Crito as well as by Simmias and 46others, and he will have no difficulty in finding friends in Thessaly and other places.
Socrates is afraid that Crito is but pressing upon him the opinions of the many: whereas, all his life long he has followed the dictates of reason only and the opinion of the one wise or skilled man. There was a time when Crito himself had allowed the propriety of this. And although some one will say ‘the many can kill us,’ that makes no difference; but a good life, in other words, a just and honourable life, is alone to be valued. All considerations of loss of reputation or injury to his children should be dismissed: the only question is whether he would be right in attempting to escape. Crito, who is a disinterested 47person not having the fear of death before his eyes, shall answer this for him. Before he was condemned they had often held discussions, in which they agreed that no man should either do evil, 48or return evil for evil, or betray the right. Are these principles to be altered because the circumstances of Socrates are altered? Crito admits that they remain the same. Then is his escape consistent 49with the maintenance of them? To this Crito is unable or unwilling to reply.
Socrates proceeds:—Suppose the Laws of Athens to come 50and remonstrate with him: they will ask ‘Why does he seek to overturn them?’ and if he replies, ‘they have injured him,’ will not the Laws answer, ‘Yes, but was that the agreement? Has he any objection to make to them which would justify him in 51overturning them? Was he not brought into the world and educated by their help, and are they not his parents? He might 52have left Athens and gone where he pleased, but he has lived there for seventy years more constantly than any other citizen.’ Thus he has clearly shown that he acknowledged the agreement, which he cannot now break without dishonour to himself and danger to his friends. Even in the course of the trial he might have proposed exile as the penalty, but then he declared that he preferred death to exile. And whither will he direct his footsteps? In any well-ordered state the Laws will consider him as 53an enemy. Possibly in a land of misrule like Thessaly he may be welcomed at first, and the unseemly narrative of his escape will be regarded by the inhabitants as an amusing tale. But if he offends them he will have to learn another sort of lesson. Will he continue to give lectures in virtue? That would hardly be decent. And how will his children be the gainers if he takes them into Thessaly, and deprives them of Athenian citizenship? 54Or if he leaves them behind, does he expect that they will be better taken care of by his friends because he is in Thessaly? Will not true friends care for them equally whether he is alive or dead?
Finally, they exhort him to think of justice first, and of life and children afterwards. He may now depart in peace and innocence, a sufferer and not a doer of evil. But if he breaks agreements, and returns evil for evil, they will be angry with him while he lives; and their brethren the Laws of the world below will receive him as an enemy. Such is the mystic voice which is always murmuring in his ears.
Introduction.
That Socrates was not a good citizen was a charge made against him during his lifetime, which has been often repeated in later ages. The crimes of Alcibiades, Critias, and Charmides, who had been his pupils, were still recent in the memory of the now restored democracy. The fact that he had been neutral in the death-struggle of Athens was not likely to conciliate popular good-will. Plato, writing probably in the next generation, undertakes the defence of his friend and master in this particular, not to the Athenians of his day, but to posterity and the world at large.
Whether such an incident ever really occurred as the visit of Crito and the proposal of escape is uncertain: Plato could easily have invented far more than that (Phaedr. 275 B); and in the selection of Crito, the aged friend, as the fittest person to make the proposal to Socrates, we seem to recognize the hand of the artist. Whether any one who has been subjected by the laws of his country to an unjust judgment is right in attempting to escape, is a thesis about which casuists might disagree. Shelley (Prose Works, p. 78) is of opinion that Socrates ‘did well to die,’ but not for the ‘sophistical’ reasons which Plato has put into his mouth. And there would be no difficulty in arguing that Socrates should have lived and preferred to a glorious death the good which he might still be able to perform. ‘A rhetorician would have had much to say upon that point’ (50 B). It may be observed however that Plato never intended to answer the question of casuistry, but only to exhibit the ideal of patient virtue which refuses to do the least evil in order to avoid the greatest, and to show his master maintaining in death the opinions which he had professed in his life. Not ‘the world,’ but the ‘one wise man,’ is still the paradox of Socrates in his last hours. He must be guided by reason, although her conclusions may be fatal to him. The remarkable sentiment that the wicked can do neither good nor evil is true, if taken in the sense, which he means, of moral evil; in his own words, ‘they cannot make a man wise or foolish.’
This little dialogue is a perfect piece of dialectic, in which granting the ‘common principle’ (49 D), there is no escaping from the conclusion. It is anticipated at the beginning by the dream of Socrates and the parody of Homer. The personification of the Laws, and of their brethren the Laws in the world below, is one of the noblest and boldest figures of speech which occur in Plato.
CRITO.
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE.
Socrates.
Crito.
Scene:—The Prison of Socrates.
Socrates.
Crito.Socrates, Crito.
43Why have you come at this hour, Crito? it must be quite early?
Crito.
Yes, certainly.
Soc.
Crito appears at break of dawn in the prison of Socrates, whom he finds asleep.
What is the exact time?
Cr.
The dawn is breaking.
Soc.
I wonder that the keeper of the prison would let you in.
Cr.
He knows me, because I often come, Socrates; moreover, I have done him a kindness.
Soc.
And are you only just arrived?
Cr.
No, I came some time ago.
Soc.
Then why did you sit and say nothing, instead of at once awakening me?
Cr.
I should not have liked myself, Socrates, to be in such great trouble and unrest as you are—indeed I should not: I have been watching with amazement your peaceful slumbers; and for that reason I did not awake you, because I wished to minimize the pain. I have always thought you to be of a happy disposition; but never did I see anything like the easy, tranquil manner in which you bear this calamity.
Soc.
Why, Crito, when a man has reached my age he ought not to be repining at the approach of death.
Cr.
And yet other old men find themselves in similar misfortunes, and age does not prevent them from repining.
Soc.
That is true. But you have not told me why you come at this early hour.
Cr.
The ship from Delos is expected.
I come to bring you a message which is sad and painful; not, as I believe, to yourself, but to all of us who are your friends, and saddest of all to me.
Soc.
What? Has the ship come from Delos, on the arrival of which I am to die?
Cr.
No, the ship has not actually arrived, but she will probably be here to-day, as persons who have come from Sunium tell me that they left her there; and therefore to-morrow, Socrates, will be the last day of your life.
Soc.
Very well, Crito; if such is the will of God, I am willing; but my belief is that there will be a delay of a day.
Cr.
Why do you think so? 44
Soc.
I will tell you. I am to die on the day after the arrival of the ship.
Cr.
Yes; that is what the authorities say.
Soc.
A vision of a fair woman who prophesies in the language of Homer that Socrates will die on the third day.
But I do not think that the ship will be here until to-morrow; this I infer from a vision which I had last night, or rather only just now, when you fortunately allowed me to sleep.
Cr.
And what was the nature of the vision?
Soc.
There appeared to me the likeness of a woman, fair and comely, clothed in bright raiment, who called to me and said: O Socrates,
‘The third day hence to fertile Phthia shalt thou go1 .’
Cr.
What a singular dream, Socrates!
Soc.
There can be no doubt about the meaning, Crito, I think.
Cr.
Yes; the meaning is only too clear. But, oh! my beloved Socrates, let me entreat you once more to take my advice and escape. For if you die I shall not only lose a friend who can never be replaced, but there is another evil: people who do not know you and me will believe that I might have saved you if I had been willing to give money, but that I did not care. Now, can there be a worse disgrace than this—that I should be thought to value money more than the life of a friend? For the many will not be persuaded that I wanted you to escape, and that you refused.
Soc.
But why, my dear Crito, should we care about the opinion of the many? Good men, and they are the only persons who are worth considering, will think of these things truly as they occurred.
Cr.
Crito by a variety of arguments tries to induce Socrates to make his escape. The means will be easily provided and without danger to any one.
But you see, Socrates, that the opinion of the many must be regarded, for what is now happening shows that they can do the greatest evil to any one who has lost their good opinion.
Soc.
I only wish it were so, Crito; and that the many could do the greatest evil; for then they would also be able to do the greatest good—and what a fine thing this would be! But in reality they can do neither; for they cannot make a man either wise or foolish; and whatever they do is the result of chance.
Cr.
Well, I will not dispute with you; but please to tell me, Socrates, whether you are not acting out of regard to me and your other friends: are you not afraid that if you escape from prison we may get into trouble with the informers for having stolen you away, and lose either the whole or a great part of 45our property; or that even a worse evil may happen to us? Now, if you fear on our account, be at ease; for in order to save you, we ought surely to run this, or even a greater risk; be persuaded, then, and do as I say.
Soc.
Yes, Crito, that is one fear which you mention, but by no means the only one.
Cr.
He is not justified in throwing away his life; he will be deserting his children, and will bring the reproach of cowardice on his friends.
Fear not—there are persons who are willing to get you out of prison at no great cost; and as for the informers, they are far from being exorbitant in their demands—a little money will satisfy them. My means, which are certainly ample, are at your service, and if you have a scruple about spending all mine, here are strangers who will give you the use of theirs; and one of them, Simmias the Theban, has brought a large sum of money for this very purpose; and Cebes and many others are prepared to spend their money in helping you to escape. I say, therefore, do not hesitate on our account, and do not say, as you did in the court1 , that you will have a difficulty in knowing what to do with yourself anywhere else. For men will love you in other places to which you may go, and not in Athens only; there are friends of mine in Thessaly, if you like to go to them, who will value and protect you, and no Thessalian will give you any trouble. Nor can I think that you are at all justified, Socrates, in betraying your own life when you might be saved; in acting thus you are playing into the hands of your enemies, who are hurrying on your destruction. And further I should say that you are deserting your own children; for you might bring them up and educate them; instead of which you go away and leave them, and they will have to take their chance; and if they do not meet with the usual fate of orphans, there will be small thanks to you. No man should bring children into the world who is unwilling to persevere to the end in their nurture and education. But you appear to be choosing the easier part, not the better and manlier, which would have been more becoming in one who professes to care for virtue in all his actions, like yourself. And indeed, I am ashamed not only of you, but of us who are your friends, when I reflect that the whole business will be attributed entirely to our want of courage. The trial need never have come on, or might have been managed differently; and this last act, or crowning folly, will seem to have occurred through our negligence and cowardice, who might have saved you, if we had been good for 46anything; and you might have saved yourself, for there was no difficulty at all. See now, Socrates, how sad and discreditable are the consequences, both to us and you. Make up your mind then, or rather have your mind already made up, for the time of deliberation is over, and there is only one thing to be done, which must be done this very night, and if we delay at all will be no longer practicable or possible; I beseech you therefore, Socrates, be persuaded by me, and do as I say.
Soc.
Socrates is one of those who must be guided by reason.Ought he to follow the opinion of the many or of the few, of the wise or of the unwise?
Dear Crito, your zeal is invaluable, if a right one; but if wrong, the greater the zeal the greater the danger; and therefore we ought to consider whether I shall or shall not do as you say. For I am and always have been one of those natures who must be guided by reason, whatever the reason may be which upon reflection appears to me to be the best; and now that this chance has befallen me, I cannot repudiate my own words: the principles which I have hitherto honoured and revered I still honour, and unless we can at once find other and better principles, I am certain not to agree with you; no, not even if the power of the multitude could inflict many more imprisonments, confiscations, deaths, frightening us like children with hobgoblin terrors1 . What will be the fairest way of considering the question? Shall I return to your old argument about the opinions of men?—we were saying that some of them are to be regarded, and others not. Now were we right in maintaining this before I was condemned? And has the argument which was once good now proved to be talk for the sake of talking—mere childish nonsense? That is what I want to consider with your help, Crito:—whether, under my present circumstances, the argument appears to be in any way different or not; and is to be allowed by me or disallowed. That argument, which, as I believe, is maintained by many persons of authority, was to the effect, as I was saying, that the opinions of some men are to be regarded, and of other men not to be regarded. Now 47you, Crito, are not going to die to-morrow—at least, there is no human probability of this—and therefore you are disinterested and not liable to be deceived by the circumstances in which you are placed. Tell me then, whether I am right in saying that some opinions, and the opinions of some men only, are to be valued, and that other opinions, and the opinions of other men, are not to be valued. I ask you whether I was right in maintaining this?
Cr.
Certainly.
Soc.
The good are to be regarded, and not the bad?
Cr.
Yes.
Soc.
And the opinions of the wise are good, and the opinions of the unwise are evil?
Cr.
Certainly.
Soc.
And what was said about another matter? Is the pupil who devotes himself to the practice of gymnastics supposed to attend to the praise and blame and opinion of every man, or of one man only—his physician or trainer, whoever he may be?
Cr.
Of one man only.
Soc.
And he ought to fear the censure and welcome the praise of that one only, and not of the many?
Cr.
Clearly so.
Soc.
And he ought to act and train, and eat and drink in the way which seems good to his single master who has understanding, rather than according to the opinion of all other men put together?
Cr.
True.
Soc.
And if he disobeys and disregards the opinion and approval of the one, and regards the opinion of the many who have no understanding, will he not suffer evil?
Cr.
Certainly he will.
Soc.
And what will the evil be, whither tending and what affecting, in the disobedient person?
Cr.
Clearly, affecting the body; that is what is destroyed by the evil.
Soc.
The opinion of the one wise man is to be followed.
Very good; and is not this true, Crito, of other things which we need not separately enumerate? In questions of just and unjust, fair and foul, good and evil, which are the subjects of our present consultation, ought we to follow the opinion of the many and to fear them; or the opinion of the one man who has understanding? ought we not to fear and reverence him more than all the rest of the world: and if we desert him shall we not destroy and injure that principle in us which may be assumed to be improved by justice and deteriorated by injustice;—there is such a principle?
Cr.
Certainly there is, Socrates.
Soc.
Take a parallel instance:—if, acting under the advice of those who have no understanding, we destroy that which is improved by health and is deteriorated by disease, would life be worth having? And that which has been destroyed is—the body?
Cr.
Yes.
Soc.
Could we live, having an evil and corrupted body?
Cr.
Certainly not.
Soc.
And will life be worth having, if that higher part of man be destroyed, which is improved by justice and depraved by injustice? Do we suppose that principle, whatever it 48may be in man, which has to do with justice and injustice, to be inferior to the body?
Cr.
Certainly not.
Soc.
More honourable than the body?
Cr.
Far more.
Soc.
No matter what the many say of us.
Then, my friend, we must not regard what the many say of us: but what he, the one man who has understanding of just and unjust, will say, and what the truth will say. And therefore you begin in error when you advise that we should regard the opinion of the many about just and unjust, good and evil, honourable and dishonourable. — ‘Well,’ some one will say, ‘but the many can kill us.’
Cr.
Yes, Socrates; that will clearly be the answer.
Soc.
Not life, but a good life, to be chiefly valued.
And it is true: but still I find with surprise that the old argument is unshaken as ever. And I should like to know whether I may say the same of another proposition—that not life, but a good life, is to be chiefly valued?
Cr.
Yes, that also remains unshaken.
Soc.
And a good life is equivalent to a just and honourable one—that holds also?
Cr.
Yes, it does.
Soc.
Admitting these principles, ought I to try and escape or not?
From these premisses I proceed to argue the question whether I ought or ought not to try and escape without the consent of the Athenians: and if I am clearly right in escaping, then I will make the attempt; but if not, I will abstain. The other considerations which you mention, of money and loss of character and the duty of educating one’s children, are, I fear, only the doctrines of the multitude, who would be as ready to restore people to life, if they were able, as they are to put them to death—and with as little reason. But now, since the argument has thus far prevailed, the only question which remains to be considered is, whether we shall do rightly either in escaping or in suffering others to aid in our escape and paying them in money and thanks, or whether in reality we shall not do rightly; and if the latter, then death or any other calamity which may ensue on my remaining here must not be allowed to enter into the calculation.
Cr.
I think that you are right, Socrates; how then shall we proceed?
Soc.
Let us consider the matter together, and do you either refute me if you can, and I will be convinced; or else cease, my dear friend, from repeating to me that I ought to escape against the wishes of the Athenians: for I highly value your attempts to persuade me to do so, but I may not be persuaded against my own better judgement. And now please to consider my first position, and try how you can 49best answer me.
Cr.
I will.
Soc.
May we sometimes do evil that good may come?
Are we to say that we are never intentionally to do wrong, or that in one way we ought and in another way we ought not to do wrong, or is doing wrong always evil and dishonourable, as I was just now saying, and as has been already acknowledged by us? Are all our former admissions which were made within a few days to be thrown away? And have we, at our age, been earnestly discoursing with one another all our life long only to discover that we are no better than children? Or, in spite of the opinion of the many, and in spite of consequences whether better or worse, shall we insist on the truth of what was then said, that injustice is always an evil and dishonour to him who acts unjustly? Shall we say so or not?
Cr.
Yes.
Soc.
Then we must do no wrong?
Cr.
Certainly not.
Soc.
Nor when injured injure in return, as the many imagine; for we must injure no one at all1 ?
Cr.
Clearly not.
Soc.
Again, Crito, may we do evil?
Cr.
Surely not, Socrates.
Soc.
May we render evil for evil?
And what of doing evil in return for evil, which is the morality of the many—is that just or not?
Cr.
Not just.
Soc.
For doing evil to another is the same as injuring him?
Cr.
Very true.
Soc.
Or is evil always to be deemed evil? Are you of the same mind as formerly about all this?
Then we ought not to retaliate or render evil for evil to any one, whatever evil we may have suffered from him. But I would have you consider, Crito, whether you really mean what you are saying. For this opinion has never been held, and never will be held, by any considerable number of persons; and those who are agreed and those who are not agreed upon this point have no common ground, and can only despise one another when they see how widely they differ. Tell me, then, whether you agree with and assent to my first principle, that neither injury nor retaliation nor warding off evil by evil is ever right. And shall that be the premiss of our argument? Or do you decline and dissent from this? For so I have ever thought, and continue to think; but, if you are of another opinion, let me hear what you have to say. If, however, you remain of the same mind as formerly, I will proceed to the next step.
Cr.
Crito assents.
You may proceed, for I have not changed my mind.
Soc.
Then ought Socrates to desert or not?
Then I will go on to the next point, which may be put in the form of a question:—Ought a man to do what he admits to be right, or ought he to betray the right?
Cr.
He ought to do what he thinks right.
Soc.
But if this is true, what is the application? In 50leaving the prison against the will of the Athenians, do I wrong any? or rather do I not wrong those whom I ought least to wrong? Do I not desert the principles which were acknowledged by us to be just—what do you say?
Cr.
I cannot tell, Socrates; for I do not know.
Soc.
The Laws come and argue with him.—Can a State exist in which law is set aside?
Then consider the matter in this way:—Imagine that I am about to play truant (you may call the proceeding by any name which you like), and the laws and the government come and interrogate me: ‘Tell us, Socrates,’ they say; ‘what are you about? are you not going by an act of yours to overturn us—the laws, and the whole state, as far as in you lies? Do you imagine that a state can subsist and not be overthrown, in which the decisions of law have no power, but are set aside and trampled upon by individuals?’ What will be our answer, Crito, to these and the like words? Any one, and especially a rhetorician, will have a good deal to say on behalf of the law which requires a sentence to be carried out. He will argue that this law should not be set aside; and shall we reply, ‘Yes; but the state has injured us and given an unjust sentence.’ Suppose I say that?
Cr.
Very good, Socrates.
Soc.
Has he any fault to find with them?No man has any right to strike a blow at his country any more than at his father or mother.
‘And was that our agreement with you?’ the law would answer; ‘or were you to abide by the sentence of the state?’ And if I were to express my astonishment at their words, the law would probably add: ‘Answer, Socrates, instead of opening your eyes—you are in the habit of asking and answering questions. Tell us,—What complaint have you to make against us which justifies you in attempting to destroy us and the state? In the first place did we not bring you into existence? Your father married your mother by our aid and begat you. Say whether you have any objection to urge against those of us who regulate marriage?’ None, I should reply. ‘Or against those of us who after birth regulate the nurture and education of children, in which you also were trained? Were not the laws, which have the charge of education, right in commanding your father to train you in music and gymnastic?’ Right, I should reply. ‘Well then, since you were brought into the world and nurtured and educated by us, can you deny in the first place that you are our child and slave, as your fathers were before you? And if this is true you are not on equal terms with us; nor can you think that you have a right to do to us what we are doing to you. Would you have any right to strike or revile or do any other evil to your father or your master, if you had one, because you have been struck or reviled by him, or received some other evil at his hands?—you would not say this? And because we think right to 51destroy you, do you think that you have any right to destroy us in return, and your country as far as in you lies? Will you, O professor of true virtue, pretend that you are justified in this? Has a philosopher like you failed to discover that our country is more to be valued and higher and holier far than mother or father or any ancestor, and more to be regarded in the eyes of the gods and of men of understanding? also to be soothed, and gently and reverently entreated when angry, even more than a father, and either to be persuaded, or if not persuaded, to be obeyed? And when we are punished by her, whether with imprisonment or stripes, the punishment is to be endured in silence; and if she lead us to wounds or death in battle, thither we follow as is right; neither may any one yield or retreat or leave his rank, but whether in battle or in a court of law, or in any other place, he must do what his city and his country order him; or he must change their view of what is just: and if he may do no violence to his father or mother, much less may he do violence to his country.’ What answer shall we make to this, Crito? Do the laws speak truly, or do they not?
Cr.
I think that they do.
Soc.
The Laws argue that he has made an implied agreement with them which he is not at liberty to break at his pleasure.
Then the laws will say: ‘Consider, Socrates, if we are speaking truly that in your present attempt you are going to do us an injury. For, having brought you into the world, and nurtured and educated you, and given you and every other citizen a share in every good which we had to give, we further proclaim to any Athenian by the liberty which we allow him, that if he does not like us when he has become of age and has seen the ways of the city, and made our acquaintance, he may go where he pleases and take his goods with him. None of us laws will forbid him or interfere with him. Any one who does not like us and the city, and who wants to emigrate to a colony or to any other city, may go where he likes, retaining his property. But he who has experience of the manner in which we order justice and administer the state, and still remains, has entered into an implied contract that he will do as we command him. And he who disobeys us is, as we maintain, thrice wrong; first, because in disobeying us he is disobeying his parents; secondly, because we are the authors of his education; thirdly, because he has made an agreement with us that he 52will duly obey our commands; and he neither obeys them nor convinces us that our commands are unjust; and we do not rudely impose them, but give him the alternative of obeying or convincing us:—that is what we offer, and he does neither.
‘These are the sort of accusations to which, as we were saying, you, Socrates, will be exposed if you accomplish your intentions; you, above all other Athenians.’ Suppose now I ask, why I rather than anybody else? they will justly retort upon me that I above all other men have acknowledged the agreement. ‘There is clear proof,’ they will say, ‘Socrates, that we and the city were not displeasing to you. Of all Athenians you have been the most constant resident in the city, which, as you never leave, you may be supposed to love1 . For you never went out of the city either to see the games, except once when you went to the Isthmus, or to any other place unless when you were on military service; nor did you travel as other men do. Nor had you any curiosity to know other states or their laws: your affections did not go beyond us and our state; we were your special favourites, and you acquiesced in our government of you; and here in this city you begat your children, which is a proof of your satisfaction. Moreover, you might in the course of the trial, if you had liked, have fixed the penalty at banishment; the state which refuses to let you go now would have let you go then. But you pretended that you preferred death to exile2 , and that you were not unwilling to die. And now you have forgotten these fine sentiments, and pay no respect to us the laws, of whom you are the destroyer; and are doing what only a miserable slave would do, running away and turning your back upon the compacts and agreements which you made as a citizen. And first of all answer this very question: Are we right in saying that you agreed to be governed according to us in deed, and not in word only? Is that true or not?’ How shall we answer, Crito? Must we not assent?
Cr.
We cannot help it, Socrates.
Soc.
This agreement he is now going to break.
Then will they not say: ‘You, Socrates, are breaking the covenants and agreements which you made with us at your leisure, not in any haste or under any compulsion or deception, but after you have had seventy years to think of them, during which time you were at liberty to leave the city, if we were not to your mind, or if our covenants appeared to you to be unfair. You had your choice, and might have gone either to Lacedaemon or Crete, both which states are often praised by you for their good government, or to some other Hellenic or foreign state. Whereas you, 53above all other Athenians, seemed to be so fond of the state, or, in other words, of us her laws (and who would care about a state which has no laws?), that you never stirred out of her; the halt, the blind, the maimed were not more stationary in her than you were. And now you run away and forsake your agreements. Not so, Socrates, if you will take our advice; do not make yourself ridiculous by escaping out of the city.
If he does he will injure his friends and will disgrace himself.
‘For just consider, if you transgress and err in this sort of way, what good will you do either to yourself or to your friends? That your friends will be driven into exile and deprived of citizenship, or will lose their property, is tolerably certain; and you yourself, if you fly to one of the neighbouring cities, as, for example, Thebes or Megara, both of which are well governed, will come to them as an enemy, Socrates, and their government will be against you, and all patriotic citizens will cast an evil eye upon you as a subverter of the laws, and you will confirm in the minds of the judges the justice of their own condemnation of you. For he who is a corrupter of the laws is more than likely to be a corrupter of the young and foolish portion of mankind. Will you then flee from well-ordered cities and virtuous men? and is existence worth having on these terms? Or will you go to them without shame, and talk to them, Socrates? And what will you say to them? What you say here about virtue and justice and institutions and laws being the best things among men? Would that be decent of you? Surely not. But if you go away from well-governed states to Crito’s friends in Thessaly, where there is great disorder and licence, they will be charmed to hear the tale of your escape from prison, set off with ludicrous particulars of the manner in which you were wrapped in a goatskin or some other disguise, and metamorphosed as the manner is of runaways; but will there be no one to remind you that in your old age you were not ashamed to violate the most sacred laws from a miserable desire of a little more life? Perhaps not, if you keep them in a good temper; but if they are out of temper you will hear many degrading things; you will live, but how?—as the flatterer of all men, and the servant of all men; and doing what?—eating and drinking in Thessaly, having gone abroad in order that you may get a dinner. And where will be your fine sentiments 54about justice and virtue? Say that you wish to live for the sake of your children—you want to bring them up and educate them—will you take them into Thessaly and deprive them of Athenian citizenship? Is this the benefit which you will confer upon them? Or are you under the impression that they will be better cared for and educated here if you are still alive, although absent from them; for your friends will take care of them? Do you fancy that if you are an inhabitant of Thessaly they will take care of them, and if you are an inhabitant of the other world that they will not take care of them? Nay; but if they who call themselves friends are good for anything, they will—to be sure they will.
Let him think of justice first, and of life and children afterwards.
‘Listen, then, Socrates, to us who have brought you up. Think not of life and children first, and of justice afterwards, but of justice first, that you may be justified before the princes of the world below. For neither will you nor any that belong to you be happier or holier or juster in this life, or happier in another, if you do as Crito bids. Now you depart in innocence, a sufferer and not a doer of evil; a victim, not of the laws but of men. But if you go forth, returning evil for evil, and injury for injury, breaking the covenants and agreements which you have made with us, and wronging those whom you ought least of all to wrong, that is to say, yourself, your friends, your country, and us, we shall be angry with you while you live, and our brethren, the laws in the world below, will receive you as an enemy; for they will know that you have done your best to destroy us. Listen, then, to us and not to Crito.’
The mystic voice.
This, dear Crito, is the voice which I seem to hear murmuring in my ears, like the sound of the flute in the ears of the mystic; that voice, I say, is humming in my ears, and prevents me from hearing any other. And I know that anything more which you may say will be vain. Yet speak, if you have anything to say.
Cr.
I have nothing to say, Socrates.
Soc.
Leave me then, Crito, to fulfil the will of God, and to follow whither he leads.
PHAEDO.
INTRODUCTION.
Phaedo.Analysis.
57After an interval of some months or years, and at Phlius, a town of Peloponnesus, the tale of the last hours of Socrates is narrated to Echecrates and other Phliasians by Phaedo the ‘beloved disciple.’ The Dialogue necessarily takes the form of a 58narrative, because Socrates has to be described acting as well as speaking. The minutest particulars of the event are interesting to distant friends, and the narrator has an equal interest in them.
During the voyage of the sacred ship to and from Delos, which has occupied thirty days, the execution of Socrates has been deferred. (Cp. Xen. Mem. iv. 8. 2.) The time has been passed by 59him in conversation with a select company of disciples. But now the holy season is over, and the disciples meet earlier than usual in order that they may converse with Socrates for the last time. Those who were present, and those who might have been expected to be present, are mentioned by name. There are Simmias and Cebes (Crito 45 B), two disciples of Philolaus whom Socrates ‘by his enchantments has attracted from Thebes’ (Mem. iii. 11. 17), Crito the aged friend, the attendant of the prison, who is as good as a friend—these take part in the conversation. There are present also, Hermogenes, from whom Xenophon derived his information about the trial of Socrates (Mem. iv. 8. 4), the ‘madman’ Apollodorus (Symp. 173 D), Euclid and Terpsion from Megara (cp. Theaet. sub init.), Ctesippus, Antisthenes, Menexenus, and some other less-known members of the Socratic circle, all of whom are silent auditors. Aristippus, Cleombrotus, 60and Plato are noted as absent. Almost as soon as the friends of Socrates enter the prison Xanthippè and her children are sent home in the care of one of Crito’s servants. Socrates himself has just been released from chains, and is led by this circumstance to make the natural remark that ‘pleasure follows pain.’ (Observe that Plato is preparing the way for his doctrine of the alternation of opposites.) ‘Aesop would have represented them in a fable as a two-headed creature of the gods.’ The mention of Aesop reminds Cebes of a question which had been asked by Evenus the poet (cp. Apol. 20 A): ‘Why Socrates, who was not a poet, while in prison had been putting Aesop into verse?’—‘Because several times in his life he had been warned in dreams that 61he should practise music; and as he was about to die and was not certain of what was meant, he wished to fulfil the admonition in the letter as well as in the spirit, by writing verses as well as by cultivating philosophy. Tell this to Evenus; and say that I would have him follow me in death.’ ‘He is not at all the sort of man to comply with your request, Socrates.’ ‘Why, is he not a philosopher?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Then he will be willing to die, although he will not take his own life, for that is held to be unlawful.’
Cebes asks why suicide is thought not to be right, if death is to 62be accounted a good? Well, (1) according to one explanation, because man is a prisoner, who must not open the door of his prison and run away—this is the truth in a ‘mystery.’ Or (2) rather, because he is not his own property, but a possession of the gods, and has no right to make away with that which does not belong to him. But why, asks Cebes, if he is a possession of the gods, should he wish to die and leave them? for he is under their protection; and surely he cannot take better care of himself than they take of him. Simmias explains that Cebes is really 63referring to Socrates, whom they think too unmoved at the prospect of leaving the gods and his friends. Socrates answers that he is going to other gods who are wise and good, and perhaps to better friends; and he professes that he is ready to defend himself against the charge of Cebes. The company shall be his judges, and he hopes that he will be more successful in convincing them than he had been in convincing the court.
The philosopher desires death—which the wicked world will 64insinuate that he also deserves: and perhaps he does, but not in any sense which they are capable of understanding. Enough of them: the real question is, What is the nature of that death which he desires? Death is the separation of soul and body—and the philosopher desires such a separation. He would like to be freed from the dominion of bodily pleasures and of the senses, 65which are always perturbing his mental vision. He wants to get rid of eyes and ears, and with the light of the mind only to behold the light of truth. All the evils and impurities and necessities 66of men come from the body. And death separates him from these corruptions, which in life he cannot wholly lay aside. Why 67then should he repine when the hour of separation arrives? Why, if he is dead while he lives, should he fear that other death, 68through which alone he can behold wisdom in her purity?
Besides, the philosopher has notions of good and evil unlike those of other men. For they are courageous because they are 69afraid of greater dangers, and temperate because they desire greater pleasures. But he disdains this balancing of pleasures and pains, which is the exchange of commerce and not of virtue. All the virtues, including wisdom, are regarded by him only as purifications of the soul. And this was the meaning of the founders of the mysteries when they said, ‘Many are the wandbearers but few are the mystics.’ (Cp. Matt. xxii. 14: ‘Many are called, but few are chosen.’) And in the hope that he is one of these mystics, Socrates is now departing. This is his answer to any one who charges him with indifference at the prospect of leaving the gods and his friends.
70Still, a fear is expressed that the soul upon leaving the body may vanish away like smoke or air. Socrates in answer appeals first of all to the old Orphic tradition that the souls of the dead are in the world below, and that the living come from them. This he attempts to found on a philosophical assumption that 71all opposites—e.g. less, greater; weaker, stronger; sleeping, waking; life, death—are generated out of each other. Nor can the process of generation be only a passage from living to dying, 72for then all would end in death. The perpetual sleeper (Endymion) would be no longer distinguished from the rest of mankind. The circle of nature is not complete unless the living come from the dead as well as pass to them.
The Platonic doctrine of reminiscence is then adduced as a confirmation of the pre-existence of the soul. Some proofs of 73this doctrine are demanded. One proof given is the same as that of the Meno (82 foll.), and is derived from the latent knowledge of mathematics, which may be elicited from an unlearned person when a diagram is presented to him. Again, there is a power of association, which from seeing Simmias may remember Cebes, or from seeing a picture of Simmias may remember Simmias. The 74lyre may recall the player of the lyre, and equal pieces of wood or stone may be associated with the higher notion of absolute equality. But here observe that material equalities fall short of the conception of absolute equality with which they are compared, and which is the measure of them. And the measure or standard must be prior to that which is measured, the idea of 75equality prior to the visible equals. And if prior to them, then prior also to the perceptions of the senses which recall them, and therefore either given before birth or at birth. But all men have 76not this knowledge, nor have any without a process of reminiscence; which is a proof that it is not innate or given at birth, unless indeed it was given and taken away at the same instant. But if not given to men in birth, it must have been given before birth—this is the only alternative which remains. And if we had ideas in a former state, then our souls must have existed and must have had intelligence in a former state. The pre-existence 77of the soul stands or falls with the doctrine of ideas.
It is objected by Simmias and Cebes that these arguments only prove a former and not a future existence. Socrates answers this objection by recalling the previous argument, in which he had shown that the living come from the dead. But the fear that the soul at departing may vanish into air (especially if there is a wind blowing at the time) has not yet been charmed away. He proceeds: 78When we fear that the soul will vanish away, let us ask ourselves what is that which we suppose to be liable to dissolution? Is it the simple or the compound, the unchanging or the changing, the invisible idea or the visible object of sense? Clearly the latter and not the former; and therefore not the soul, 79which in her own pure thought is unchangeable, and only when using the senses descends into the region of change. Again, the soul commands, the body serves: in this respect too the soul is 80akin to the divine, and the body to the mortal. And in every point of view the soul is the image of divinity and immortality, and the body of the human and mortal. And whereas the body is liable to speedy dissolution, the soul is almost if not quite indissoluble. (Cp. Tim. 41 A.) Yet even the body may be preserved for ages by the embalmer’s art: how unlikely, then, that the soul will perish and be dissipated into air while on her way to the good and wise God! She has been gathered into herself, holding 81aloof from the body, and practising death all her life long, and she is now finally released from the errors and follies and passions of men, and for ever dwells in the company of the gods.
But the soul which is polluted and engrossed by the corporeal, and has no eye except that of the senses, and is weighed down by the bodily appetites, cannot attain to this abstraction. In her fear of the world below she lingers about the sepulchre, loath to leave the body which she loved, a ghostly apparition, saturated with sense, and therefore visible. At length entering into some 82animal of a nature congenial to her former life of sensuality or violence, she takes the form of an ass, a wolf or a kite. And of these earthly souls the happiest are those who have practised virtue without philosophy; they are allowed to pass into gentle and social natures, such as bees and ants. (Cp. Rep. x. 619 C, Meno 100 A.) But only the philosopher who departs pure is permitted to enter the company of the gods. (Cp. Phaedrus 249.) This is the reason why he abstains from fleshly lusts, and not because he fears loss or disgrace, which is the motive of other 83men. He too has been a captive, and the willing agent of his own captivity. But philosophy has spoken to him, and he has heard her voice; she has gently entreated him, and brought him out of the ‘miry clay,’ and purged away the mists of passion and the illusions of sense which envelope him; his soul has escaped from the influence of pleasures and pains, which are like nails 84fastening her to the body. To that prison-house she will not return; and therefore she abstains from bodily pleasures—not from a desire of having more or greater ones, but because she knows that only when calm and free from the dominion of the body can she behold the light of truth.
Simmias and Cebes remain in doubt; but they are unwilling to raise objections at such a time. Socrates wonders at their reluctance. Let them regard him rather as the swan, who, 85having sung the praises of Apollo all his life long, sings at his death more lustily than ever. (Cp. 60 D.) Simmias acknowledges that there is cowardice in not probing truth to the bottom. ‘And if truth divine and inspired is not to be had, then let a man take the best of human notions, and upon this frail bark let him sail through life.’ He proceeds to state his difficulty: It has 86been argued that the soul is invisible and incorporeal, and therefore immortal, and prior to the body. But is not the soul acknowledged to be a harmony, and has she not the same relation to the body, as the harmony—which like her is invisible—has to the lyre? And yet the harmony does not survive the lyre. Cebes has also an objection, which like Simmias he expresses in a figure. He is willing to admit that the soul is more lasting than the body. But the more lasting nature of the soul 87does not prove her immortality; for after having worn out many bodies in a single life, and many more in successive births and deaths, she may at last perish, or, as Socrates afterwards restates the objection, the very act of birth may be the beginning of her death, and her last body may survive her, just as the coat of an old weaver is left behind him after he is dead, although a man is 88more lasting than his coat. And he who would prove the immortality of the soul, must prove not only that the soul outlives one or many bodies, but that she outlives them all.
The audience, like the chorus in a play, for a moment interpret the feelings of the actors; there is a temporary depression, and 89then the enquiry is resumed. It is a melancholy reflection that arguments, like men, are apt to be deceivers; and those who have been often deceived become distrustful both of arguments and of friends. But this unfortunate experience should not make us either haters of men or haters of arguments. The want of 90health and truth is not in the argument, but in ourselves. Socrates, who is about to die, is sensible of his own weakness; 91he desires to be impartial, but he cannot help feeling that he has too great an interest in the truth of the argument. And therefore he would have his friends examine and refute him, if they think that he is in error.
At his request Simmias and Cebes repeat their objections. They do not go to the length of denying the pre-existence of 92ideas. Simmias is of opinion that the soul is a harmony of the body. But the admission of the pre-existence of ideas, and therefore of the soul, is at variance with this. (Cp. a parallel difficulty in Theaet. 203, 204.) For a harmony is an effect, 93whereas the soul is not an effect, but a cause; a harmony follows, but the soul leads; a harmony admits of degrees, and the soul has no degrees. Again, upon the supposition that the soul is a harmony, why is one soul better than another? Are they more or less harmonized, or is there one harmony within another? 94But the soul does not admit of degrees, and cannot therefore be more or less harmonized. Further, the soul is often engaged in resisting the affections of the body, as Homer describes Odysseus 95‘rebuking his heart.’ Could he have written this under the idea that the soul is a harmony of the body? Nay rather, are we not contradicting Homer and ourselves in affirming anything of the sort?
The goddess Harmonia, as Socrates playfully terms the argument of Simmias, has been happily disposed of; and now an answer has to be given to the Theban Cadmus. Socrates recapitulates 96the argument of Cebes, which, as he remarks, involves the whole question of natural growth or causation; about this he proposes to narrate his own mental experience. When he was young he had puzzled himself with physics: he had enquired into the growth and decay of animals, and the origin of thought, until at last he began to doubt the self-evident fact that growth is the result of eating and drinking; and so he arrived at the conclusion that he was not meant for such enquiries. Nor was he less perplexed with notions of comparison and number. At first he had imagined himself to understand differences of greater and less, and to know that ten is two more than eight, and the like. But now those very notions appeared to him to contain a 97contradiction. For how can one be divided into two? or two be compounded into one? These are difficulties which Socrates cannot answer. Of generation and destruction he knows nothing. But he has a confused notion of another method in which matters of this sort are to be investigated. (Cp. Rep. iv. 435 D; vii. 533 A; Charm. 170 foll.)
Then he heard some one reading out of a book of Anaxagoras, that mind is the cause of all things. And he said to himself: If mind is the cause of all things, surely mind must dispose them all 98for the best. The new teacher will show me this ‘order of the best’ in man and nature. How great had been his hopes and how great his disappointment! For he found that his new friend was anything but consistent in his use of mind as a cause, and that he soon introduced winds, waters, and other eccentric notions. (Cp. Arist. Metaph. i. 4, 5.) It was as if a person had said that Socrates is sitting here because he is made up of bones and muscles, 99instead of telling the true reason—that he is here because the Athenians have thought good to sentence him to death, and he has thought good to await his sentence. Had his bones and muscles been left by him to their own ideas of right, they would long ago have taken themselves off. But surely there is a great confusion of the cause and condition in all this. And this confusion also leads people into all sorts of erroneous theories about the position and motions of the earth. None of them know how much stronger than any Atlas is the power of the best. But this ‘best’ is still undiscovered; and in enquiring after the cause, we can only hope to attain the second best.
Now there is a danger in the contemplation of the nature of things, as there is a danger in looking at the sun during an eclipse, 100unless the precaution is taken of looking only at the image reflected in the water, or in a glass. (Cp. Laws x. 897 D; Rep. vii. 516 foll.) ‘I was afraid,’ says Socrates, ‘that I might injure the eye of the soul. I thought that I had better return to the old and safe method of ideas. Though I do not mean to say that he who contemplates existence through the medium of ideas sees only through a glass darkly, any more than he who contemplates actual effects.’
If the existence of ideas is granted to him, Socrates is of opinion that he will then have no difficulty in proving the immortality of the soul. He will only ask for a further admission:—that beauty is the cause of the beautiful, greatness the cause of the great, smallness of the small, and so on of other things. This is a safe 101and simple answer, which escapes the contradictions of greater and less (greater by reason of that which is smaller!), of addition and subtraction, and the other difficulties of relation. These subtleties he is for leaving to wiser heads than his own; he prefers to test ideas by the consistency of their consequences, and, if asked to give an account of them, goes back to some higher idea or hypothesis which appears to him to be the best, until at last he arrives at a resting-place. (Rep. vi. 510 foll.; Phil. 16 foll.)
The doctrine of ideas, which has long ago received the assent of 102the Socratic circle, is now affirmed by the Phliasian auditor to command the assent of any man of sense. The narrative is continued; Socrates is desirous of explaining how opposite ideas may appear to co-exist but do not really co-exist in the same thing or person. For example, Simmias may be said to have greatness and also smallness, because he is greater than Socrates and less than Phaedo. And yet Simmias is not really great and also small, but only when compared to Phaedo and Socrates. I use the illustration, says Socrates, because I want to show you not only that ideal opposites exclude one another, but also the opposites in us. I, for example, having the attribute of smallness remain small, and cannot become great: the smallness which is in me drives out 103greatness.
One of the company here remarked that this was inconsistent with the old assertion that opposites generated opposites. But that, replies Socrates, was affirmed, not of opposite ideas either in us or in nature, but of opposition in the concrete—not of life and death, but of individuals living and dying. When this objection has been removed, Socrates proceeds: This doctrine of the mutual exclusion of opposites is not only true of the opposites themselves, but of things which are inseparable from them. For example, cold and heat are opposed; and fire, which is inseparable from heat, cannot co-exist with cold, or snow, which is inseparable from cold, with heat. Again, the number three excludes the 104number four, because three is an odd number and four is an even number, and the odd is opposed to the even. Thus we are able to proceed a step beyond ‘the safe and simple answer.’ We may say, not only that the odd excludes the even, but that the number 105three, which participates in oddness, excludes the even. And in like manner, not only does life exclude death, but the soul, of which life is the inseparable attribute, also excludes death. And that of which life is the inseparable attribute is by the force of the 106terms imperishable. If the odd principle were imperishable, then the number three would not perish but remove, on the approach of the even principle. But the immortal is imperishable; and therefore the soul on the approach of death does not perish but removes.
107Thus all objections appear to be finally silenced. And now the application has to be made: If the soul is immortal, ‘what manner of persons ought we to be?’ having regard not only to time but to eternity. For death is not the end of all, and the wicked is not released from his evil by death; but every one carries with him into the world below that which he is or has become, and that only.
For after death the soul is carried away to judgment, and when she has received her punishment returns to earth in the course of ages. The wise soul is conscious of her situation, and follows the 108attendant angel who guides her through the windings of the world below; but the impure soul wanders hither and thither without companion or guide, and is carried at last to her own place, as the pure soul is also carried away to hers. ‘In order that you may understand this, I must first describe to you the nature and conformation of the earth.’
Now the whole earth is a globe placed in the centre of the heavens, and is maintained there by the perfection of balance. 109That which we call the earth is only one of many small hollows, wherein collect the mists and waters and the thick lower air; but the true earth is above, and is in a finer and subtler element. And if, like birds, we could fly to the surface of the air, in the same manner that fishes come to the top of the sea, then we should behold the true earth and the true heaven and the true stars. Our 110earth is everywhere corrupted and corroded; and even the land which is fairer than the sea, for that is a mere chaos or waste of water and mud and sand, has nothing to show in comparison of the other world. But the heavenly earth is of divers colours, sparkling with jewels brighter than gold and whiter than any snow, having flowers and fruits innumerable. And the inhabitants 111dwell some on the shore of the sea of air, others in ‘islets of the blest,’ and they hold converse with the gods, and behold the sun, moon and stars as they truly are, and their other blessedness is of a piece with this.
The hollows on the surface of the globe vary in size and shape from that which we inhabit: but all are connected by passages and perforations in the interior of the earth. And there is one huge chasm or opening called Tartarus, into which streams of fire and water and liquid mud are ever flowing; of these small portions find their way to the surface and form seas and rivers and 112volcanoes. There is a perpetual inhalation and exhalation of the air rising and falling as the waters pass into the depths of the earth and return again, in their course forming lakes and rivers, but never descending below the centre of the earth; for on either side the rivers flowing either way are stopped by a precipice. These rivers are many and mighty, and there are four principal ones, Oceanus, Acheron, Pyriphlegethon, and Cocytus. Oceanus is the river which encircles the earth; Acheron takes an opposite direction, and after flowing under the earth through desert places, 113at last reaches the Acherusian lake,—this is the river at which the souls of the dead await their return to earth. Pyriphlegethon is a stream of fire, which coils round the earth and flows into the depths of Tartarus. The fourth river, Cocytus, is that which is called by the poets the Stygian river, and passes into and forms the lake Styx, from the waters of which it gains new and strange powers. This river, too, falls into Tartarus.
The dead are first of all judged according to their deeds, and those who are incurable are thrust into Tartarus, from which they never come out. Those who have only committed venial sins are first purified of them, and then rewarded for the good which they 114have done. Those who have committed crimes, great indeed, but not unpardonable, are thrust into Tartarus, but are cast forth at the end of a year by way of Pyriphlegethon or Cocytus, and these carry them as far as the Acherusian lake, where they call upon their victims to let them come out of the rivers into the lake. And if they prevail, then they are let out and their sufferings cease: if not, they are borne unceasingly into Tartarus and back again, until they at last obtain mercy. The pure souls also receive their reward, and have their abode in the upper earth, and a select few in still fairer ‘mansions.’
Socrates is not prepared to insist on the literal accuracy of this description, but he is confident that something of the kind is true. He who has sought after the pleasures of knowledge and rejected the pleasures of the body, has reason to be of good hope at the approach of death; whose voice is already speaking to him, and who will one day be heard calling all men.
115The hour has come at which he must drink the poison, and not much remains to be done. How shall they bury him? That is a question which he refuses to entertain, for they are burying, not 116him, but his dead body. His friends had once been sureties that he would remain, and they shall now be sureties that he has run away. Yet he would not die without the customary ceremonies of washing and burial. Shall he make a libation of the poison? In 117the spirit he will, but not in the letter. One request he utters in the very act of death, which has been a puzzle to after ages. With a sort of irony he remembers that a trifling religious duty is still 118unfulfilled, just as above (60 E) he desires before he departs to compose a few verses in order to satisfy a scruple about a dream—unless, indeed, we suppose him to mean, that he was now restored to health, and made the customary offering to Asclepius in token of his recovery.
Introduction.
1. The doctrine of the immortality of the soul has sunk deep into the heart of the human race; and men are apt to rebel against any examination of the nature or grounds of their belief. They do not like to acknowledge that this, as well as the other ‘eternal ideas’ of man, has a history in time, which may be traced in Greek poetry or philosophy, and also in the Hebrew Scriptures. They convert feeling into reasoning, and throw a network of dialectics over that which is really a deeply-rooted instinct. In the same temper which Socrates reproves in himself (91 B) they are disposed to think that even fallacies will do no harm, for they will die with them, and while they live they will gain by the delusion. And when they consider the numberless bad arguments which have been pressed into the service of theology, they say, like the companions of Socrates, ‘What argument can we ever trust again?’ But there is a better and higher spirit to be gathered from the Phaedo, as well as from the other writings of Plato, which says that first principles should be most constantly reviewed (Phaedo 107 B, and Crat. 436), and that the highest subjects demand of us the greatest accuracy (Rep. vi. 504 E); also that we must not become misologists because arguments are apt to be deceivers.
2. In former ages there was a customary rather than a reasoned belief in the immortality of the soul. It was based on the authority of the Church, on the necessity of such a belief to morality and the order of society, on the evidence of an historical fact, and also on analogies and figures of speech which filled up the void or gave an expression in words to a cherished instinct. The mass of mankind went on their way busy with the affairs of this life, hardly stopping to think about another. But in our own day the question has been reopened, and it is doubtful whether the belief which in the first ages of Christianity was the strongest motive of action can survive the conflict with a scientific age in which the rules of evidence are stricter and the mind has become more sensitive to criticism. It has faded into the distance by a natural process as it was removed further and further from the historical fact on which it has been supposed to rest. Arguments derived from material things such as the seed and the ear of corn or transitions in the life of animals from one state of being to another (the chrysalis and the butterfly) are not ‘in pari materia’ with arguments from the visible to the invisible, and are therefore felt to be no longer applicable. The evidence to the historical fact seems to be weaker than was once supposed: it is not consistent with itself, and is based upon documents which are of unknown origin. The immortality of man must be proved by other arguments than these if it is again to become a living belief. We must ask ourselves afresh why we still maintain it, and seek to discover a foundation for it in the nature of God and in the first principles of morality.
3. At the outset of the discussion we may clear away a confusion. We certainly do not mean by the immortality of the soul the immortality of fame, which whether worth having or not can only be ascribed to a very select class of the whole race of mankind, and even the interest in these few is comparatively shortlived. To have been a benefactor to the world, whether in a higher or a lower sphere of life and thought, is a great thing: to have the reputation of being one, when men have passed out of the sphere of earthly praise or blame, is hardly worthy of consideration. The memory of a great man, so far from being immortal, is really limited to his own generation:—so long as his friends or his disciples are alive, so long as his books continue to be read, so long as his political or military successes fill a page in the history of his country. The praises which are bestowed upon him at his death hardly last longer than the flowers which are strewed upon his coffin or the ‘immortelles’ which are laid upon his tomb. Literature makes the most of its heroes, but the true man is well aware that far from enjoying an immortality of fame, in a generation or two, or even in a much shorter time, he will be forgotten and the world will get on without him.
4. Modern philosophy is perplexed at this whole question, which is sometimes fairly given up and handed over to the realm of faith. The perplexity should not be forgotten by us when we attempt to submit the Phaedo of Plato to the requirements of logic. For what idea can we form of the soul when separated from the body? Or how can the soul be united with the body and still be independent? Is the soul related to the body as the ideal to the real, or as the whole to the parts, or as the subject to the object, or as the cause to the effect, or as the end to the means? Shall we say with Aristotle, that the soul is the entelechy or form of an organized living body? or with Plato, that she has a life of her own? Is the Pythagorean image of the harmony, or that of the monad, the truer expression? Is the soul related to the body as sight to the eye, or as the boatman to his boat? (Arist. de Anim. ii. 1, 11, 12.) And in another state of being is the soul to be conceived of as vanishing into infinity, hardly possessing an existence which she can call her own, as in the pantheistic system of Spinoza? or as an individual informing another body and entering into new relations, but retaining her own character? (Cp. Gorgias, 524 B, C.) Or is the opposition of soul and body a mere illusion, and the true self neither soul nor body, but the union of the two in the ‘I’ which is above them? And is death the assertion of this individuality in the higher nature, and the falling away into nothingness of the lower? Or are we vainly attempting to pass the boundaries of human thought? The body and the soul seem to be inseparable, not only in fact, but in our conceptions of them; and any philosophy which too closely unites them, or too widely separates them, either in this life or in another, disturbs the balance of human nature. No thinker has perfectly adjusted them, or been entirely consistent with himself in describing their relation to one another. Nor can we wonder that Plato in the infancy of human thought should have confused mythology and philosophy, or have mistaken verbal arguments for real ones.
5. Again, believing in the immortality of the soul, we must still ask the question of Socrates, ‘What is that which we suppose to be immortal?’ Is it the personal and individual element in us, or the spiritual and universal? Is it the principle of knowledge or of goodness, or the union of the two? Is it the mere force of life which is determined to be, or the consciousness of self which cannot be got rid of, or the fire of genius which refuses to be extinguished? Or is there a hidden being which is allied to the Author of all existence, who is because he is perfect, and to whom our ideas of perfection give us a title to belong? Whatever answer is given by us to these questions, there still remains the necessity of allowing the permanence of evil, if not for ever, at any rate for a time, in order that the wicked ‘may not have too good a bargain.’ For the annihilation of evil at death, or the eternal duration of it, seem to involve equal difficulties in the moral government of the universe. Sometimes we are led by our feelings, rather than by our reason, to think of the good and wise only as existing in another life. Why should the mean, the weak, the idiot, the infant, the herd of men who have never in any proper sense the use of reason, reappear with blinking eyes in the light of another world? But our second thought is that the hope of humanity is a common one, and that all or none will be partakers of immortality. Reason does not allow us to suppose that we have any greater claims than others, and experience may often reveal to us unexpected flashes of the higher nature in those whom we had despised. Why should the wicked suffer any more than ourselves? had we been placed in their circumstances should we have been any better than they? The worst of men are objects of pity rather than of anger to the philanthropist; must they not be equally such to divine benevolence? Even more than the good they have need of another life; not that they may be punished, but that they may be educated. These are a few of the reflections which arise in our minds when we attempt to assign any form to our conceptions of a future state.
There are some other questions which are disturbing to us because we have no answer to them. What is to become of the animals in a future state? Have we not seen dogs more faithful and intelligent than men, and men who are more stupid and brutal than any animals? Does their life cease at death, or is there some ‘better thing reserved’ also for them? They may be said to have a shadow or imitation of morality, and imperfect moral claims upon the benevolence of man and upon the justice of God. We cannot think of the least or lowest of them, the insect, the bird, the inhabitants of the sea or the desert, as having any place in a future world, and if not all, why should those who are specially attached to man be deemed worthy of any exceptional privilege? When we reason about such a subject, almost at once we degenerate into nonsense. It is a passing thought which has no real hold on the mind. We may argue for the existence of animals in a future state from the attributes of God, or from texts of Scripture (‘Are not two sparrows sold for one farthing?’&c.), but the truth is that we are only filling up the void of another world with our own fancies. Again, we often talk about the origin of evil, that great bugbear of theologians, by which they frighten us into believing any superstition. What answer can be made to the old commonplace, ‘Is not God the author of evil, if he knowingly permitted, but could have prevented it?’ Even if we assume that the inequalities of this life are rectified by some transposition of human beings in another, still the existence of the very least evil if it could have been avoided, seems to be at variance with the love and justice of God. And so we arrive at the conclusion that we are carrying logic too far, and that the attempt to frame the world according to a rule of divine perfection is opposed to experience and had better be given up. The case of the animals is our own. We must admit that the Divine Being, although perfect himself, has placed us in a state of life in which we may work together with him for good, but we are very far from having attained to it.
6. Again, ideas must be given through something; and we are always prone to argue about the soul from analogies of outward things which may serve to embody our thoughts, but are also partly delusive. For we cannot reason from the natural to the spiritual, or from the outward to the inward. The progress of physiological science, without bringing us nearer to the great secret, has tended to remove some erroneous notions respecting the relations of body and mind, and in this we have the advantage of the ancients. But no one imagines that any seed of immortality is to be discerned in our mortal frames. Most people have been content to rest their belief in another life on the agreement of the more enlightened part of mankind, and on the inseparable connection of such a doctrine with the existence of a God—also in a less degree on the impossibility of doubting about the continued existence of those whom we love and reverence in this world. And after all has been said, the figure, the analogy, the argument, are felt to be only approximations in different forms to an expression of the common sentiment of the human heart. That we shall live again is far more certain than that we shall take any particular form of life.
7. When we speak of the immortality of the soul, we must ask further what we mean by the word immortality. For of the duration of a living being in countless ages we can form no conception; far less than a three years’ old child of the whole of life. The naked eye might as well try to see the furthest star in the infinity of heaven. Whether time and space really exist when we take away the limits of them may be doubted; at any rate the thought of them when unlimited is so overwhelming to us as to lose all distinctness. Philosophers have spoken of them as forms of the human mind, but what is the mind without them? As then infinite time, or an existence out of time, which are the only possible explanations of eternal duration, are equally inconceivable to us, let us substitute for them a hundred or a thousand years after death, and ask not what will be our employment in eternity, but what will happen to us in that definite portion of time; or what is now happening to those who passed out of life a hundred or a thousand years ago. Do we imagine that the wicked are suffering torments, or that the good are singing the praises of God, during a period longer than that of a whole life, or of ten lives of men? Is the suffering physical or mental? And does the worship of God consist only of praise, or of many forms of service? Who are the wicked, and who are the good, whom we venture to divide by a hard and fast line; and in which of the two classes should we place ourselves and our friends? May we not suspect that we are making differences of kind, because we are unable to imagine differences of degree?—putting the whole human race into heaven or hell for the greater convenience of logical division? Are we not at the same time describing them both in superlatives, only that we may satisfy the demands of rhetoric? What is that pain which does not become deadened after a thousand years? or what is the nature of that pleasure or happiness which never wearies by monotony? Earthly pleasures and pains are short in proportion as they are keen; of any others which are both intense and lasting we have no experience, and can form no idea. The words or figures of speech which we use are not consistent with themselves. For are we not imagining Heaven under the similitude of a church, and Hell as a prison, or perhaps a madhouse or chamber of horrors? And yet to beings constituted as we are, the monotony of singing psalms would be as great an infliction as the pains of hell, and might be even pleasantly interrupted by them. Where are the actions worthy of rewards greater than those which are conferred on the greatest benefactors of mankind? And where are the crimes which according to Plato’s merciful reckoning,—more merciful, at any rate, than the eternal damnation of so-called Christian teachers,—for every ten years in this life deserve a hundred of punishment in the life to come? We should be ready to die of pity if we could see the least of the sufferings which the writers of Infernos and Purgatorios have attributed to the damned. Yet these joys and terrors seem hardly to exercise an appreciable influence over the lives of men. The wicked man when old, is not, as Plato supposes (Rep. i. 330 D, E), more agitated by the terrors of another world when he is nearer to them, nor the good in an ecstasy at the joys of which he is soon to be the partaker. Age numbs the sense of both worlds; and the habit of life is strongest in death. Even the dying mother is dreaming of her lost children as they were forty or fifty years before, ‘pattering over the boards,’ not of reunion with them in another state of being. Most persons when the last hour comes are resigned to the order of nature and the will of God. They are not thinking of Dante’s Inferno or Paradiso, or of the Pilgrim’s Progress. Heaven and hell are not realities to them, but words or ideas; the outward symbols of some great mystery, they hardly know what. Many noble poems and pictures have been suggested by the traditional representations of them, which have been fixed in forms of art and can no longer be altered. Many sermons have been filled with descriptions of celestial or infernal mansions. But hardly even in childhood did the thought of heaven and hell supply the motives of our actions, or at any time seriously affect the substance of our belief.
8. Another life must be described, if at all, in forms of thought and not of sense. To draw pictures of heaven and hell, whether in the language of Scripture or any other, adds nothing to our real knowledge, but may perhaps disguise our ignorance. The truest conception which we can form of a future life is a state of progress or education—a progress from evil to good, from ignorance to knowledge. To this we are led by the analogy of the present life, in which we see different races and nations of men, and different men and women of the same nation, in various states or stages of cultivation; some more and some less developed, and all of them capable of improvement under favourable circumstances. There are punishments too of children when they are growing up inflicted by their parents, of elder offenders which are imposed by the law of the land, of all men at all times of life, which are attached by the laws of nature to the performance of certain actions. All these punishments are really educational; that is to say, they are not intended to retaliate on the offender, but to teach him a lesson. Also there is an element of chance in them, which is another name for our ignorance of the laws of nature. There is evil too inseparable from good (cp. Lysis 220 E); not always punished here, as good is not always rewarded. It is capable of being indefinitely diminished; and as knowledge increases, the element of chance may more and more disappear.
For we do not argue merely from the analogy of the present state of this world to another, but from the analogy of a probable future to which we are tending. The greatest changes of which we have had experience as yet are due to our increasing knowledge of history and of nature. They have been produced by a few minds appearing in three or four favoured nations, in a comparatively short period of time. May we be allowed to imagine the minds of men everywhere working together during many ages for the completion of our knowledge? May not the science of physiology transform the world? Again, the majority of mankind have really experienced some moral improvement; almost every one feels that he has tendencies to good, and is capable of becoming better. And these germs of good are often found to be developed by new circumstances, like stunted trees when transplanted to a better soil. The differences between the savage and the civilized man, or between the civilized man in old and new countries, may be indefinitely increased. The first difference is the effect of a few thousand, the second of a few hundred years. We congratulate ourselves that slavery has become industry; that law and constitutional government have superseded despotism and violence; that an ethical religion has taken the place of Fetichism. There may yet come a time when the many may be as well off as the few; when no one will be weighed down by excessive toil; when the necessity of providing for the body will not interfere with mental improvement; when the physical frame may be strengthened and developed; and the religion of all men may become a reasonable service.
Nothing therefore, either in the present state of man or in the tendencies of the future, as far as we can entertain conjecture of them, would lead us to suppose that God governs us vindictively in this world, and therefore we have no reason to infer that he will govern us vindictively in another. The true argument from analogy is not, ‘This life is a mixed state of justice and injustice, of great waste, of sudden casualties, of disproportionate punishments, and therefore the like inconsistencies, irregularities, injustices are to be expected in another;’ but ‘This life is subject to law, and is in a state of progress, and therefore law and progress may be believed to be the governing principles of another.’ All the analogies of this world would be against unmeaning punishments inflicted a hundred or a thousand years after an offence had been committed. Suffering there might be as a part of education, but not hopeless or protracted; as there might be a retrogression of individuals or of bodies of men, yet not such as to interfere with a plan for the improvement of the whole (cp. Laws, x. 903).
9. But some one will say: That we cannot reason from the seen to the unseen, and that we are creating another world after the image of this, just as men in former ages have created gods in their own likeness. And we, like the companions of Socrates, may feel discouraged at hearing our favourite ‘argument from analogy’ thus summarily disposed of. Like himself, too, we may adduce other arguments in which he seems to have anticipated us, though he expresses them in different language. For we feel that the soul partakes of the ideal and invisible; and can never fall into the error of confusing the external circumstances of man with his higher self; or his origin with his nature. It is as repugnant to us as it was to him to imagine that our moral ideas are to be attributed only to cerebral forces. The value of a human soul, like the value of a man’s life to himself, is inestimable, and cannot be reckoned in earthly or material things. The human being alone has the consciousness of truth and justice and love, which is the consciousness of God. And the soul becoming more conscious of these, becomes more conscious of her own immortality.
10. The last ground of our belief in immortality, and the strongest, is the perfection of the divine nature. The mere fact of the existence of God does not tend to show the continued existence of man. An evil God or an indifferent God might have had the power, but not the will, to preserve us. He might have regarded us as fitted to minister to his service by a succession of existences,—like the animals, without attributing to each soul an incomparable value. But if he is perfect, he must will that all rational beings should partake of that perfection which he himself is. In the words of the Timaeus, he is good, and therefore he desires that all other things should be as like himself as possible. And the manner in which he accomplishes this is by permitting evil, or rather degrees of good, which are otherwise called evil. For all progress is good relatively to the past, and yet may be comparatively evil when regarded in the light of the future. Good and evil are relative terms, and degrees of evil are merely the negative aspect of degrees of good. Of the absolute goodness of any finite nature we can form no conception; we are all of us in process of transition from one degree of good or evil to another. The difficulties which are urged about the origin or existence of evil are mere dialectical puzzles, standing in the same relation to Christian philosophy as the puzzles of the Cynics and Megarians to the philosophy of Plato. They arise out of the tendency of the human mind to regard good and evil both as relative and absolute; just as the riddles about motion are to be explained by the double conception of space or matter, which the human mind has the power of regarding either as continuous or discrete.
In speaking of divine perfection, we mean to say that God is just and true and loving, the author of order and not of disorder, of good and not of evil. Or rather, that he is justice, that he is truth, that he is love, that he is order, that he is the very progress of which we were speaking; and that wherever these qualities are present, whether in the human soul or in the order of nature, there is God. We might still see him everywhere, if we had not been mistakenly seeking for him apart from us, instead of in us; away from the laws of nature, instead of in them. And we become united to him not by mystical absorption, but by partaking, whether consciously or unconsciously, of that truth and justice and love which he himself is.
Thus the belief in the immortality of the soul rests at last on the belief in God. If there is a good and wise God, then there is a progress of mankind towards perfection; and if there is no progress of men towards perfection, then there is no good and wise God. We cannot suppose that the moral government of God of which we see the beginnings in the world and in ourselves will cease when we pass out of life.
11. Considering the ‘feebleness of the human faculties and the uncertainty of the subject,’ we are inclined to believe that the fewer our words the better. At the approach of death there is not much said; good men are too honest to go out of the world professing more than they know. There is perhaps no important subject about which, at any time, even religious people speak so little to one another. In the fulness of life the thought of death is mostly awakened by the sight or recollection of the death of others rather than by the prospect of our own. We must also acknowledge that there are degrees of the belief in immortality, and many forms in which it presents itself to the mind. Some persons will say no more than that they trust in God, and that they leave all to Him. It is a great part of true religion not to pretend to know more than we do. Others when they quit this world are comforted with the hope ‘That they will see and know their friends in heaven.’ But it is better to leave them in the hands of God and to be assured that ‘no evil shall touch them.’ There are others again to whom the belief in a divine personality has ceased to have any longer a meaning; yet they are satisfied that the end of all is not here, but that something still remains to us, ‘and some better thing for the good than for the evil.’ They are persuaded, in spite of their theological nihilism, that the ideas of justice and truth and holiness and love are realities. They cherish an enthusiastic devotion to the first principles of morality. Through these they see, or seem to see, darkly, and in a figure, that the soul is immortal.
But besides differences of theological opinion which must ever prevail about things unseen, the hope of immortaility is weaker or stronger in men at one time of life than at another; it even varies from day to day. It comes and goes; the mind, like the sky, is apt to be overclouded. Other generations of men may have sometimes lived under an ‘eclipse of faith,’ to us the total disappearance of it might be compared to the ‘sun falling from heaven.’ And we may sometimes have to begin again and acquire the belief for ourselves; or to win it back again when it is lost. It is really weakest in the hour of death. For Nature, like a kind mother or nurse, lays us to sleep without frightening us; physicians, who are the witnesses of such scenes, say that under ordinary circumstances there is no fear of the future. Often, as Plato tells us, death is accompanied ‘with pleasure.’ (Tim. 81 D.) When the end is still uncertain, the cry of many a one has been, ‘Pray, that I may be taken.’ The last thoughts even of the best men depend chiefly on the accidents of their bodily state. Pain soon overpowers the desire of life; old age, like the child, is laid to sleep almost in a moment. The long experience of life will often destroy the interest which mankind have in it. So various are the feelings with which different persons draw near to death; and still more various the forms in which imagination clothes it. For this alternation of feeling cp. the Old Testament,—Psalm vi. 5, xvi. 10, xc; Isaiah xxxviii. 18; Eccles. viii. 8 ff., iii. 19, iv. 2.
12. When we think of God and of man in his relation to God; of the imperfection of our present state and yet of the progress which is observable in the history of the world and of the human mind; of the depth and power of our moral ideas which seem to partake of the very nature of God Himself; when we consider the contrast between the physical laws to which we are subject and the higher law which raises us above them and is yet a part of them; when we reflect on our capacity of becoming the ‘spectators of all time and all existence,’ and of framing in our own minds the ideal of a perfect Being; when we see how the human mind in all the higher religions of the world, including Buddhism, notwithstanding some aberrations, has tended towards such a belief—we have reason to think that our destiny is different from that of animals; and though we cannot altogether shut out the childish fear that the soul upon leaving the body may ‘vanish into thin air,’ we have still, so far as the nature of the subject admits, a hope of immortality with which we comfort ourselves on sufficient grounds. The denial of the belief takes the heart out of human life; it lowers men to the level of the material. As Goethe also says, ‘He is dead even in this world who has no belief in another.’
13. It is well also that we should sometimes think of the forms of thought under which the idea of immortality is most naturally presented to us. It is clear that to our minds the risen soul can no longer be described, as in a picture, by the symbol of a creature half bird, half-human, nor in any other form of sense. The multitude of angels, as in Milton, singing the Almighty’s praises, are a noble image, and may furnish a theme for the poet or the painter, but they are no longer an adequate expression of the kingdom of God which is within us. Neither is there any mansion, in this world or another, in which the departed can be imagined to dwell and carry on their occupations. When this earthly tabernacle is dissolved, no other habitation or building can take them in: it is in the language of ideas only that we speak of them.
First of all there is the thought of rest and freedom from pain; they have gone home, as the common saying is, and the cares of this world touch them no more. Secondly, we may imagine them as they were at their best and brightest, humbly fulfilling their daily round of duties—selfless, childlike, unaffected by the world; when the eye was single and the whole body seemed to be full of light; when the mind was clear and saw into the purposes of God. Thirdly, we may think of them as possessed by a great love of God and man, working out His will at a further stage in the heavenly pilgrimage. And yet we acknowledge that these are the things which eye hath not seen nor ear heard and therefore it hath not entered into the heart of man in any sensible manner to conceive them. Fourthly, there may have been some moments in our own lives when we have risen above ourselves, or been conscious of our truer selves, in which the will of God has superseded our wills, and we have entered into communion with Him, and been partakers for a brief season of the Divine truth and love, in which like Christ we have been inspired to utter the prayer, ‘I in them, and thou in me, that we may be all made perfect in one.’ These precious moments, if we have ever known them, are the nearest approach which we can make to the idea of immortality.
14. Returning now to the earlier stage of human thought which is represented by the writings of Plato, we find that many of the same questions have already arisen: there is the same tendency to materialism; the same inconsistency in the application of the idea of mind; the same doubt whether the soul is to be regarded as a cause or as an effect; the same falling back on moral convictions. In the Phaedo the soul is conscious of her divine nature, and the separation from the body which has been commenced in this life is perfected in another. Beginning in mystery, Socrates, in the intermediate part of the Dialogue, attempts to bring the doctrine of a future life into connection with his theory of knowledge. In proportion as he succeeds in this, the individual seems to disappear in a more general notion of the soul; the contemplation of ideas ‘under the form of eternity’ takes the place of past and future states of existence. His language may be compared to that of some modern philosophers, who speak of eternity, not in the sense of perpetual duration of time, but as an ever-present quality of the soul. Yet at the conclusion of the Dialogue, having ‘arrived at the end of the intellectual world’ (Rep. vii. 532 B), he replaces the veil of mythology, and describes the soul and her attendant genius in the language of the mysteries or of a disciple of Zoroaster. Nor can we fairly demand of Plato a consistency which is wanting among ourselves, who acknowledge that another world is beyond the range of human thought, and yet are always seeking to represent the mansions of heaven or hell in the colours of the painter, or in the descriptions of the poet or rhetorician.
15. The doctrine of the immortality of the soul was not new to the Greeks in the age of Socrates, but, like the unity of God, had a foundation in the popular belief. The old Homeric notion of a gibbering ghost flitting away to Hades; or of a few illustrious heroes enjoying the isles of the blest; or of an existence divided between the two; or the Hesiodic, of righteous spirits, who become guardian angels,—had given place in the mysteries and the Orphic poets to representations, partly fanciful, of a future state of rewards and punishments. (Laws ix. 870.) The reticence of the Greeks on public occasions and in some part of their literature respecting this ‘underground’ religion, is not to be taken as a measure of the diffusion of such beliefs. If Pericles in the funeral oration is silent on the consolations of immortality, the poet Pindar and the tragedians on the other hand constantly assume the continued existence of the dead in an upper or under world. Darius and Laius are still alive; Antigone will be dear to her brethren after death; the way to the palace of Cronos is found by those who ‘have thrice departed from evil.’ The tragedy of the Greeks is not ‘rounded’ by this life, but is deeply set in decrees of fate and mysterious workings of powers beneath the earth. In the caricature of Aristophanes there is also a witness to the common sentiment. The Ionian and Pythagorean philosophies arose, and some new elements were added to the popular belief. The individual must find an expression as well as the world. Either the soul was supposed to exist in the form of a magnet, or of a particle of fire, or of light, or air, or water; or of a number or of a harmony of number; or to be or have, like the stars, a principle of motion (Arist. de Anim. i. 1, 2, 3). At length Anaxagoras, hardly distinguishing between life and mind, or between mind human and divine, attained the pure abstraction; and this, like the other abstractions of Greek philosophy, sank deep into the human intelligence. The opposition of the intelligible and the sensible, and of God to the world, supplied an analogy which assisted in the separation of soul and body. If ideas were separable from phenomena, mind was also separable from matter; if the ideas were eternal, the mind that conceived them was eternal too. As the unity of God was more distinctly acknowledged, the conception of the human soul became more developed. The succession, or alternation of life and death, had occurred to Heracleitus. The Eleatic Parmenides had stumbled upon the modern thesis, that ‘thought and being are the same.’ The Eastern belief in transmigration defined the sense of individuality; and some, like Empedocles, fancied that the blood which they had shed in another state of being was crying against them, and that for thirty thousand years they were to be ‘fugitives and vagabonds upon the earth.’ The desire of recognizing a lost mother or love or friend in the world below (Phaedo 68) was a natural feeling which, in that age as well as in every other, has given distinctness to the hope of immortality. Nor were ethical considerations wanting, partly derived from the necessity of punishing the greater sort of criminals, whom no avenging power of this world could reach. The voice of conscience, too, was heard reminding the good man that he was not altogether innocent. (Rep. i. 330.) To these indistinct longings and fears an expression was given in the mysteries and Orphic poets: a ‘heap of books’ (Rep. ii. 364 E), passing under the names of Musaeus and Orpheus in Plato’s time, were filled with notions of an under-world.
16. Yet after all the belief in the individuality of the soul after death had but a feeble hold on the Greek mind. Like the personality of God, the personality of man in a future state was not inseparably bound up with the reality of his existence. For the distinction between the personal and impersonal, and also between the divine and human, was far less marked to the Greek than to ourselves. And as Plato readily passes from the notion of the good to that of God, he also passes almost imperceptibly to himself and his reader from the future life of the individual soul to the eternal being of the absolute soul. There has been a clearer statement and a clearer denial of the belief in modern times than is found in early Greek philosophy, and hence the comparative silence on the whole subject which is often remarked in ancient writers, and particularly in Aristotle. For Plato and Aristotle are not further removed in their teaching about the immortality of the soul than they are in their theory of knowledge.
17. Living in an age when logic was beginning to mould human thought, Plato naturally cast his belief in immortality into a logical form. And when we consider how much the doctrine of ideas was also one of words, it is not surprising that he should have fallen into verbal fallacies: early logic is always mistaking the truth of the form for the truth of the matter. It is easy to see that the alternation of opposites is not the same as the generation of them out of each other; and that the generation of them out of each other, which is the first argument in the Phaedo, is at variance with their mutual exclusion of each other, whether in themselves or in us, which is the last. For even if we admit the distinction which he draws at p. 103, between the opposites and the things which have the opposites, still individuals fall under the latter class; and we have to pass out of the region of human hopes and fears to a conception of an abstract soul which is the impersonation of the ideas. Such a conception, which in Plato himself is but half expressed, is unmeaning to us, and relative only to a particular stage in the history of thought. The doctrine of reminiscence is also a fragment of a former world, which has no place in the philosophy of modern times. But Plato had the wonders of psychology just opening to him, and he had not the explanation of them which is supplied by the analysis of language and the history of the human mind. The question, ‘Whence come our abstract ideas?’ he could only answer by an imaginary hypothesis. Nor is it difficult to see that his crowning argument is purely verbal, and is but the expression of an instinctive confidence put into a logical form:—‘The soul is immortal because it contains a principle of imperishableness.’ Nor does he himself seem at all to be aware that nothing is added to human knowledge by his ‘safe and simple answer,’ that beauty is the cause of the beautiful; and that he is merely reasserting the Eleatic being ‘divided by the Pythagorean numbers,’ against the Heracleitean doctrine of perpetual generation. The answer to the ‘very serious question’ of generation and destruction is really the denial of them. For this he would substitute, as in the Republic, a system of ideas, tested, not by experience, but by their consequences, and not explained by actual causes, but by a higher, that is, a more general notion. Consistency with themselves is the only test which is to be applied to them. (Rep. vi. 510 foll., and Phaedo 101 foll.)
18. To deal fairly with such arguments, they should be translated as far as possible into their modern equivalents. ‘If the ideas of men are eternal, their souls are eternal, and if not the ideas, then not the souls.’ Such an argument stands nearly in the same relation to Plato and his age, as the argument from the existence of God to immortality among ourselves. ‘If God exists, then the soul exists after death; and if there is no God, there is no existence of the soul after death.’ For the ideas are to his mind the reality, the truth, the principle of permanence, as well as of intelligence and order in the world. When Simmias and Cebes say that they are more strongly persuaded of the existence of ideas than they are of the immortality of the soul, they represent fairly enough the order of thought in Greek philosophy. And we might say in the same way that we are more certain of the existence of God than we are of the immortality of the soul, and are led by the belief in the one to a belief in the other. The parallel, as Socrates would say, is not perfect, but agrees in as far as the mind in either case is regarded as dependent on something above and beyond herself. The analogy may even be pressed a step further: ‘We are more certain of our ideas of truth and right than we are of the existence of God, and are led on in the order of thought from one to the other.’ Or more correctly: ‘The existence of right and truth is the existence of God, and can never for a moment be separated from Him.’
19. The main argument of the Phaedo is derived from the existence of eternal ideas of which the soul is a partaker; the other argument of the alternation of opposites is replaced by this. And there have not been wanting philosophers of the idealist school who have imagined that the doctrine of the immortality of the soul is a theory of knowledge, and that in what has preceded Plato is accommodating himself to the popular belief. Such a view can only be elicited from the Phaedo by what may be termed the transcendental method of interpretation, and is obviously inconsistent with the Gorgias and the Republic. Those who maintain it are immediately compelled to renounce the shadow which they have grasped, as a play of words only. But the truth is, that Plato in his argument for the immortality of the soul has collected many elements of proof or persuasion, ethical and mythological as well as dialectical, which are not easily to be reconciled with one another; and he is as much in earnest about his doctrine of retribution, which is repeated in all his more ethical writings, as about his theory of knowledge. And while we may fairly translate the dialectical into the language of Hegel, and the religious and mythological into the language of Dante or Bunyan, the ethical speaks to us still in the same voice, and appeals to a common feeling.
20. Two arguments of this ethical character occur in the Phaedo. The first may be described as the aspiration of the soul after another state of being. Like the Oriental or Christian mystic, the philosopher is seeking to withdraw from impurities of sense, to leave the world and the things of the world, and to find his higher self. Plato recognizes in these aspirations the foretaste of immortality; as Butler and Addison in modern times have argued, the one from the moral tendencies of mankind, the other from the progress of the soul towards perfection. In using this argument Plato has certainly confused the soul which has left the body, with the soul of the good and wise. (Cp. Rep. x. 611 C.) Such a confusion was natural, and arose partly out of the antithesis of soul and body. The soul in her own essence, and the soul ‘clothed upon’ with virtues and graces, were easily interchanged with one another, because on a subject which passes expression the distinctions of language can hardly be maintained.
21. The other ethical proof of the immortality of the soul is derived from the necessity of retribution. The wicked would be too well off if their evil deeds came to an end. It is not to be supposed that an Ardiaeus, an Archelaus, an Ismenias could ever have suffered the penalty of their crimes in this world. The manner in which this retribution is accomplished Plato represents under the figures of mythology. Doubtless he felt that it was easier to improve than to invent, and that in religion especially the traditional form was required in order to give verisimilitude to the myth. The myth too is far more probable to that age than to ours, and may fairly be regarded as ‘one guess among many’ about the nature of the earth, which he cleverly supports by the indications of geology. Not that he insists on the absolute truth of his own particular notions: ‘no man of sense will be confident in such matters; but he will be confident that something of the kind is true’ (114 D). As in other passages (Gorg. 527 A, Tim. 29 D; cp. Crito, 107 B), he wins belief for his fictions by the moderation of his statements; he does not, like Dante or Swedenborg, allow himself to be deceived by his own creations.
The Dialogue must be read in the light of the situation. And first of all we are struck by the calmness of the scene. Like the spectators at the time, we cannot pity Socrates; his mien and his language are so noble and fearless. He is the same that he ever was, but milder and gentler, and he has in no degree lost his interest in dialectics; he will not forego the delight of an argument in compliance with the jailer’s intimation that he should not heat himself with talking. At such a time he naturally expresses the hope of his life, that he has been a true mystic and not a mere routineer or wand-bearer: and he refers to passages of his personal history. To his old enemies the Comic poets, and to the proceedings on the trial, he alludes playfully; but he vividly remembers the disappointment which he felt in reading the books of Anaxagoras. The return of Xanthippe and his children indicates that the philosopher is not ‘made of oak or rock.’ Some other traits of his character may be noted; for example, the courteous manner in which he inclines his head to the last objector, or the ironical touch, ‘Me already, as the tragic poet would say, the voice of fate calls;’ or the depreciation of the arguments with which ‘he comforted himself and them;’ or his fear of ‘misology;’ or his references to Homer; or the playful smile with which he ‘talks like a book’ about greater and less; or the allusion to the possibility of finding another teacher among barbarous races (cp. Polit. 262 D); or the mysterious reference to another science (mathematics?) of generation and destruction for which he is vainly feeling. There is no change in him; only now he is invested with a sort of sacred character, as the prophet or priest of Apollo the God of the festival, in whose honour he first of all composes a hymn, and then like the swan pours forth his dying lay. Perhaps the extreme elevation of Socrates above his own situation, and the ordinary interests of life (compare his jeu d’esprit about his burial, in which for a moment he puts on the ‘Silenus mask’), create in the mind of the reader an impression stronger than could be derived from arguments that such a one has in him ‘a principle which does not admit of death.’
The other persons of the Dialogue may be considered under two heads: (1) private friends; (2) the respondents in the argument.
First there is Crito, who has been already introduced to us in the Euthydemus and the Crito; he is the equal in years of Socrates, and stands in quite a different relation to him from his younger disciples. He is a man of the world who is rich and prosperous (cp. the jest in the Euthydemus, 304 C), the best friend of Socrates, who wants to know his commands, in whose presence he talks to his family, and who performs the last duty of closing his eyes. It is observable too that, as in the Euthydemus, Crito shows no aptitude for philosophical discussions. Nor among the friends of Socrates must the jailer be forgotten, who seems to have been introduced by Plato in order to show the impression made by the extraordinary man on the common. The gentle nature of the man is indicated by his weeping at the announcement of his errand and then turning away, and also by the words of Socrates to his disciples: ‘How charming the man is! since I have been in prison he has been always coming to me, and is as good as could be to me.’ We are reminded too that he has retained this gentle nature amid scenes of death and violence by the contrasts which he draws between the behaviour of Socrates and of others when about to die.
Another person who takes no part in the philosophical discussion is the excitable Apollodorus, the same who, in the Symposium, of which he is the narrator, is called ‘the madman,’ and who testifies his grief by the most violent emotions. Phaedo is also present, the ‘beloved disciple’ as he may be termed, who is described, if not ‘leaning on his bosom,’ as seated next to Socrates, who is playing with his hair. He too, like Apollodorus, takes no part in the discussion, but he loves above all things to hear and speak of Socrates after his death. The calmness of his behaviour, veiling his face when he can no longer restrain his tears, contrasts with the passionate outcries of the other. At a particular point the argument is described as falling before the attack of Simmias. A sort of despair is introduced in the minds of the company. The effect of this is heightened by the description of Phaedo, who has been the eye-witness of the scene, and by the sympathy of his Phliasian auditors who are beginning to think ‘that they too can never trust an argument again.’ And the intense interest of the company is communicated not only to the first auditors, but to us who in a distant country read the narrative of their emotions after more than two thousand years have passed away.
The two principal interlocutors are Simmias and Cebes, the disciples of Philolaus the Pythagorean philosopher of Thebes. Simmias is described in the Phaedrus (242 B) as fonder of an argument than any man living; and Cebes, although finally persuaded by Socrates, is said to be the most incredulous of human beings. It is Cebes who at the commencement of the Dialogue asks why ‘suicide is held to be unlawful,’ and who first supplies the doctrine of recollection in confirmation of the pre-existence of the soul. It is Cebes who urges that the pre-existence does not necessarily involve the future existence of the soul, as is shown by the illustration of the weaver and his coat. Simmias, on the other hand, raises the question about harmony and the lyre, which is naturally put into the mouth of a Pythagorean disciple. It is Simmias, too, who first remarks on the uncertainty of human knowledge, and only at last concedes to the argument such a qualified approval as is consistent with the feebleness of the human faculties. Cebes is the deeper and more consecutive thinker, Simmias more superficial and rhetorical; they are distinguished in much the same manner as Adeimantus and Glaucon in the Republic.
Other persons, Menexenus, Ctesippus, Lysis, are old friends; Evenus has been already satirized in the Apology; Aeschines and Epigenes were present at the trial; Euclid and Terpsion will reappear in the Introduction to the Theaetetus, Hermogenes has already appeared in the Cratylus. No inference can fairly be drawn from the absence of Aristippus, nor from the omission of Xenophon, who at the time of Socrates’ death was in Asia. The mention of Plato’s own absence seems like an expression of sorrow, and may, perhaps, be an indication that the report of the conversation is not to be taken literally.
The place of the Dialogue in the series is doubtful. The doctrine of ideas is certainly carried beyond the Socratic point of view; in no other of the writings of Plato is the theory of them so completely developed. Whether the belief in immortality can be attributed to Socrates or not is uncertain; the silence of the Memorabilia, and of the earlier Dialogues of Plato, is an argument to the contrary. Yet in the Cyropaedia Xenophon (viii. 7, 19 foll.) has put language into the mouth of the dying Cyrus which recalls the Phaedo, and may have been derived from the teaching of Socrates. It may be fairly urged that the greatest religious interest of mankind could not have been wholly ignored by one who passed his life in fulfilling the commands of an oracle, and who recognized a Divine plan in man and nature. (Xen. Mem. 1, 4.) And the language of the Apology and of the Crito confirms this view.
The Phaedo is not one of the Socratic Dialogues of Plato; nor, on the other hand, can it be assigned to that later stage of the Platonic writings at which the doctrine of ideas appears to be forgotten. It belongs rather to the intermediate period of the Platonic philosophy, which roughly corresponds to the Phaedrus, Gorgias, Republic, Theaetetus. Without pretending to determine the real time of their composition, the Symposium, Meno, Euthyphro, Apology, Phaedo may be conveniently read by us in this order as illustrative of the life of Socrates. Another chain may be formed of the Meno, Phaedrus, Phaedo, in which the immortality of the soul is connected with the doctrine of ideas. In the Meno the theory of ideas is based on the ancient belief in transmigration, which reappears again in the Phaedrus as well as in the Republic and Timaeus, and in all of them is connected with a doctrine of retribution. In the Phaedrus the immortality of the soul is supposed to rest on the conception of the soul as a principle of motion, whereas in the Republic the argument turns on the natural continuance of the soul, which, if not destroyed by her own proper evil, can hardly be destroyed by any other. The soul of man in the Timaeus (42 foll.) is derived from the Supreme Creator, and either returns after death to her kindred star, or descends into the lower life of an animal. The Apology expresses the same view as the Phaedo, but with less confidence; there the probability of death being a long sleep is not excluded. The Theaetetus also describes, in a digression, the desire of the soul to fly away and be with God—‘and to fly to him is to be like him’ (176 B). The Symposium may be observed to resemble as well as to differ from the Phaedo. While the first notion of immortality is only in the way of natural procreation or of posthumous fame and glory, the higher revelation of beauty, like the good in the Republic, is the vision of the eternal idea. So deeply rooted in Plato’s mind is the belief in immortality; so various are the forms of expression which he employs.
As in several other Dialogues, there is more of system in the Phaedo than appears at first sight. The succession of arguments is based on previous philosophies; beginning with the mysteries and the Heracleitean alternation of opposites, and proceeding to the Pythagorean harmony and transmigration; making a step by the aid of Platonic reminiscence, and a further step by the help of the νο[Editor: illegible character]ς of Anaxagoras; until at last we rest in the conviction that the soul is inseparable from the ideas, and belongs to the world of the invisible and unknown. Then, as in the Gorgias or Republic, the curtain falls, and the veil of mythology descends upon the argument. After the confession of Socrates that he is an interested party, and the acknowledgment that no man of sense will think the details of his narrative true, but that something of the kind is true, we return from speculation to practice. He is himself more confident of immortality than he is of his own arguments; and the confidence which he expresses is less strong than that which his cheerfulness and composure in death inspire in us.
Difficulties of two kinds occur in the Phaedo—one kind to be explained out of contemporary philosophy, the other not admitting of an entire solution. (1) The difficulty which Socrates says that he experienced in explaining generation and corruption; the assumption of hypotheses which proceed from the less general to the more general, and are tested by their consequences; the puzzle about greater and less; the resort to the method of ideas, which to us appear only abstract terms,—these are to be explained out of the position of Socrates and Plato in the history of philosophy. They were living in a twilight between the sensible and the intellectual world, and saw no way of connecting them. They could neither explain the relation of ideas to phenomena, nor their correlation to one another. The very idea of relation or comparison was embarrassing to them. Yet in this intellectual uncertainty they had a conception of a proof from results, and of a moral truth, which remained unshaken amid the questionings of philosophy. (2) The other is a difficulty which is touched upon in the Republic as well as in the Phaedo, and is common to modern and ancient philosophy. Plato is not altogether satisfied with his safe and simple method of ideas. He wants to have proved to him by facts that all things are for the best, and that there is one mind or design which pervades them all. But this ‘power of the best’ he is unable to explain; and therefore takes refuge in universal ideas. And are not we at this day seeking to discover that which Socrates in a glass darkly foresaw?
Some resemblances to the Greek drama may be noted in all the Dialogues of Plato. The Phaedo is the tragedy of which Socrates is the protagonist and Simmias and Cebes the secondary performers, standing to them in the same relation as to Glaucon and Adeimantus in the Republic. No Dialogue has a greater unity of subject and feeling. Plato has certainly fulfilled the condition of Greek, or rather of all art, which requires that scenes of death and suffering should be clothed in beauty. The gathering of the friends at the commencement of the Dialogue, the dismissal of Xanthippè, whose presence would have been out of place at a philosophical discussion, but who returns again with her children to take a final farewell, the dejection of the audience at the temporary overthrow of the argument, the picture of Socrates playing with the hair of Phaedo, the final scene in which Socrates alone retains his composure—are masterpieces of art. And the chorus at the end might have interpreted the feeling of the play: ‘There can no evil happen to a good man in life or death.’
‘The art of concealing art’ is nowhere more perfect than in those writings of Plato which describe the trial and death of Socrates. Their charm is their simplicity, which gives them verisimilitude; and yet they touch, as if incidentally, and because they were suitable to the occasion, on some of the deepest truths of philosophy. There is nothing in any tragedy, ancient or modern, nothing in poetry or history (with one exception), like the last hours of Socrates in Plato. The master could not be more fitly occupied at such a time than in discoursing of immortality; nor the disciples more divinely consoled. The arguments, taken in the spirit and not in the letter, are our arguments; and Socrates by anticipation may be even thought to refute some ‘eccentric notions’ current in our own age. For there are philosophers among ourselves who do not seem to understand how much stronger is the power of intelligence, or of the best, than of Atlas, or mechanical force. How far the words attributed to Socrates were actually uttered by him we forbear to ask; for no answer can be given to this question. And it is better to resign ourselves to the feeling of a great work, than to linger among critical uncertainties.
PHAEDO.
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE.
Phaedo,who is the narrator of the Dialogue to
Echecrates of Phlius.
Socrates.
Attendant of the Prison.
Apollodorus.
Simmias.
Cebes.
Crito.
Scene:—The Prison of Socrates.
Place of the Narration:—Phlius.
Echecrates.
Phaedo.Echecrates, Phaedo.
57Were you yourself, Phaedo, in the prison with Socrates on the day when he drank the poison?
Phaedo.
Yes, Echecrates, I was.
Ech.
I should so like to hear about his death. What did he say in his last hours? We were informed that he died by taking poison, but no one knew anything more; for no Phliasian ever goes to Athens now, and it is a long time since any stranger from Athens has found his way hither; so that we had no clear account.
Phaed.
58Did you not hear of the proceedings at the trial?
Ech.
Yes; some one told us about the trial, and we could not understand why, having been condemned, he should have been put to death, not at the time, but long afterwards. What was the reason of this?
Phaed.
The death of Socrates was deferred by the holy season of the mission to Delos.
An accident, Echecrates: the stern of the ship which the Athenians send to Delos happened to have been crowned on the day before he was tried.
Ech.
What is this ship?
Phaed.
It is the ship in which, according to Athenian tradition, Theseus went to Crete when he took with him the fourteen youths, and was the saviour of them and of himself. And they are said to have vowed to Apollo at the time, that if they were saved they would send a yearly mission to Delos. Now this custom still continues, and the whole period of the voyage to and from Delos, beginning when the priest of Apollo crowns the stern of the ship, is a holy season, during which the city is not allowed to be polluted by public executions; and when the vessel is detained by contrary winds, the time spent in going and returning is very considerable. As I was saying, the ship was crowned on the day before the trial, and this was the reason why Socrates lay in prison and was not put to death until long after he was condemned.
Ech.
What was the manner of his death, Phaedo? What was said or done? And which of his friends were with him? Or did the authorities forbid them to be present—so that he had no friends near him when he died?
Phaed.
No; there were several of them with him.
Ech.
Phaedo is requested by Echecrates to give an account of the death of Socrates.
If you have nothing to do, I wish that you would tell me what passed, as exactly as you can.
Phaed.
I have nothing at all to do, and will try to gratify your wish. To be reminded of Socrates is always the greatest delight to me, whether I speak myself or hear another speak of him.
Ech.
You will have listeners who are of the same mind with you, and I hope that you will be as exact as you can.
Phaed.
He describes his noble and fearless demeanour.
I had a singular feeling at being in his company. For I could hardly believe that I was present at the death of a friend, and therefore I did not pity him, Echecrates; he died so fearlessly, and his words and bearing were so noble and gracious, that to me he appeared blessed. I thought that in going to the other world he could not be without a divine call, and that he would be happy, if any man ever 59was, when he arrived there; and therefore I did not pity him as might have seemed natural at such an hour. But I had not the pleasure which I usually feel in philosophical discourse (for philosophy was the theme of which we spoke). I was pleased, but in the pleasure there was also a strange admixture of pain; for I reflected that he was soon to die, and this double feeling was shared by us all; we were laughing and weeping by turns, especially the excitable Apollodorus—you know the sort of man?
Ech.
Yes.
Phaed.
He was quite beside himself; and I and all of us were greatly moved.
Ech.
Who were present?
Phaed.
The Socratic circle:—the absence of Plato is noted.
Of native Athenians there were, besides Apollodorus, Critobulus and his father Crito, Hermogenes, Epigenes, Aeschines, Antisthenes; likewise Ctesippus of the deme of Paeania, Menexenus, and some others; Plato, if I am not mistaken, was ill.
Ech.
Were there any strangers?
Phaed.
Yes, there were; Simmias the Theban, and Cebes, and Phaedondes; Euclid and Terpsion, who came from Megara.
Ech.
And was Aristippus there, and Cleombrotus?
Phaed.
No, they were said to be in Aegina.
Ech.
Any one else?
Phaed.
I think that these were nearly all.
Ech.
Well, and what did you talk about?
Phaed.
The meeting at the prison.The friends are denied admission while the Eleven are with Socrates.Socrates, Cebes.Socrates, whose chains have now been taken off, is led by the feeling of relief to remark on the curious manner in which pleasure and pain are always conjoined.
I will begin at the beginning, and endeavour to repeat the entire conversation. On the previous days we had been in the habit of assembling early in the morning at the court in which the trial took place, and which is not far from the prison. There we used to wait talking with one another until the opening of the doors (for they were not opened very early); then we went in and generally passed the day with Socrates. On the last morning we assembled sooner than usual, having heard on the day before when we quitted the prison in the evening that the sacred ship had come from Delos; and so we arranged to meet very early at the accustomed place. On our arrival the jailer who answered the door, instead of admitting us, came out and told us to stay until he called us. ‘For the Eleven,’ he said, ‘are now with Socrates; they are taking off his chains, and giving orders that he is to die to-day.’ He soon returned 60and said that we might come in. On entering we found Socrates just released from chains, and Xanthippè, whom you know, sitting by him, and holding his child in her arms. When she saw us she uttered a cry and said, as women will: ‘O Socrates, this is the last time that either you will converse with your friends, or they with you.’ Socrates turned to Crito and said: ‘Crito, let some one take her home.’ Some of Crito’s people accordingly led her away, crying out and beating herself. And when she was gone, Socrates, sitting up on the couch, bent and rubbed his leg, saying, as he was rubbing: How singular is the thing called pleasure, and how curiously related to pain, which might be thought to be the opposite of it; for they are never present to a man at the same instant, and yet he who pursues either is generally compelled to take the other; their bodies are two, but they are joined by a single head. And I cannot help thinking that if Aesop had remembered them, he would have made a fable about God trying to reconcile their strife, and how, when he could not, he fastened their heads together; and this is the reason why when one comes the other follows: as I know by my own experience now, when after the pain in my leg which was caused by the chain pleasure appears to succeed.
Upon this Cebes said: I am glad, Socrates, that you have mentioned the name of Aesop. For it reminds me of a question which has been asked by many, and was asked of me only the day before yesterday by Evenus the poet—he will be sure to ask it again, and therefore if you would like me to have an answer ready for him, you may as well tell me what I should say to him:—he wanted to know why you, who never before wrote a line of poetry, now that you are in prison are turning Aesop’s fables into verse, and also composing that hymn in honour of Apollo.
Having been told in a dream that he should compose music, in order to satisfy a scruple about the meaning of the dream he has been writing verses while he was in prison.Socrates, Simmias, Cebes.Evenus the poet had been curious about the meaning of this behaviour of his, and Socrates gives him the explanation of it, bidding him be of good cheer, and come after him. ‘But he will not come.’
Tell him, Cebes, he replied, what is the truth—that I had no idea of rivalling him or his poems; to do so, as I knew, would be no easy task. But I wanted to see whether I could purge away a scruple which I felt about the meaning of certain dreams. In the course of my life I have often had intimations in dreams ‘that I should compose music.’ The same dream came to me sometimes in one form, and sometimes in another, but always saying the same or nearly the same words: ‘Cultivate and make music,’ said the dream. And hitherto I had imagined that this was only intended to exhort and encourage me in the study of philosophy, which 61has been the pursuit of my life, and is the noblest and best of music. The dream was bidding me do what I was already doing, in the same way that the competitor in a race is bidden by the spectators to run when he is already running. But I was not certain of this; for the dream might have meant music in the popular sense of the word, and being under sentence of death, and the festival giving me a respite, I thought that it would be safer for me to satisfy the scruple, and, in obedience to the dream, to compose a few verses before I departed. And first I made a hymn in honour of the god of the festival, and then considering that a poet, if he is really to be a poet, should not only put together words, but should invent stories, and that I have no invention, I took some fables of Aesop, which I had ready at hand and which I knew—they were the first I came upon—and turned them into verse. Tell this to Evenus, Cebes, and bid him be of good cheer; say that I would have him come after me if he be a wise man, and not tarry; and that to-day I am likely to be going, for the Athenians say that I must.
Simmias said: What a message for such a man! having been a frequent companion of his I should say that, as far as I know him, he will never take your advice unless he is obliged.
Why, said Socrates,—is not Evenus a philosopher?
I think that he is, said Simmias.
Then he, or any man who has the spirit of philosophy, will be willing to die; but he will not take his own life, for that is held to be unlawful.
Here he changed his position, and put his legs off the couch on to the ground, and during the rest of the conversation he remained sitting.
Why do you say, enquired Cebes, that a man ought not to take his own life, but that the philosopher will be ready to follow the dying?
Socrates replies that a philosopher like Evenus should be ready to die, though he must not take his own life.
Socrates replied: And have you, Cebes and Simmias, who are the disciples of Philolaus, never heard him speak of this?
Yes, but his language was obscure, Socrates.
My words, too, are only an echo; but there is no reason why I should not repeat what I have heard: and indeed, as I am going to another place, it is very meet for me to be thinking and talking of the nature of the pilgrimage which I am about to make. What can I do better in the interval between this and the setting of the sun?
Then tell me, Socrates, why is suicide held to be unlawful? as I have certainly heard Philolaus, about whom you were just now asking, affirm when he was staying with us at Thebes; and there are others who say the same, although I have never understood what was meant by any of them.
This incidental remark leads to a discussion on suicide.
Do not lose heart, replied Socrates, and the day may come 62when you will understand. I suppose that you wonder why, when other things which are evil may be good at certain times and to certain persons, death is to be the only exception, and why, when a man is better dead, he is not permitted to be his own benefactor, but must wait for the hand of another.
Fery true, said Cebes, laughing gently and speaking in his native Boeotian.
Man is a prisoner who has no right to run away; and he is also a possession of the gods and must not rob his masters.
I admit the appearance of inconsistency in what I am saying; but there may not be any real inconsistency after all. There is a doctrine whispered in secret that man is a prisoner who has no right to open the door and run away; this is a great mystery which I do not quite understand. Yet I too believe that the gods are our guardians, and that we men are a possession of theirs. Do you not agree?
Yes, I quite agree, said Cebes.
And if one of your own possessions, an ox or an ass, for example, took the liberty of putting himself out of the way when you had given no intimation of your wish that he should die, would you not be angry with him, and would you not punish him if you could?
Certainly, replied Cebes.
Then, if we look at the matter thus, there may be reason in saying that a man should wait, and not take his own life until God summons him, as he is now summoning me.
And why should he wish to leave the best of services?
Yes, Socrates, said Cebes, there seems to be truth in what you say. And yet how can you reconcile this seemingly true belief that God is our guardian and we his possessions, with the willingness to die which you were just now attributing to the philosopher? That the wisest of men should be willing to leave a service in which they are ruled by the gods who are the best of rulers, is not reasonable; for surely no wise man thinks that when set at liberty he can take better care of himself than the gods take of him. A fool may perhaps think so—he may argue that he had better run away from his master, not considering that his duty is to remain to the end, and not to run away from the good, and that there would be no sense in his running away. The wise man will want to be ever with him who is better than himself. Now this, Socrates, is the reverse of what was just now said; for upon this view the wise man should sorrow and the fool rejoice at passing out of life.
63The earnestness of Cebes seemed to please Socrates. Here, said he, turning to us, is a man who is always enquiring, and is not so easily convinced by the first thing which he hears.
You yourself, Socrates, are too ready to run away.
And certainly, added Simmias, the objection which he is now making does appear to me to have some force. For what can be the meaning of a truly wise man wanting to fly away and lightly leave a master who is better than himself? And I rather imagine that Cebes is referring to you; he thinks that you are too ready to leave us, and too ready to leave the gods whom you acknowledge to be our good masters.
Yes, replied Socrates; there is reason in what you say. And so you think that I ought to answer your indictment as if I were in a court?
We should like you to do so, said Simmias.
Socrates replies that he is going to other gods who are wise and good.
Then I must try to make a more successful defence before you than I did before the judges. For I am quite ready to admit, Simmias and Cebes, that I ought to be grieved at death, if I were not persuaded in the first place that I am going to other gods who are wise and good (of which I am as certain as I can be of any such matters), and secondly (though I am not so sure of this last) to men departed, better than those whom I leave behind; and therefore I do not grieve as I might have done, for I have good hope that there is yet something remaining for the dead, and as has been said of old, some far better thing for the good than for the evil.
But do you mean to take away your thoughts with you, Socrates? said Simmias. Will you not impart them to us?—for they are a benefit in which we too are entitled to share. Moreover, if you succeed in convincing us, that will be an answer to the charge against yourself.
I will do my best, replied Socrates. But you must first let me hear what Crito wants; he has long been wishing to say something to me.
Only this, Socrates, replied Crito:—the attendant who is to give you the poison has been telling me, and he wants me to tell you, that you are not to talk much; talking, he says, increases heat, and this is apt to interfere with the action of the poison; persons who excite themselves are sometimes obliged to take a second or even a third dose.
Then, said Socrates, let him mind his business and be prepared to give the poison twice or even thrice if necessary; that is all.
I knew quite well what you would say, replied Crito; but I was obliged to satisfy him.
Never mind him, he said.
The true philosopher is always dying:—why then should he avoid the death which he desires?
And now, O my judges, I desire to prove to you that the real philosopher has reason to be of good cheer when he is about to die, and that after death he may hope to obtain the 64greatest good in the other world. And how this may be, Simmias and Cebes, I will endeavour to explain. For I deem that the true votary of philosophy is likely to be misunderstood by other men; they do not perceive that he is always pursuing death and dying; and if this be so, and he has had the desire of death all his life long, why when his time comes should he repine at that which he has been always pursuing and desiring?
‘How the world will laugh when they hear this!’
Simmias said laughingly: Though not in a laughing humour, you have made me laugh, Socrates; for I cannot help thinking that the many when they hear your words will say how truly you have described philosophers, and our people at home will likewise say that the life which philosophers desire is in reality death, and that they have found them out to be deserving of the death which they desire.
Yes, they do not understand the nature of death, or why the philosopher desires or deserves it.Socrates, Simmias.
And they are right, Simmias, in thinking so, with the exception of the words ‘they have found them out;’ for they have not found out either what is the nature of that death which the true philosopher deserves, or how he deserves or desires death. But enough of them:—let us discuss the matter among ourselves. Do we believe that there is such a thing as death?
To be sure, replied Simmias.
Is it not the separation of soul and body? And to be dead is the completion of this; when the soul exists in herself, and is released from the body and the body is released from the soul, what is this but death?
Just so, he replied.
Life is best when the soul is most freed from the concerns of the body, and is alone and by herself.
There is another question, which will probably throw light on our present enquiry if you and I can agree about it:—Ought the philosopher to care about the pleasures—if they are to be called pleasures—of eating and drinking?
Certainly not, answered Simmias.
And what about the pleasures of love—should he care for them?
By no means.
And will he think much of the other ways of indulging the body, for example, the acquisition of costly raiment, or sandals, or other adornments of the body? Instead of caring about them, does he not rather despise anything more than nature needs? What do you say?
I should say that the true philosopher would despise them.
Would you not say that he is entirely concerned with the soul and not with the body? He would like, as far as he can, to get away from the body and to turn to the soul.
Quite true.
In matters of this sort philosophers, above all other men, 65may be observed in every sort of way to dissever the soul from the communion of the body.
Very true.
Whereas, Simmias, the rest of the world are of opinion that to him who has no sense of pleasure and no part in bodily pleasure, life is not worth having; and that he who is indifferent about them is as good as dead.
That is also true.
The senses are untrustworthy guides: they mislead the soul in the search for truth.
What again shall we say of the actual acquirement of knowledge?—is the body, if invited to share in the enquiry, a hinderer or a helper? I mean to say, have sight and hearing any truth in them? Are they not, as the poets are always telling us, inaccurate witnesses? and yet, if even they are inaccurate and indistinct, what is to be said of the other senses?—for you will allow that they are the best of them?
Certainly, he replied.
Then when does the soul attain truth?—for in attempting to consider anything in company with the body she is obviously deceived.
True.
Then must not true existence be revealed to her in thought, if at all?
Yes.
And thought is best when the mind is gathered into herself and none of these things trouble her—neither sounds nor sights nor pain nor any pleasure,—when she takes leave of the body, and has as little as possible to do with it, when she has no bodily sense or desire, but is aspiring after true being?
Certainly.
And therefore the philosopher runs away from the body.
And in this the philosopher dishonours the body; his soul runs away from his body and desires to be alone and by herself?
That is true.
Another argument. The absolute truth of justice, beauty, and other ideas is not perceived by the senses, which only introduce a disturbing element.
Well, but there is another thing, Simmias: Is there or is there not an absolute justice?
Assuredly there is.
And an absolute beauty and absolute good?
Of course.
But did you ever behold any of them with your eyes?
Certainly not.
Or did you ever reach them with any other bodily sense?—and I speak not of these alone, but of absolute greatness, and health, and strength, and of the essence or true nature of everything. Has the reality of them ever been perceived by you through the bodily organs? or rather, is not the nearest approach to the knowledge of their several natures made by him who so orders his intellectual vision as to have the most exact conception of the essence of each thing which he considers?
Certainly.
And he attains to the purest knowledge of them who goes to each with the mind alone, not introducing or intruding in the act of thought sight or any other sense together with 66reason, but with the very light of the mind in her own clearness searches into the very truth of each; he who has got rid, as far as he can, of eyes and ears and, so to speak, of the whole body, these being in his opinion distracting elements which when they infect the soul hinder her from acquiring truth and knowledge—who, if not he, is likely to attain to the knowledge of true being?
What you say has a wonderful truth in it, Socrates, replied Simmias.
The soul in herself must perceive things in themselves.
And when real philosophers consider all these things, will they not be led to make a reflection which they will express in words something like the following? ‘Have we not found,’ they will say, ‘a path of thought which seems to bring us and our argument to the conclusion, that while we are in the body, and while the soul is infected with the evils of the body, our desire will not be satisfied? and our desire is of the truth. For the body is a source of endless trouble to us by reason of the mere requirement of food; and is liable also to diseases which overtake and impede us in the search after true being: it fills us full of loves, and lusts, and fears, and fancies of all kinds, and endless foolery, and in fact, as men say, takes away from us the power of thinking at all. Whence come wars, and fightings, and factions? whence but from the body and the lusts of the body? Wars are occasioned by the love of money, and money has to be acquired for the sake and in the service of the body; and by reason of all these impediments we have no time to give to philosophy; and, last and worst of all, even if we are at leisure and betake ourselves to some speculation, the body is always breaking in upon us, causing turmoil and confusion in our enquiries, and so amazing us that we are prevented from seeing the truth. It has been proved to us by experience that if we would have pure knowledge of anything we must be quit of the body—the soul in herself must behold things in themselves: and then we shall attain the wisdom which we desire, and of which we say that we are lovers; not while we live, but after death; for if while in company with the body, the soul cannot have pure knowledge, one of two things follows—either knowledge is not to be attained at all, or, if at all, after death. For then, and not till then, the soul will be parted 67from the body and exist in herself alone. In this present life, I reckon that we make the nearest approach to knowledge when we have the least possible intercourse or communion with the body, and are not surfeited with the bodily nature, but keep ourselves pure until the hour when God himself is pleased to release us. And thus having got rid of the foolishness of the body we shall be pure and hold converse with the pure, and know of ourselves the clear light everywhere, which is no other than the light of truth.’ For the impure are not permitted to approach the pure. These are the sort of words, Simmias, which the true lovers of knowledge cannot help saying to one another, and thinking. You would agree; would you not?
Undoubtedly, Socrates.
But, O my friend, if this be true, there is great reason to hope that, going whither I go, when I have come to the end of my journey, I shall attain that which has been the pursuit of my life. And therefore I go on my way rejoicing, and not I only, but every other man who believes that his mind has been made ready and that he is in a manner purified.
Certainly, replied Simmias.
Purification is the separation of the soul from the body.
And what is purification but the separation of the soul from the body, as I was saying before; the habit of the soul gathering and collecting herself into herself from all sides out of the body; the dwelling in her own place alone, as in another life, so also in this, as far as she can;—the release of the soul from the chains of the body?
Very true, he said.
And this separation and release of the soul from the body is termed death?
To be sure, he said.
And the true philosophers, and they only, are ever seeking to release the soul. Is not the separation and release of the soul from the body their especial study?
That is true.
And, as I was saying at first, there would be a ridiculous contradiction in men studying to live as nearly as they can in a state of death, and yet repining when it comes upon them.
Clearly.
And therefore the true philosopher who has been always trying to disengage himself from the body will rejoice in death.
And the true philosophers, Simmias, are always occupied in the practice of dying, wherefore also to them least of all men is death terrible. Look at the matter thus:—if they have been in every way the enemies of the body, and are wanting to be alone with the soul, when this desire of theirs is granted, how inconsistent would they be if they trembled and repined, instead of rejoicing at their departure to that place where, when they arrive, they hope to gain that which 68in life they desired—and this was wisdom—and at the same time to be rid of the company of their enemy. Many a man has been willing to go to the world below animated by the hope of seeing there an earthly love, or wife, or son, and conversing with them. And will he who is a true lover of wisdom, and is strongly persuaded in like manner that only in the world below he can worthily enjoy her, still repine at death? Will he not depart with joy? Surely he will, O my friend, if he be a true philosopher. For he will have a firm conviction that there, and there only, he can find wisdom in her purity. And if this be true, he would be very absurd, as I was saying, if he were afraid of death.
He would indeed, replied Simmias.
And when you see a man who is repining at the approach of death, is not his reluctance a sufficient proof that he is not a lover of wisdom, but a lover of the body, and probably at the same time a lover of either money or power, or both?
Quite so, he replied.
And is not courage, Simmias, a quality which is specially characteristic of the philosopher?
Certainly.
He alone possesses the true secret of virtue, which in ordinary men is merely based on a calculation of lesser and greater evils.
There is temperance again, which even by the vulgar is supposed to consist in the control and regulation of the passions, and in the sense of superiority to them—is not temperance a virtue belonging to those only who despise the body, and who pass their lives in philosophy?
Most assuredly.
For the courage and temperance of other men, if you will consider them, are really a contradiction.
How so?
Well, he said, you are aware that death is regarded by men in general as a great evil.
Very true, he said.
And do not courageous men face death because they are afraid of yet greater evils?
That is quite true.
Ordinary men are courageous only from cowardice; temperate from intemperance.
Then all but the philosophers are courageous only from fear, and because they are afraid; and yet that a man should be courageous from fear, and because he is a coward, is surely a strange thing.
Very true.
And are not the temperate exactly in the same case? They are temperate because they are intemperate—which might seem to be a contradiction, but is nevertheless the sort of thing which happens with this foolish temperance. For there are pleasures which they are afraid of losing; and in their desire to keep them, they abstain from some pleasures, because they are overcome by others; and although to be conquered by pleasure is called by men intemperance, to 69them the conquest of pleasure consists in being conquered by pleasure. And that is what I mean by saying that, in a sense, they are made temperate through intemperance.
Such appears to be the case.
True virtue is inseparable from wisdom.Socrates, Cebes.The thyrsus-bearers and the mystics.
Yet the exchange of one fear or pleasure or pain for another fear or pleasure or pain, and of the greater for the less, as if they were coins, is not the exchange of virtue. O my blessed Simmias, is there not one true coin for which all things ought to be exchanged?—and that is wisdom; and only in exchange for this, and in company with this, is anything truly bought or sold, whether courage or temperance or justice. And is not all true virtue the companion of wisdom, no matter what fears or pleasures or other similar goods or evils may or may not attend her? But the virtue which is made up of these goods, when they are severed from wisdom and exchanged with one another, is a shadow of virtue only, nor is there any freedom or health or truth in her; but in the true exchange there is a purging away of all these things, and temperance, and justice, and courage, and wisdom herself are the purgation of them. The founders of the mysteries would appear to have had a real meaning, and were not talking nonsense when they intimated in a figure long ago that he who passes unsanctified and uninitiated into the world below will lie in a slough, but that he who arrives there after initiation and purification will dwell with the gods. For ‘many,’ as they say in the mysteries, ‘are the thyrsus-bearers, but few are the mystics,’—meaning, as I interpret the words, ‘the true philosophers.’ In the number of whom, during my whole life, I have been seeking, according to my ability, to find a place;—whether I have sought in a right way or not, and whether I have succeeded or not, I shall truly know in a little while, if God will, when I myself arrive in the other world—such is my belief. And therefore I maintain that I am right, Simmias and Cebes, in not grieving or repining at parting from you and my masters in this world, for I believe that I shall equally find good masters and friends in another world. But most men do not believe this saying; if then I succeed in convincing you by my defence better than I did the Athenian judges, it will be well.
Fears are entertained lest the soul when she dies should be scattered to the winds.
Cebes answered: I agree, Socrates, in the greater part of 70what you say. But in what concerns the soul, men are apt to be incredulous; they fear that when she has left the body her place may be nowhere, and that on the very day of death she may perish and come to an end—immediately on her release from the body, issuing forth dispersed like smoke or air and in her flight vanishing away into nothingness. If she could only be collected into herself after she has obtained release from the evils of which you were speaking, there would be good reason to hope, Socrates, that what you say is true. But surely it requires a great deal of argument and many proofs to show that when the man is dead his soul yet exists, and has any force or intelligence.
True, Cebes, said Socrates; and shall I suggest that we converse a little of the probabilities of these things?
I am sure, said Cebes, that I should greatly like to know your opinion about them.
The discussion suited to the occasion.
I reckon, said Socrates, that no one who heard me now, not even if he were one of my old enemies, the Comic poets, could accuse me of idle talking about matters in which I have no concern:—If you please, then, we will proceed with the enquiry.
Suppose we consider the question whether the souls of men after death are or are not in the world below. There comes into my mind an ancient doctrine which affirms that they go from hence into the other world, and returning hither, are born again from the dead. Now if it be true that the living come from the dead, then our souls must exist in the other world, for if not, how could they have been born again? And this would be conclusive, if there were any real evidence that the living are only born from the dead; but if this is not so, then other arguments will have to be adduced.
Very true, replied Cebes.
All things which have opposites are generated out of opposites.
Then let us consider the whole question, not in relation to man only, but in relation to animals generally, and to plants, and to everything of which there is generation, and the proof will be easier. Are not all things which have opposites generated out of their opposites? I mean such things as good and evil, just and unjust—and there are innumerable other opposites which are generated out of opposites. And I want to show that in all opposites there is of necessity a similar alternation; I mean to say, for example, that anything which becomes greater must become greater after being less.
True.
And that which becomes less must have been once greater and then have become less. 71
Yes.
And the weaker is generated from the stronger, and the swifter from the slower.
Very true.
And the worse is from the better, and the more just is from the more unjust.
Of course.
And is this true of all opposites? and are we convinced that all of them are generated out of opposites?
Yes.
And there are intermediate processes or passages into and out of one another, such as increase and diminution, division and composition, and the like.
And in this universal opposition of all things, are there not also two intermediate processes which are ever going on, from one to the other opposite, and back again; where there is a greater and a less there is also an intermediate process of increase and diminution, and that which grows is said to wax, and that which decays to wane?
Yes, he said.
And there are many other processes, such as division and composition, cooling and heating, which equally involve a passage into and out of one another. And this necessarily holds of all opposites, even though not always expressed in words—they are really generated out of one another, and there is a passing or process from one to the other of them?
Very true, he replied.
Well, and is there not an opposite of life, as sleep is the opposite of waking?
True, he said.
And what is it?
Death, he answered.
And these, if they are opposites, are generated the one from the other, and have their two intermediate processes also?
Of course.
Now, said Socrates, I will analyze one of the two pairs of opposites which I have mentioned to you, and also its intermediate processes, and you shall analyze the other to me. One of them I term sleep, the other waking. The state of sleep is opposed to the state of waking, and out of sleeping waking is generated, and out of waking, sleeping; and the process of generation is in the one case falling asleep, and in the other waking up. Do you agree?
I entirely agree.
Life is opposed to death, as waking is to sleeping, and in like manner they are generated from one another.
Then, suppose that you analyze life and death to me in the same manner. Is not death opposed to life?
Yes.
And they are generated one from the other?
Yes.
What is generated from the living?
The dead.
And what from the dead?
I can only say in answer—the living.
Then the living, whether things or persons, Cebes, are generated from the dead?
That is clear, he replied.
Then the inference is that our souls exist in the world below?
That is true.
And one of the two processes or generations is visible—for surely the act of dying is visible?
Surely, he said.
What then is to be the result? Shall we exclude the opposite process? and shall we suppose nature to walk on one leg only? Must we not rather assign to death some corresponding process of generation?
Certainly, he replied.
And what is that process?
Return to life.
And return to life, if there be such a thing, is the birth of the dead into the world of the living? 72
Quite true.
Then here is a new way by which we arrive at the conclusion that the living come from the dead, just as the dead come from the living; and this, if true, affords a most certain proof that the souls of the dead exist in some place out of which they come again.
Yes, Socrates, he said; the conclusion seems to flow necessarily out of our previous admissions.
If there were no compensation or return in nature, all things would pass into the state of death.
And that these admissions were not unfair, Cebes, he said, may be shown, I think, as follows: If generation were in a straight line only, and there were no compensation or circle in nature, no turn or return of elements into their opposites, then you know that all things would at last have the same form and pass into the same state, and there would be no more generation of them.
What do you mean? he said.
The sleeping Endymion would be unmeaning in a world of sleepers.Socrates, Cebes, Simmias.
A simple thing enough, which I will illustrate by the case of sleep, he replied. You know that if there were no alternation of sleeping and waking, the tale of the sleeping Endymion would in the end have no meaning, because all other things would be asleep too, and he would not be distinguishable from the rest. Or if there were composition only, and no division of substances, then the chaos of Anaxagoras would come again. And in like manner, my dear Cebes, if all things which partook of life were to die, and after they were dead remained in the form of death, and did not come to life again, all would at last die, and nothing would be alive—what other result could there be? For if the living spring from any other things, and they too die, must not all things at last be swallowed up in death?1
There is no escape, Socrates, said Cebes; and to me your argument seems to be absolutely true.
Yes, he said, Cebes, it is and must be so, in my opinion; and we have not been deluded in making these admissions; but I am confident that there truly is such a thing as living again, and that the living spring from the dead, and that the souls of the dead are in existence, and that the good souls have a better portion than the evil.
The doctrine of recollection implies a previous existence.
Cebes added: Your favourite doctrine, Socrates, that knowledge is simply recollection, if true, also necessarily implies a previous time in which we have learned that which we now recollect. But this would be impossible unless our 73soul had been in some place before existing in the form of man; here then is another proof of the soul’s immortality.
But tell me, Cebes, said Simmias, interposing, what arguments are urged in favour of this doctrine of recollection. I am not very sure at the moment that I remember them.
You put a question to a person, and he answers out of his own mind.
One excellent proof, said Cebes, is afforded by questions. If you put a question to a person in a right way, he will give a true answer of himself, but how could he do this unless there were knowledge and right reason already in him? And this is most clearly shown when he is taken to a diagram or to anything of that sort2 .
But if, said Socrates, you are still incredulous, Simmias, I would ask you whether you may not agree with me when you look at the matter in another way;—I mean, if you are still incredulous as to whether knowledge is recollection?
Incredulous I am not, said Simmias; but I want to have this doctrine of recollection brought to my own recollection, and, from what Cebes has said, I am beginning to recollect and be convinced: but I should still like to hear what you were going to say.
Socrates, Simmias.
This is what I would say, he replied:—We should agree, if I am not mistaken, that what a man recollects he must have known at some previous time.
Very true.
A person may recollect what he has never seen together with what he has seen. How is this?
And what is the nature of this knowledge or recollection? I mean to ask, Whether a person who, having seen or heard or in any way perceived anything, knows not only that, but has a conception of something else which is the subject, not of the same but of some other kind of knowledge, may not be fairly said to recollect that of which he has the conception?
What do you mean?
I mean what I may illustrate by the following instance:—The knowledge of a lyre is not the same as the knowledge of a man?
True.
Recollection is the knowledge of some person or thing derived from some other person or thing which may be either like or unlike them.
And yet what is the feeling of lovers when they recognize a lyre, or a garment, or anything else which the beloved has been in the habit of using? Do not they, from knowing the lyre, form in the mind’s eye an image of the youth to whom the lyre belongs? And this is recollection. In like manner any one who sees Simmias may remember Cebes; and there are endless examples of the same thing.
Endless, indeed, replied Simmias.
And recollection is most commonly a process of recovering that which has been already forgotten through time and inattention.
Very true, he said.
Well; and may you not also from seeing the picture of a horse or a lyre remember a man? and from the picture of Simmias, you may be led to remember Cebes;
True.
Or you may also be led to the recollection of Simmias himself?
Quite so. 74
And in all these cases, the recollection may be derived from things either like or unlike?
It may be.
And when the recollection is derived from like things, then another consideration is sure to arise, which is—whether the likeness in any degree falls short or not of that which is recollected?
Very true, he said.
The imperfect equality of pieces of wood or stone suggests the perfect idea of equality.
And shall we proceed a step further, and affirm that there is such a thing as equality, not of one piece of wood or stone with another, but that, over and above this, there is absolute equality? Shall we say so?
Say so, yes, replied Simmias, and swear to it, with all the confidence in life.
And do we know the nature of this absolute essence?
To be sure, he said.
And whence did we obtain our knowledge? Did we not see equalities of material things, such as pieces of wood and stones, and gather from them the idea of an equality which is different from them? For you will acknowledge that there is a difference. Or look at the matter in another way:—Do not the same pieces of wood or stone appear at one time equal, and at another time unequal?
That is certain.
But are real equals ever unequal? or is the idea of equality the same as of inequality?
Impossible, Socrates.
Then these (so-called) equals are not the same with the idea of equality?
I should say, clearly not, Socrates.
And yet from these equals, although differing from the idea of equality, you conceived and attained that idea?
Very true, he said.
Which might be like, or might be unlike them?
Yes.
But that makes no difference: whenever from seeing one thing you conceived another, whether like or unlike, there must surely have been an act of recollection?
Very true.
But what would you say of equal portions of wood and stone, or other material equals? and what is the impression produced by them? Are they equals in the same sense in which absolute equality is equal? or do they fall short of this perfect equality in a measure?
Yes, he said, in a very great measure too.
But if the material equals when compared to the ideal equality fall short of it, the ideal equality with which they are compared must be prior to them, though only known through the medium of them.
And must we not allow, that when I or any one, looking at any object, observes that the thing which he sees aims at being some other thing, but falls short of, and cannot be, that other thing, but is inferior, he who makes this observation must have had a previous knowledge of that to which the other, although similar, was inferior?
Certainly.
And has not this been our own case in the matter of equals and of absolute equality?
Precisely.
Then we must have known equality previously to the time when we first saw the material equals, and reflected that all 75these apparent equals strive to attain absolute equality, but fall short of it?
Very true.
And we recognize also that this absolute equality has only been known, and can only be known, through the medium of sight or touch, or of some other of the senses, which are all alike in this respect?
Yes, Socrates, as far as the argument is concerned, one of them is the same as the other.
From the senses then is derived the knowledge that all sensible things aim at an absolute equality of which they fall short?
Yes.
Then before we began to see or hear or perceive in any way, we must have had a knowledge of absolute equality, or we could not have referred to that standard the equals which are derived from the senses?—for to that they all aspire, and of that they fall short.
No other inference can be drawn from the previous statements.
And did we not see and hear and have the use of our other senses as soon as we were born?
Certainly.
That higher sense of equality must have been known to us before we were born, was forgotten at birth, and was recovered by the use of the senses.
Then we must have acquired the knowledge of equality at some previous time?
Yes.
That is to say, before we were born, I suppose?
True.
And if we acquired this knowledge before we were born, and were born having the use of it, then we also knew before we were born and at the instant of birth not only the equal or the greater or the less, but all other ideas; for we are not speaking only of equality, but of beauty, goodness, justice, holiness, and of all which we stamp with the name of essence in the dialectical process, both when we ask and when we answer questions. Of all this we may certainly affirm that we acquired the knowledge before birth?
We may.
But if, after having acquired, we have not forgotten what in each case we acquired, then we must always have come into life having knowledge, and shall always continue to know as long as life lasts—for knowing is the acquiring and retaining knowledge and not forgetting. Is not forgetting, Simmias, just the losing of knowledge?
Quite true, Socrates.
What is called learning therefore is only a recollection of ideas which we possessed in a previous state.
But if the knowledge which we acquired before birth was lost by us at birth, and if afterwards by the use of the senses we recovered what we previously knew, will not the process which we call learning be a recovering of the knowledge which is natural to us, and may not this be rightly termed recollection?
Very true.
76So much is clear—that when we perceive something, either by the help of sight, or hearing, or some other sense, from that perception we are able to obtain a notion of some other thing like or unlike which is associated with it but has been forgotten. Whence, as I was saying, one of two alternatives follows:—either we had this knowledge at birth, and continued to know through life; or, after birth, those who are said to learn only remember, and learning is simply recollection.
Yes, that is quite true, Socrates.
And which alternative, Simmias, do you prefer? Had we the knowledge at our birth, or did we recollect the things which we knew previously to our birth?
I cannot decide at the moment.
At any rate you can decide whether he who has knowledge will or will not be able to render an account of his knowledge? What do you say?
Certainly, he will.
But do you think that every man is able to give an account of these very matters about which we are speaking?
Would that they could, Socrates, but I rather fear that to-morrow, at this time, there will no longer be any one alive who is able to give an account of them such as ought to be given.
Then you are not of opinion, Simmias, that all men know these things?
Certainly not.
They are in process of recollecting that which they learned before?
Certainly.
But when did our souls acquire this knowledge?—not since we were born as men?
Certainly not.
And therefore, previously?
Yes.
But if so, our souls must have existed before they were in the form of man; or if not the souls, then not the ideas.
Then, Simmias, our souls must also have existed without bodies before they were in the form of man, and must have had intelligence.
Unless indeed you suppose, Socrates, that these notions are given us at the very moment of birth; for this is the only time which remains.
Yes, my friend, but if so, when do we lose them? for they are not in us when we are born—that is admitted. Do we lose them at the moment of receiving them, or if not at what other time?
No, Socrates, I perceive that I was unconsciously talking nonsense.
Then may we not say, Simmias, that if, as we are always repeating, there is an absolute beauty, and goodness, and an absolute essence of all things; and if to this, which is now discovered to have existed in our former state, we refer all our sensations, and with this compare them, finding these ideas to be pre-existent and our inborn possession—then our souls must have had a prior existence, but if not, there would be no force in the argument? There is the same proof that these ideas must have existed before we were born, as that our souls existed before we were born; and if not the ideas, then not the souls.
Socrates, Simmias, Cebes.
Yes, Socrates; I am convinced that there is precisely the same necessity for the one as for the other; and the argument 77retreats successfully to the position that the existence of the soul before birth cannot be separated from the existence of the essence of which you speak. For there is nothing which to my mind is so patent as that beauty, goodness, and the other notions of which you were just now speaking, have a most real and absolute existence; and I am satisfied with the proof.
Well, but is Cebes equally satisfied? for I must convince him too.
Simmias and Cebes are agreed in thinking that the previous existence of the soul is sufficiently proved, but not the future existence.
I think, said Simmias, that Cebes is satisfied: although he is the most incredulous of mortals, yet I believe that he is sufficiently convinced of the existence of the soul before birth. But that after death the soul will continue to exist is not yet proven even to my own satisfaction. I cannot get rid of the feeling of the many to which Cebes was referring—the feeling that when the man dies the soul will be dispersed, and that this may be the extinction of her. For admitting that she may have been born elsewhere, and framed out of other elements, and was in existence before entering the human body, why after having entered in and gone out again may she not herself be destroyed and come to an end?
Very true, Simmias, said Cebes; about half of what was required has been proven; to wit, that our souls existed before we were born:—that the soul will exist after death as well as before birth is the other half of which the proof is still wanting, and has to be supplied; when that is given the demonstration will be complete.
But if the soul passes from death to birth, she must exist after death as well as before birth.Socrates, Cebes.
But that proof, Simmias and Cebes, has been already given, said Socrates, if you put the two arguments together—I mean this and the former one, in which we admitted that everything living is born of the dead. For if the soul exists before birth, and in coming to life and being born can be born only from death and dying, must she not after death continue to exist, since she has to be born again?—Surely the proof which you desire has been already furnished. Still I suspect that you and Simmias would be glad to probe the argument further. Like children, you are haunted with a fear that when the soul leaves the body, the wind may really blow her away and scatter her; especially if a man should happen to die in a great storm and not when the sky is calm.
Cebes answered with a smile: Then, Socrates, you must argue us out of our fears—and yet, strictly speaking, they are not our fears, but there is a child within us to whom death is a sort of hobgoblin: him too we must persuade not to be afraid when he is alone in the dark.
The fear that the soul will vanish into air must be charmed away.
Socrates said: Let the voice of the charmer be applied daily until you have charmed away the fear.
And where shall we find a good charmer of our fears, 78Socrates, when you are gone?
Hellas, he replied, is a large place, Cebes, and has many good men, and there are barbarous races not a few: seek for him among them all, far and wide, sparing neither pains nor money; for there is no better way of spending your money. And you must seek among yourselves too; for you will not find others better able to make the search.
The search, replied Cebes, shall certainly be made. And now, if you please, let us return to the point of the argument at which we digressed.
By all means, replied Socrates; what else should I please?
Very good.
What is the element which is liable to be scattered?—Not the simple and unchangeable, but the composite and changing.
Must we not, said Socrates, ask ourselves what that is which, as we imagine, is liable to be scattered, and about which we fear? and what again is that about which we have no fear? And then we may proceed further to enquire whether that which suffers dispersion is or is not of the nature of soul—our hopes and fears as to our own souls will turn upon the answers to these questions.
Very true, he said.
Now the compound or composite may be supposed to be naturally capable, as of being compounded, so also of being dissolved; but that which is uncompounded, and that only, must be, if anything is, indissoluble.
Yes; I should imagine so, said Cebes.
And the uncompounded may be assumed to be the same and unchanging, whereas the compound is always changing and never the same.
I agree, he said.
The soul and the ideas belong to the class of the unchanging, which is also the unseen.
Then now let us return to the previous discussion. Is that idea or essence, which in the dialectical process we define as essence or true existence—whether essence of equality, beauty, or anything else—are these essences, I say, liable at times to some degree of change? or are they each of them always what they are, having the same simple self-existent and unchanging forms, not admitting of variation at all, or in any way, or at any time?
They must be always the same, Socrates, replied Cebes.
And what would you say of the many beautiful—whether men or horses or garments or any other things which are named by the same names and may be called equal or beautiful,—are they all unchanging and the same always, or quite the reverse? May they not rather be described as almost always changing and hardly ever the same, either with themselves or with one another?
The latter, replied Cebes; they are always in a state of change.
79And these you can touch and see and perceive with the senses, but the unchanging things you can only perceive with the mind—they are invisible and are not seen?
That is very true, he said.
Well then, added Socrates, let us suppose that there are two sorts of existences—one seen, the other unseen.
Let us suppose them.
The seen is the changing, and the unseen is the unchanging?
That may be also supposed.
And, further, is not one part of us body, another part soul?
To be sure.
And to which class is the body more alike and akin?
Clearly to the seen—no one can doubt that.
And is the soul seen or not seen?
Not by man, Socrates.
And what we mean by ‘seen’ and ‘not seen’ is that which is or is not visible to the eye of man?
Yes, to the eye of man.
And is the soul seen or not seen?
Not seen.
Unseen then?
Yes.
Then the soul is more like to the unseen, and the body to the seen?
That follows necessarily, Socrates.
The soul which is unseen, when she makes use of the bodily senses, is dragged down into the region of the changeable, and must return into herself before she can attain to true wisdom.
And were we not saying long ago that the soul when using the body as an instrument of perception, that is to say, when using the sense of sight or hearing or some other sense (for the meaning of perceiving through the body is perceiving through the senses)—were we not saying that the soul too is then dragged by the body into the region of the changeable, and wanders and is confused; the world spins round her, and she is like a drunkard, when she touches change?
Very true.
But when returning into herself she reflects, then she passes into the other world, the region of purity, and eternity, and immortality, and unchangeableness, which are her kindred, and with them she ever lives, when she is by herself and is not let or hindered; then she ceases from her erring ways, and being in communion with the unchanging is unchanging. And this state of the soul is called wisdom?
That is well and truly said, Socrates, he replied.
And to which class is the soul more nearly alike and akin, as far as may be inferred from this argument, as well as from the preceding one?
The soul is of the nature of the unchangeable, the body of the changing; the soul rules, the body serves; the soul is in the likeness of the divine, the body of the mortal.
I think, Socrates, that, in the opinion of every one who follows the argument, the soul will be infinitely more like the unchangeable—even the most stupid person will not deny that.
And the body is more like the changing?
Yes.
Yet once more consider the matter in another light: When the soul and the body are united, then nature orders 80the soul to rule and govern, and the body to obey and serve. Now which of these two functions is akin to the divine? and which to the mortal? Does not the divine appear to you to be that which naturally orders and rules, and the mortal to be that which is subject and servant?
True.
And which does the soul resemble?
The soul resembles the divine, and the body the mortal—there can be no doubt of that, Socrates.
Then reflect, Cebes: of all which has been said is not this the conclusion?—that the soul is in the very likeness of the divine, and immortal, and intellectual, and uniform, and indissoluble, and unchangeable; and that the body is in the very likeness of the human, and mortal, and unintellectual, and multiform, and dissoluble, and changeable. Can this, my dear Cebes, be denied?
It cannot.
But if it be true, then is not the body liable to speedy dissolution? and is not the soul almost or altogether indissoluble?
Certainly.
Even from the body something may be learned about the soul; for the corpse of a man lasts for some time, and when embalmed, in a manner for ever.
And do you further observe, that after a man is dead, the body, or visible part of him, which is lying in the visible world, and is called a corpse, and would naturally be dissolved and decomposed and dissipated, is not dissolved or decomposed at once, but may remain for some time, nay even for a long time, if the constitution be sound at the time of death, and the season of the year favourable? For the body when shrunk and embalmed, as the manner is in Egypt, may remain almost entire through infinite ages; and even in decay, there are still some portions, such as the bones and ligaments, which are practically indestructible:—Do you agree?
Yes.
How unlikely then that the soul should at once pass away!
And is it likely that the soul, which is invisible, in passing to the place of the true Hades, which like her is invisible, and pure, and noble, and on her way to the good and wise God, whither, if God will, my soul is also soon to go,—that the soul, I repeat, if this be her nature and origin, will be blown away and destroyed immediately on quitting the body, as the many say? That can never be, my dear Simmias and Cebes. The truth rather is, that the soul which is pure at departing and draws after her no bodily taint, having never voluntarily during life had connection with the body, which she is ever avoiding, herself gathered into herself;—and making such abstraction her perpetual study—which means that she has been a true disciple of philosophy; 81and therefore has in fact been always engaged in the practice of dying? For is not philosophy the study of death?—
Certainly—
Rather when free from bodily impurity she departs to the seats of the blessed.
That soul, I say, herself invisible, departs to the invisible world—to the divine and immortal and rational: thither arriving, she is secure of bliss and is released from the error and folly of men, their fears and wild passions and all other human ills, and for ever dwells, as they say of the initiated, in company with the gods1 . Is not this true, Cebes?
Yes, said Cebes, beyond a doubt.
But the soul which has been polluted, and is impure at the time of her departure, and is the companion and servant of the body always, and is in love with and fascinated by the body and by the desires and pleasures of the body, until she is led to believe that the truth only exists in a bodily form, which a man may touch and see and taste, and use for the purposes of his lusts,—the soul, I mean, accustomed to hate and fear and avoid the intellectual principle, which to the bodily eye is dark and invisible, and can be attained only by philosophy;—do you suppose that such a soul will depart pure and unalloyed?
Impossible, he replied.
She is held fast by the corporeal, which the continual association and constant care of the body have wrought into her nature.
Very true.
But the souls of the wicked are dragged down by the corporeal element.
And this corporeal element, my friend, is heavy and weighty and earthy, and is that element of sight by which a soul is depressed and dragged down again into the visible world, because she is afraid of the invisible and of the world below—prowling about tombs and sepulchres, near which, as they tell us, are seen certain ghostly apparitions of souls which have not departed pure, but are cloyed with sight and therefore visible1 .
That is very likely, Socrates.
Yes, that is very likely, Cebes; and these must be the souls, not of the good, but of the evil, which are compelled to wander about such places in payment of the penalty of their former evil way of life; and they continue to wander until through the craving after the corporeal which never leaves them, they are imprisoned finally in another body. And they may be supposed to find their prisons in the same natures which they have had in their former lives.
What natures do you mean, Socrates?
They wander into the bodies of the animals or of birds which are of a like nature with themselves.
What I mean is that men who have followed after gluttony, and wantonness, and drunkenness, and have had no thought of avoiding them, would pass into asses and animals of that 82sort. What do you think?
I think such an opinion to be exceedingly probable.
And those who have chosen the portion of injustice, and tyranny, and violence, will pass into wolves, or into hawks and kites;—whither else can we suppose them to go?
Yes, said Cebes; with such natures, beyond question.
And there is no difficulty, he said, in assigning to all of them places answering to their several natures and propensities?
There is not, he said.
Some are happier than others; and the happiest both in themselves and in the place to which they go are those who have practised the civil and social virtues which are called temperance and justice, and are acquired by habit and attention without philosophy and mind1 .
Why are they the happiest?
Because they may be expected to pass into some gentle and social kind which is like their own, such as bees or wasps or ants, or back again into the form of man, and just and moderate men may be supposed to spring from them.
Very likely.
No one who has not studied philosophy and who is not entirely pure at the time of his departure is allowed to enter the company of the Gods, but the lover of knowledge only. And this is the reason, Simmias and Cebes, why the true votaries of philosophy abstain from all fleshly lusts, and hold out against them and refuse to give themselves up to them,—not because they fear poverty or the ruin of their families, like the lovers of money, and the world in general; nor like the lovers of power and honour, because they dread the dishonour or disgrace of evil deeds.
No, Socrates, that would not become them, said Cebes.
No indeed, he replied; and therefore they who have any care of their own souls, and do not merely live moulding and fashioning the body, say farewell to all this; they will not walk in the ways of the blind: and when philosophy offers them purification and release from evil, they feel that they ought not to resist her influence, and whither she leads they turn and follow.
What do you mean, Socrates?
The new consciousness which is awakened by philosophy.The philosopher considers not only the consequences of pleasures and pains, but, what is far worse, the false lights in which they show objects.
I will tell you, he said. The lovers of knowledge are conscious that the soul was simply fastened and glued to the body—until philosophy received her, she could only view real existence through the bars of a prison, not in and through herself; she was wallowing in the mire of every sort of ignorance, and by reason of lust had become the principal accomplice in her own captivity. This was her original 83state; and then, as I was saying, and as the lovers of knowledge are well aware, philosophy, seeing how terrible was her confinement, of which she was to herself the cause, received and gently comforted her and sought to release her, pointing out that the eye and the ear and the other senses are full of deception, and persuading her to retire from them, and abstain from all but the necessary use of them, and be gathered up and collected into herself, bidding her trust in herself and her own pure apprehension of pure existence, and to mistrust whatever comes to her through other channels and is subject to variation; for such things are visible and tangible, but what she sees in her own nature is intelligible and invisible. And the soul of the true philosopher thinks that she ought not to resist this deliverance, and therefore abstains from pleasures and desires and pains and fears, as far as she is able; reflecting that when a man has great joys or sorrows or fears or desires, he suffers from them, not merely the sort of evil which might be anticipated—as for example, the loss of his health or property which he has sacrificed to his lusts—but an evil greater far, which is the greatest and worst of all evils, and one of which he never thinks.
What is it, Socrates? said Cebes.
The evil is that when the feeling of pleasure or pain is most intense, every soul of man imagines the objects of this intense feeling to be then plainest and truest: but this is not so, they are really the things of sight.
Very true.
And is not this the state in which the soul is most enthralled by the body?
How so?
Why, because each pleasure and pain is a sort of nail which nails and rivets the soul to the body, until she becomes like the body, and believes that to be true which the body affirms to be true; and from agreeing with the body and having the same delights she is obliged to have the same habits and haunts, and is not likely ever to be pure at her departure to the world below, but is always infected by the body; and so she sinks into another body and there germinates and grows, and has therefore no part in the communion of the divine and pure and simple.
Most true, Socrates, answered Cebes.
And this, Cebes, is the reason why the true lovers of knowledge are temperate and brave; and not for the reason which the world gives.
84Certainly not.
Socrates, Cebes, Simmias.The soul which has been emancipated from pleasures and pains will not be blown away at death.
Certainly not! The soul of a philosopher will reason in quite another way; she will not ask philosophy to release her in order that when released she may deliver herself up again to the thraldom of pleasures and pains, doing a work only to be undone again, weaving instead of unweaving her Penelope’s web. But she will calm passion, and follow reason, and dwell in the contemplation of her, beholding the true and divine (which is not matter of opinion), and thence deriving nourishment. Thus she seeks to live while she lives, and after death she hopes to go to her own kindred and to that which is like her, and to be freed from human ills. Never fear, Simmias and Cebes, that a soul which has been thus nurtured and has had these pursuits, will at her departure from the body be scattered and blown away by the winds and be nowhere and nothing.
Simmias and Cebes have their doubts, but think that this is not the time to express them.
When Socrates had done speaking, for a considerable time there was silence; he himself appeared to be meditating, as most of us were, on what had been said; only Cebes and Simmias spoke a few words to one another. And Socrates observing them asked what they thought of the argument, and whether there was anything wanting? For, said he, there are many points still open to suspicion and attack, if any one were disposed to sift the matter thoroughly. Should you be considering some other matter I say no more, but if you are still in doubt do not hesitate to say exactly what you think, and let us have anything better which you can suggest; and if you think that I can be of any use, allow me to help you.
Simmias said: I must confess, Socrates, that doubts did arise in our minds, and each of us was urging and inciting the other to put the question which we wanted to have answered but which neither of us liked to ask, fearing that our importunity might be troublesome at such a time.
Socrates rebukes their want of confidence in him.What is the meaning of the swans’ singing?They do not lament, as men suppose, at their approaching death; but they rejoice because they are going to the God, whose servants they are.Socrates, who is their fellow-servant, will not leave the world less cheerily.
Socrates replied with a smile: O Simmias, what are you saying? I am not very likely to persuade other men that I do not regard my present situation as a misfortune, if I cannot even persuade you that I am no worse off now than at any other time in my life. Will you not allow that I have as much of the spirit of prophecy in me as the swans? For they, when they perceive that they must die, having sung all their life long, do then sing more lustily than ever, rejoicing 85in the thought that they are about to go away to the god whose ministers they are. But men, because they are themselves afraid of death, slanderously affirm of the swans that they sing a lament at the last, not considering that no bird sings when cold, or hungry, or in pain, not even the nightingale, nor the swallow, nor yet the hoopoe; which are said indeed to tune a lay of sorrow, although I do not believe this to be true of them any more than of the swans. But because they are sacred to Apollo, they have the gift of prophecy, and anticipate the good things of another world; wherefore they sing and rejoice in that day more than ever they did before. And I too, believing myself to be the consecrated servant of the same God, and the fellow-servant of the swans, and thinking that I have received from my master gifts of prophecy which are not inferior to theirs, would not go out of life less merrily than the swans. Never mind then, if this be your only objection, but speak and ask anything which you like, while the eleven magistrates of Athens allow.
Simmias insists that they must probe truth to the bottom.
Very good, Socrates, said Simmias; then I will tell you my difficulty, and Cebes will tell you his. I feel myself (and I daresay that you have the same feeling), how hard or rather impossible is the attainment of any certainty about questions such as these in the present life. And yet I should deem him a coward who did not prove what is said about them to the uttermost, or whose heart failed him before he had examined them on every side. For he should persevere until he has achieved one of two things: either he should discover, or be taught the truth about them; or, if this be impossible, I would have him take the best and most irrefragable of human theories, and let this be the raft upon which he sails through life—not without risk, as I admit, if he cannot find some word of God which will more surely and safely carry him. And now, as you bid me, I will venture to question you, and then I shall not have to reproach myself hereafter with not having said at the time what I think. For when I consider the matter, either alone or with Cebes, the argument does certainly appear to me, Socrates, to be not sufficient.
Socrates, Simmias.
Socrates answered: I dare say, my friend, that you may be right, but I should like to know in what respect the argument is insufficient.
The harmony does not survive the lyre; how then can the soul, which is also a harmony, survive the body?
In this respect, replied Simmias:—Suppose a person to use the same argument about harmony and the lyre—might he not say that harmony is a thing invisible, incorporeal, perfect, divine, existing in the lyre which is harmonized, but 86that the lyre and the strings are matter and material, composite, earthy, and akin to mortality? And when some one breaks the lyre, or cuts and rends the strings, then he who takes this view would argue as you do, and on the same analogy, that the harmony survives and has not perished—you cannot imagine, he would say, that the lyre without the strings, and the broken strings themselves which are mortal remain, and yet that the harmony, which is of heavenly and immortal nature and kindred, has perished—perished before the mortal. The harmony must still be somewhere, and the wood and strings will decay before anything can happen to that. The thought, Socrates, must have occurred to your own mind that such is our conception of the soul; and that when the body is in a manner strung and held together by the elements of hot and cold, wet and dry, then the soul is the harmony or due proportionate admixture of them. But if so, whenever the strings of the body are unduly loosened or overstrained through disease or other injury, then the soul, though most divine, like other harmonies of music or of works of art, of course perishes at once; although the material remains of the body may last for a considerable time, until they are either decayed or burnt. And if any one maintains that the soul, being the harmony of the elements of the body, is first to perish in that which is called death, how shall we answer him?
Socrates looked fixedly at us as his manner was, and said with a smile: Simmias has reason on his side; and why does not some one of you who is better able than myself answer him? for there is force in his attack upon me. But perhaps, before we answer him, we had better also hear what Cebes has to say that we may gain time for reflection, and when they have both spoken, we may either assent to them, if there is truth in what they say, or if not, we will maintain our position. Please to tell me then, Cebes, he said, what was the difficulty which troubled you?
A weaver may outlive many coats and himself be outlived by the last:so the soul which has passed through many bodies may in the end be worn out.Socrates, Cebes, Echecrates.
Cebes said: I will tell you. My feeling is that the argument is where it was, and open to the same objections which 87were urged before; for I am ready to admit that the existence of the soul before entering into the bodily form has been very ingeniously, and, if I may say so, quite sufficiently proven; but the existence of the soul after death is still, in my judgment, unproven. Now my objection is not the same as that of Simmias; for I am not disposed to deny that the soul is stronger and more lasting than the body, being of opinion that in all such respects the soul very far excels the body. Well then, says the argument to me, why do you remain unconvinced?—When you see that the weaker continues in existence after the man is dead, will you not admit that the more lasting must also survive during the same period of time? Now I will ask you to consider whether the objection, which, like Simmias, I will express in a figure, is of any weight. The analogy which I will adduce is that of an old weaver, who dies, and after his death somebody says:—He is not dead, he must be alive;—see, there is the coat which he himself wove and wore, and which remains whole and undecayed. And then he proceeds to ask of some one who is incredulous, whether a man lasts longer, or the coat which is in use and wear; and when he is answered that a man lasts far longer, thinks that he has thus certainly demonstrated the survival of the man, who is the more lasting, because the less lasting remains. But that, Simmias, as I would beg you to remark, is a mistake; any one can see that he who talks thus is talking nonsense. For the truth is, that the weaver aforesaid, having woven and worn many such coats, outlived several of them; and was outlived by the last; but a man is not therefore proved to be slighter and weaker than a coat. Now the relation of the body to the soul may be expressed in a similar figure; and any one may very fairly say in like manner that the soul is lasting, and the body weak and shortlived in comparison. He may argue in like manner that every soul wears out many bodies, especially if a man live many years. While he is alive the body deliquesces and decays, and the soul always weaves another garment and repairs the waste. But of course, whenever the soul perishes, she must have on her last garment, and this will survive her; and then at length, when the soul is dead, the body will show its native weakness, and quickly decompose and pass away. I would therefore rather not rely on the argument from superior strength to prove the continued existence of the soul after death. For granting 88even more than you affirm to be possible, and acknowledging not only that the soul existed before birth, but also that the souls of some exist, and will continue to exist after death, and will be born and die again and again, and that there is a natural strength in the soul which will hold out and be born many times—nevertheless, we may be still inclined to think that she will weary in the labours of successive births, and may at last succumb in one of her deaths and utterly perish; and this death and dissolution of the body which brings destruction to the soul may be unknown to any of us, for no one of us can have had any experience of it: and if so, then I maintain that he who is confident about death has but a foolish confidence, unless he is able to prove that the soul is altogether immortal and imperishable. But if he cannot prove the soul’s immortality, he who is about to die will always have reason to fear that when the body is disunited, the soul also may utterly perish.
The despair of the audience at hearing the overthrow of the argument.
All of us, as we afterwards remarked to one another, had an unpleasant feeling at hearing what they said. When we had been so firmly convinced before, now to have our faith shaken seemed to introduce a confusion and uncertainty, not only into the previous argument, but into any future one; either we were incapable of forming a judgment, or there were no grounds of belief.
Ech.
There I feel with you—by heaven I do, Phaedo, and when you were speaking, I was beginning to ask myself the same question: What argument can I ever trust again? For what could be more convincing than the argument of Socrates, which has now fallen into discredit? That the soul is a harmony is a doctrine which has always had a wonderful attraction for me, and, when mentioned, came back to me at once, as my own original conviction. And now I must begin again and find another argument which will assure me that when the man is dead the soul survives. Tell me, I implore you, how did Socrates proceed? Did he appear to share the unpleasant feeling which you mention? or did he calmly meet the attack? And did he answer forcibly or feebly? Narrate what passed as exactly as you can.
Phaed.
The wonderful manner in which Socrates soothes his disappointed hearers and rehabilitates the argument.
Often, Echecrates, I have wondered at Socrates, 89but never more than on that occasion. That he should be able to answer was nothing, but what astonished me was, first, the gentle and pleasant and approving manner in which he received the words of the young men, and then his quick sense of the wound which had been inflicted by the argument, and the readiness with which he healed it. He might be compared to a general rallying his defeated and broken army, urging them to accompany him and return to the field of argument.
Ech.
What followed?
Phaed.
You shall hear, for I was close to him on his right hand, seated on a sort of stool, and he on a couch which was a good deal higher. He stroked my head, and pressed the hair upon my neck—he had a way of playing with my hair; and then he said: To-morrow, Phaedo, I suppose that these fair locks of yours will be severed.
Yes, Socrates, I suppose that they will, I replied.
Not so, if you will take my advice.
What shall I do with them? I said.
To-day, he replied, and not to-morrow, if this argument dies and we cannot bring it to life again, you and I will both shave our locks: and if I were you, and the argument got away from me, and I could not hold my ground against Simmias and Cebes, I would myself take an oath, like the Argives, not to wear hair any more until I had renewed the conflict and defeated them.
Yes, I said; but Heracles himself is said not to be a match for two.
Summon me then, he said, and I will be your Iolaus until the sun goes down.
I summon you rather, I rejoined, not as Heracles summoning Iolaus, but as Iolaus might summon Heracles.
That will do as well, he said. But first let us take care that we avoid a danger.
Of what nature? I said.
Socrates, Phaedo.The danger of becoming haters of ideas greater than of becoming haters of men.
Lest we become misologists, he replied: no worse thing can happen to a man than this. For as there are misanthropists or haters of men, there are also misologists or haters of ideas, and both spring from the same cause, which is ignorance of the world. Misanthropy arises out of the too great confidence of inexperience;—you trust a man and think him altogether true and sound and faithful, and then in a little while he turns out to be false and knavish; and then another and another, and when this has happened several times to a man, especially when it happens among those whom he deems to be his own most trusted and familiar friends, and he has often quarrelled with them, he at last hates all men, and believes that no one has any good in him at all. You must have observed this trait of character?
I have.
There are few very bad or very good men; (although bad arguments may be more numerous than bad men); the main point is that he who has been often deceived by either is apt to lose faith in them.
And is not the feeling discreditable? Is it not obvious that such an one having to deal with other men, was clearly without any experience of human nature; for experience would have taught him the true state of the case, that few are the good and few the evil, and that the great majority are in 90the interval between them.
What do you mean? I said.
I mean, he replied, as you might say of the very large and very small—that nothing is more uncommon than a very large or very small man; and this applies generally to all extremes, whether of great and small, or swift and slow, or fair and foul, or black and white: and whether the instances you select be men or dogs or anything else, few are the extremes, but many are in the mean between them. Did you never observe this?
Yes, I said, I have.
And do you not imagine, he said, that if there were a competition in evil, the worst would be found to be very few?
Yes, that is very likely, I said.
Yes, that is very likely, he replied; although in this respect arguments are unlike men—there I was led on by you to say more than I had intended; but the point of comparison was, that when a simple man who has no skill in dialectics believes an argument to be true which he afterwards imagines to be false, whether really false or not, and then another and another, he has no longer any faith left, and great disputers, as you know, come to think at last that they have grown to be the wisest of mankind; for they alone perceive the utter unsoundness and instability of all arguments, or indeed, of all things, which, like the currents in the Euripus, are going up and down in never-ceasing ebb and flow.
That is quite true, I said.
Yes, Phaedo, he replied, and how melancholy, if there be such a thing as truth or certainty or possibility of knowledge—that a man should have lighted upon some argument or other which at first seemed true and then turned out to be false, and instead of blaming himself and his own want of wit, because he is annoyed, should at last be too glad to transfer the blame from himself to arguments in general: and for ever afterwards should hate and revile them, and lose truth and the knowledge of realities.
Yes, indeed, I said; that is very melancholy.
Socrates, who is soon to die, has too much at stake on the argument to be a fair judge. Simmias and Cebes must help him to consider the matter impartially.Socrates, Cebes, Simmias.
Let us then, in the first place, he said, be careful of allowing or of admitting into our souls the notion that there is no health or soundness in any arguments at all. Rather say that we have not yet attained to soundness in ourselves, and that we must struggle manfully and do our best to gain health of mind—you and all other men having regard to the whole of your future life, and I myself in the prospect of death. For 91at this moment I am sensible that I have not the temper of a philosopher; like the vulgar, I am only a partisan. Now the partisan, when he is engaged in a dispute, cares nothing about the rights of the question, but is anxious only to convince his hearers of his own assertions. And the difference between him and me at the present moment is merely this—that whereas he seeks to convince his hearers that what he says is true, I am rather seeking to convince myself; to convince my hearers is a secondary matter with me. And do but see how much I gain by the argument. For if what I say is true, then I do well to be persuaded of the truth; but if there be nothing after death, still, during the short time that remains, I shall not distress my friends with lamentations, and my ignorance will not last, but will die with me, and therefore no harm will be done. This is the state of mind, Simmias and Cebes, in which I approach the argument. And I would ask you to be thinking of the truth and not of Socrates: agree with me, if I seem to you to be speaking the truth; or if not, withstand me might and main, that I may not deceive you as well as myself in my enthusiasm, and like the bee, leave my sting in you before I die.
Simmias and Cebes are inclined to fear that the soul may perish before the body, but they still hold to the doctrine of reminiscence.
And now let us proceed, he said. And first of all let me be sure that I have in my mind what you were saying. Simmias, if I remember rightly, has fears and misgivings whether the soul, although a fairer and diviner thing than the body, being as she is in the form of harmony, may not perish first. On the other hand, Cebes appeared to grant that the soul was more lasting than the body, but he said that no one could know whether the soul, after having worn out many bodies, might not perish herself and leave her last body behind her; and that this is death, which is the destruction not of the body but of the soul, for in the body the work of destruction is ever going on. Are not these, Simmias and Cebes, the points which we have to consider?
They both agreed to this statement of them.
He proceeded: And did you deny the force of the whole preceding argument, or of a part only?
Of a part only, they replied.
And what did you think, he said, of that part of the argument in which we said that knowledge was recollection, and hence inferred that the soul must have previously existed somewhere else before she was enclosed in the 92body?
Cebes said that he had been wonderfully impressed by that part of the argument, and that his conviction remained absolutely unshaken. Simmias agreed, and added that he himself could hardly imagine the possibility of his ever thinking differently.
The elements of harmony are prior to harmony, but the body is not prior to the soul.
But, rejoined Socrates, you will have to think differently, my Theban friend, if you still maintain that harmony is a compound, and that the soul is a harmony which is made out of strings set in the frame of the body; for you will surely never allow yourself to say that a harmony is prior to the elements which compose it.
Never, Socrates.
Socrates, Simmias.
But do you not see that this is what you imply when you say that the soul existed before she took the form and body of man, and was made up of elements which as yet had no existence? For harmony is not like the soul, as you suppose; but first the lyre, and the strings, and the sounds exist in a state of discord, and then harmony is made last of all, and perishes first. And how can such a notion of the soul as this agree with the other?
Not at all, replied Simmias.
And yet, he said, there surely ought to be harmony in a discourse of which harmony is the theme?
There ought, replied Simmias.
But there is no harmony, he said, in the two propositions that knowledge is recollection, and that the soul is a harmony. Which of them will you retain?
Simmias acknowledges that his argument does not harmonize with the proposition that knowledge is recollection.
I think, he replied, that I have a much stronger faith, Socrates, in the first of the two, which has been fully demonstrated to me, than in the latter, which has not been demonstrated at all, but rests only on probable and plausible grounds; and is therefore believed by the many. I know too well that these arguments from probabilities are impostors, and unless great caution is observed in the use of them, they are apt to be deceptive—in geometry, and in other things too. But the doctrine of knowledge and recollection has been proven to me on trustworthy grounds: and the proof was that the soul must have existed before she came into the body, because to her belongs the essence of which the very name implies existence. Having, as I am convinced, rightly accepted this conclusion, and on sufficient grounds, I must, as I suppose, cease to argue or allow others to argue that the soul is a harmony.
Let me put the matter, Simmias, he said, in another point 93of view: Do you imagine that a harmony or any other composition can be in a state other than that of the elements, out of which it is compounded?
Certainly not.
Or do or suffer anything other than they do or suffer?
He agreed.
Then a harmony does not, properly speaking, lead the parts or elements which make up the harmony, but only follows them.
He assented.
For harmony cannot possibly have any motion, or sound, or other quality which is opposed to its parts.
That would be impossible, he replied.
And does not the nature of every harmony depend upon the manner in which the elements are harmonized?
I do not understand you, he said.
Harmony admits of degrees, but in the soul there are no degrees;
I mean to say that a harmony admits of degrees, and is more of a harmony, and more completely a harmony, when more truly and fully harmonized, to any extent which is possible; and less of a harmony, and less completely a harmony, when less truly and fully harmonized.
True.
But does the soul admit of degrees? or is one soul in the very least degree more or less, or more or less completely, a soul than another?
Not in the least.
Yet surely of two souls, one is said to have intelligence and virtue, and to be good, and the other to have folly and vice, and to be an evil soul: and this is said truly?
Yes, truly.
and therefore there cannot be a soul or harmony within a soul.
But what will those who maintain the soul to be a harmony say of this presence of virtue and vice in the soul?—will they say that here is another harmony, and another discord, and that the virtuous soul is harmonized, and herself being a harmony has another harmony within her, and that the vicious soul is inharmonical and has no harmony within her?
I cannot tell, replied Simmias; but I suppose that something of the sort would be asserted by those who say that the soul is a harmony.
And we have already admitted that no soul is more a soul than another; which is equivalent to admitting that harmony is not more or less harmony, or more or less completely a harmony?
Quite true.
And that which is not more or less a harmony is not more or less harmonized?
True.
And that which is not more or less harmonized cannot have more or less of harmony, but only an equal harmony?
Yes, an equal harmony.
Then one soul not being more or less absolutely a soul than another, is not more or less harmonized?
Exactly.
And therefore has neither more nor less of discord, nor yet of harmony?
She has not.
And having neither more nor less of harmony or of discord, one soul has no more vice or virtue than another, if vice be discord and virtue harmony?
Not at all more.
94Or speaking more correctly, Simmias, the soul, if she is a harmony, will never have any vice; because a harmony, being absolutely a harmony, has no part in the inharmonical.
No.
If the soul is a harmony, all souls must be equally good.
And therefore a soul which is absolutely a soul has no vice?
How can she have, if the previous argument holds?
Then, if all souls are equally by their nature souls, all souls of all living creatures will be equally good?
I agree with you, Socrates, he said.
And can all this be true, think you? he said; for these are the consequences which seem to follow from the assumption that the soul is a harmony?
It cannot be true.
Once more, he said, what ruler is there of the elements of human nature other than the soul, and especially the wise soul? Do you know of any?
Indeed, I do not.
And is the soul in agreement with the affections of the body? or is she at variance with them? For example, when the body is hot and thirsty, does not the soul incline us against drinking? and when the body is hungry, against eating? And this is only one instance out of ten thousand of the opposition of the soul to the things of the body.
Very true.
Socrates, Simmias, Cebes.
But we have already acknowledged that the soul, being a harmony, can never utter a note at variance with the tensions and relaxations and vibrations and other affections of the strings out of which she is composed; she can only follow, she cannot lead them?
It must be so, he replied.
The soul leads and does not follow. She constrains and reprimands the passions.
And yet do we not now discover the soul to be doing the exact opposite—leading the elements of which she is believed to be composed; almost always opposing and coercing them in all sorts of ways throughout life, sometimes more violently with the pains of medicine and gymnastic; then again more gently; now threatening, now admonishing the desires, passions, fears, as if talking to a thing which is not herself, as Homer in the Odyssee represents Odysseus doing in the words—
- ‘He beat his breast, and thus reproached his heart:
- Endure, my heart; far worse hast thou endured!’
Do you think that Homer wrote this under the idea that the soul is a harmony capable of being led by the affections of the body, and not rather of a nature which should lead and master them—herself a far diviner thing than any harmony?
Yes, Socrates, I quite think so.
Then, my friend, we can never be right in saying that the soul is a harmony, for we should contradict the divine 95Homer, and contradict ourselves.
True, he said.
Thus much, said Socrates, of Harmonia, your Theban goddess, who has graciously yielded to us; but what shall I say, Cebes, to her husband Cadmus, and how shall I make peace with him?
I think that you will discover a way of propitiating him, said Cebes; I am sure that you have put the argument with Harmonia in a manner that I could never have expected. For when Simmias was mentioning his difficulty, I quite imagined that no answer could be given to him, and therefore I was surprised at finding that his argument could not sustain the first onset of yours, and not impossibly the other, whom you call Cadmus, may share a similar fate.
Socrates, Cebes.Recapitulation of the argument of Cebes.
Nay, my good friend, said Socrates, let us not boast, lest some evil eye should put to flight the word which I am about to speak. That, however, may be left in the hands of those above; while I draw near in Homeric fashion, and try the mettle of your words. Here lies the point:—You want to have it proven to you that the soul is imperishable and immortal, and the philosopher who is confident in death appears to you to have but a vain and foolish confidence, if he believes that he will fare better in the world below than one who has led another sort of life, unless he can prove this: and you say that the demonstration of the strength and divinity of the soul, and of her existence prior to our becoming men, does not necessarily imply her immortality. Admitting the soul to be longlived, and to have known and done much in a former state, still she is not on that account immortal; and her entrance into the human form may be a sort of disease which is the beginning of dissolution, and may at last, after the toils of life are over, end in that which is called death. And whether the soul enters into the body once only or many times, does not, as you say, make any difference in the fears of individuals. For any man, who is not devoid of sense, must fear, if he has no knowledge and can give no account of the soul’s immortality. This, or something like this, I suspect to be your notion, Cebes; and I designedly recur to it in order that nothing may escape us, and that you may, if you wish, add or subtract anything.
But, said Cebes, as far as I see at present, I have nothing to add or subtract: I mean what you say that I mean.
Socrates paused awhile, and seemed to be absorbed in reflection. At length he said: You are raising a tremendous question, Cebes, involving the whole nature of 96generation and corruption, about which, if you like, I will give you my own experience; and if anything which I say is likely to avail towards the solution of your difficulty you may make use of it.
I should very much like, said Cebes, to hear what you have to say.
The speculations of Socrates about physics made him forget the commonest things.
Then I will tell you, said Socrates. When I was young, Cebes, I had a prodigious desire to know that department of philosophy which is called the investigation of nature; to know the causes of things, and why a thing is and is created or destroyed appeared to me to be a lofty profession; and I was always agitating myself with the consideration of questions such as these:—Is the growth of animals the result of some decay which the hot and cold principle contracts, as some have said? Is the blood the element with which we think, or the air, or the fire? or perhaps nothing of the kind—but the brain may be the originating power of the perceptions of hearing and sight and smell, and memory and opinion may come from them, and science may be based on memory and opinion when they have attained fixity. And then I went on to examine the corruption of them, and then to the things of heaven and earth, and at last I concluded myself to be utterly and absolutely incapable of these enquiries, as I will satisfactorily prove to you. For I was fascinated by them to such a degree that my eyes grew blind to things which I had seemed to myself, and also to others, to know quite well; I forgot what I had before thought self-evident truths; e.g. such a fact as that the growth of man is the result of eating and drinking; for when by the digestion of food flesh is added to flesh and bone to bone, and whenever there is an aggregation of congenial elements, the lesser bulk becomes larger and the small man great. Was not that a reasonable notion?
Yes, said Cebes, I think so.
Difficulty of explaining relative notions.
Well; but let me tell you something more. There was a time when I thought that I understood the meaning of greater and less pretty well; and when I saw a great man standing by a little one, I fancied that one was taller than the other by a head; or one horse would appear to be greater than another horse: and still more clearly did I seem to perceive that ten is two more than eight, and that two cubits are more than one, because two is the double of one.
And what is now your notion of such matters? said Cebes.
Socrates.
I should be far enough from imagining, he replied, that I knew the cause of any of them, by heaven I should; for I cannot satisfy myself that, when one is added to one, the one to which the addition is made becomes two, or that the two 97units added together make two by reason of the addition. I cannot understand how, when separated from the other, each of them was one and not two, and now, when they are brought together, the mere juxtaposition or meeting of them should be the cause of their becoming two: neither can I understand how the division of one is the way to make two; for then a different cause would produce the same effect,—as in the former instance the addition and juxtaposition of one to one was the cause of two, in this the separation and subtraction of one from the other would be the cause. Nor am I any longer satisfied that I understand the reason why one or anything else is either generated or destroyed or is at all, but I have in my mind some confused notion of a new method, and can never admit the other.
The great expectations which Socrates had from the doctrine of Anaxagoras, that all was Mind.
Then I heard some one reading, as he said, from a book of Anaxagoras, that mind was the disposer and cause of all, and I was delighted at this notion, which appeared quite admirable, and I said to myself: If mind is the disposer, mind will dispose all for the best, and put each particular in the best place; and I argued that if any one desired to find out the cause of the generation or destruction or existence of anything, he must find out what state of being or doing or suffering was best for that thing, and therefore a man had only to consider the best for himself and others, and then he would also know the worse, since the same science comprehended both. And I rejoiced to think that I had found in Anaxagoras a teacher of the causes of existence such as I desired, and I imagined that he would tell me first whether the earth is flat or round; and whichever was true, he would proceed to explain the cause and the necessity of this being so, and then he would teach me the nature of the best and show that this was best; and if he said that the earth was in the centre, he would further explain that this position was the best, and I should be satisfied with the explanation 98given, and not want any other sort of cause. And I thought that I would then go on and ask him about the sun and moon and stars, and that he would explain to me their comparative swiftness, and their returnings and various states, active and passive, and how all of them were for the best. For I could not imagine that when he spoke of mind as the disposer of them, he would give any other account of their being as they are, except that this was best; and I thought that when he had explained to me in detail the cause of each and the cause of all, he would go on to explain to me what was best for each and what was good for all. These hopes I would not have sold for a large sum of money, and I seized the books and read them as fast as I could in my eagerness to know the better and the worse.
The greatness of his disappointment.Socrates, Cebes.
What expectations I had formed, and how grievously was I disappointed! As I proceeded, I found my philosopher altogether forsaking mind or any other principle of order, but having recourse to air, and ether, and water, and other eccentricities. I might compare him to a person who began by maintaining generally that mind is the cause of the actions of Socrates, but who, when he endeavoured to explain the causes of my several actions in detail, went on to show that I sit here because my body is made up of bones and muscles; and the bones, as he would say, are hard and have joints which divide them, and the muscles are elastic, and they cover the bones, which have also a covering or environment of flesh and skin which contains them; and as the bones are lifted at their joints by the contraction or relaxation of the museles, I am able to bend my limbs, and this is why I am sitting here in a curved posture—that is what he would say; and he would have a similar explanation of my talking to you, which he would attribute to sound, and air, and hearing, and he would assign ten thousand other causes of the same sort, forgetting to mention the true cause, which is, that the Athenians have thought fit to condemn me, and accordingly I have thought it better and more right to remain here and undergo my sentence; for I am inclined to think that these muscles and bones of mine would have gone 99off long ago to Megara or Boeotia—by the dog they would, if they had been moved only by their own idea of what was best, and if I had not chosen the better and nobler part, instead of playing truant and running away, of enduring any punishment which the state inflicts. There is surely a strange confusion of causes and conditions in all this. It may be said, indeed, that without bones and muscles and the other parts of the body I cannot execute my purposes. But to say that I do as I do because of them, and that this is the way in which mind acts, and not from the choice of the best, is a very careless and idle mode of speaking. I wonder that they cannot distinguish the cause from the condition, which the many, feeling about in the dark, are always mistaking and misnaming. And thus one man makes a vortex all round and steadies the earth by the heaven; another gives the air as a support to the earth, which is a sort of broad trough. Any power which in arranging them as they are arranges them for the best never enters into their minds; and instead of finding any superior strength in it, they rather expect to discover another Atlas of the world who is stronger and more everlasting and more containing than the good;—of the obligatory and containing power of the good they think nothing; and yet this is the principle which I would fain learn if any one would teach me. But as I have failed either to discover myself, or to learn of any one else, the nature of the best, I will exhibit to you, if you like, what I have found to be the second best mode of enquiring into the cause.
I should very much like to hear, he replied.
The eye of the soul.The abstract as plain or plainer than the concrete.
Socrates proceeded:—I thought that as I had failed in the contemplation of true existence, I ought to be careful that I did not lose the eye of my soul; as people may injure their bodily eye by observing and gazing on the sun during an eclipse, unless they take the precaution of only looking at the image reflected in the water, or in some similar medium. So in my own case, I was afraid that my soul might be blinded altogether if I looked at things with my eyes or tried to apprehend them by the help of the senses. And I thought that I had better have recourse to the world of mind and 100seek there the truth of existence. I dare say that the simile is not perfect—for I am very far from admitting that he who contemplates existences through the medium of thought, sees them only ‘through a glass darkly,’ any more than he who considers them in action and operation. However, this was the method which I adopted: I first assumed some principle which I judged to be the strongest, and then I affirmed as true whatever seemed to agree with this, whether relating to the cause or to anything else; and that which disagreed I regarded as untrue. But I should like to explain my meaning more clearly, as I do not think that you as yet understand me.
No indeed, replied Cebes, not very well.
If the ideas have an absolute existence the soul is immortal.
There is nothing new, he said, in what I am about to tell you; but only what I have been always and everywhere repeating in the previous discussion and on other occasions: I want to show you the nature of that cause which has occupied my thoughts. I shall have to go back to those familiar words which are in the mouth of every one, and first of all assume that there is an absolute beauty and goodness and greatness, and the like; grant me this, and I hope to be able to show you the nature of the cause, and to prove the immortality of the soul.
Cebes said: You may proceed at once with the proof, for I grant you this.
Well, he said, then I should like to know whether you agree with me in the next step; for I cannot help thinking, if there be anything beautiful other than absolute beauty should there be such, that it can be beautiful only in so far as it partakes of absolute beauty—and I should say the same of everything. Do you agree in this notion of the cause?
Yes, he said, I agree.
All things exist by participation in general ideas.
He proceeded: I know nothing and can understand nothing of any other of those wise causes which are alleged; and if a person says to me that the bloom of colour, or form, or any such thing is a source of beauty, I leave all that, which is only confusing to me, and simply and singly, and perhaps foolishly, hold and am assured in my own mind that nothing makes a thing beautiful but the presence and participation of beauty in whatever way or manner obtained; for as to the manner I am uncertain, but I stoutly contend that by beauty all beautiful things become beautiful. This appears to me to be the safest answer which I can give, either to myself or to another, and to this I cling, in the persuasion that this principle will never be overthrown, and that to myself or to any one who asks the question, I may safely reply, That by beauty beautiful things become beautiful. Do you not agree with me?
I do.
And that by greatness only great things become great and greater greater, and by smallness the less become less?
True.
We thus escape certain contradictions of relation.
Then if a person were to remark that A is taller by a head than B, and B less by a head than A, you would refuse to 101admit his statement, and would stoutly contend that what you mean is only that the greater is greater by, and by reason of, greatness, and the less is less only by, and by reason of, smallness; and thus you would avoid the danger of saying that the greater is greater and the less less by the measure of the head, which is the same in both, and would also avoid the monstrous absurdity of supposing that the greater man is greater by reason of the head, which is small. You would be afraid to draw such an inference, would you not?
Indeed, I should, said Cebes, laughing.
In like manner you would be afraid to say that ten exceeded eight by, and by reason of, two; but would say by, and by reason of, number; or you would say that two cubits exceed one cubit not by a half, but by magnitude?—for there is the same liability to error in all these cases.
Very true, he said.
Socrates, Simmias, Cebes, Echecrates, Phaedo.
Again, would you not be cautious of affirming that the addition of one to one, or the division of one, is the cause of two? And you would loudly asseverate that you know of no way in which anything comes into existence except by participation in its own proper essence, and consequently, as far as you know, the only cause of two is the participation in duality—this is the way to make two, and the participation in one is the way to make one. You would say: I will let alone puzzles of division and addition—wiser heads than mine may answer them; inexperienced as I am, and ready to start, as the proverb says, at my own shadow, I cannot afford to give up the sure ground of a principle. And if any one assails you there, you would not mind him, or answer him, until you had seen whether the consequences which follow agree with one another or not, and when you are further required to give an explanation of this principle, you would go on to assume a higher principle, and a higher, until you found a resting-place in the best of the higher; but you would not confuse the principle and the consequences in your reasoning, like the Eristics—at least if you wanted to discover real existence. Not that this confusion signifies to them, who never care or think about the matter at all, for they have the wit to be well pleased with themselves however great may be the turmoil of their ideas. But you, if you are 102a philosopher, will certainly do as I say.
What you say is most true, said Simmias and Cebes, both speaking at once.
Ech.
Yes, Phaedo; and I do not wonder at their assenting. Any one who has the least sense will acknowledge the wonderful clearness of Socrates’ reasoning.
Phaed.
Certainly, Echecrates; and such was the feeling of the whole company at the time.
Ech.
Yes, and equally of ourselves, who were not of the company, and are now listening to your recital. But what followed?
Phaed.
After all this had been admitted, and they had agreed that ideas exist, and that other things participate in them and derive their names from them, Socrates, if I remember rightly, said:—
There may still remain the contradiction of the same person being both greater and less, but this is only because he has greatness or smallness relatively to another person.
This is your way of speaking; and yet when you say that Simmias is greater than Socrates and less than Phaedo, do you not predicate of Simmias both greatness and smallness?
Yes, I do.
But still you allow that Simmias does not really exceed Socrates, as the words may seem to imply, because he is Simmias, but by reason of the size which he has; just as Simmias does not exceed Socrates because he is Simmias, any more than because Socrates is Socrates, but because he has smallness when compared with the greatness of Simmias?
True.
And if Phaedo exceeds him in size, this is not because Phaedo is Phaedo, but because Phaedo has greatness relatively to Simmias, who is comparatively smaller?
That is true.
And therefore Simmias is said to be great, and is also said to be small, because he is in a mean between them, exceeding the smallness of the one by his greatness, and allowing the greatness of the other to exceed his smallness. He added, laughing, I am speaking like a book, but I believe that what I am saying is true.
Simmias assented.
Socrates, Cebes.The idea of greatness can never be small; and the greatness in us drives out smallness.
I speak as I do because I want you to agree with me in thinking, not only that absolute greatness will never be great and also small, but that greatness in us or in the concrete will never admit the small or admit of being exceeded: instead of this, one of two things will happen, either the greater will fly or retire before the opposite, which is the less, or at the approach of the less has already ceased to exist; but will not, if allowing or admitting of smallness, be changed by that; even as I, having received and admitted smallness when compared with Simmias, remain just as I was, and am the same small person. And as the idea of greatness cannot condescend ever to be or become small, in like manner the smallness in us cannot be or become great; nor can any other opposite which remains the same ever 103be of become its own opposite, but either passes away or perishes in the change.
That, replied Cebes, is quite my notion.
Yet the greater comes from the less, and the less from the greater.
Hereupon one of the company, though I do not exactly remember which of them, said: In heaven’s name, is not this the direct contrary of what was admitted before—that out of the greater came the less and out of the less the greater, and that opposites were simply generated from opposites; but now this principle seems to be utterly denied.
Distinguish:—The things in which the opposites inhere generate into and out of one another: never the opposites themselves.
Socrates inclined his head to the speaker and listened. I like your courage, he said, in reminding us of this. But you do not observe that there is a difference in the two cases. For then we were speaking of opposites in the concrete, and now of the essential opposite which, as is affirmed, neither in us nor in nature can ever be at variance with itself: then, my friend, we were speaking of things in which opposites are inherent and which are called after them, but now about the opposites which are inherent in them and which give their name to them; and these essential opposites will never, as we maintain, admit of generation into or out of one another. At the same time, turning to Cebes, he said: Are you at all disconcerted, Cebes, at our friend’s objection?
No, I do not feel so, said Cebes; and yet I cannot deny that I am often disturbed by objections.
Then we are agreed after all, said Socrates, that the opposite will never in any case be opposed to itself?
To that we are quite agreed, he replied.
Snow may be converted into water at the approach of heat, but not cold into heat.
Yet once more let me ask you to consider the question from another point of view, and see whether you agree with me:—There is a thing which you term heat, and another thing which you term cold?
Certainly.
But are they the same as fire and snow?
Most assuredly not.
Heat is a thing different from fire, and cold is not the same with snow?
Yes.
And yet you will surely admit, that when snow, as was before said, is under the influence of heat, they will not remain snow and heat; but at the advance of the heat, the snow will either retire or perish?
Very true, he replied.
And the fire too at the advance of the cold will either retire or perish; and when the fire is under the influence of the cold, they will not remain as before, fire and cold.
That is true, he said.
And in some cases the name of the idea is not only attached to the idea in an eternal connection, but anything else which, not being the idea, exists only in the form of the idea, may also lay claim to it. I will try to make this clearer by an example:—The odd number is always called by the name of odd?
Very true.
But is this the only thing which is called odd? Are there not other things which have their own name, and yet are 104called odd, because, although not the same as oddness, they are never without oddness?—that is what I mean to ask—whether numbers such as the number three are not of the class of odd. And there are many other examples: would you not say, for example, that three may be called by its proper name, and also be called odd, which is not the same with three? and this may be said not only of three but also of five, and of every alternate number—each of them without being oddness is odd; and in the same way two and four, and the other series of alternate numbers, has every number even, without being evenness. Do you agree?
Of course.
Not only essential opposites, but some concrete things which contain opposites, exclude each other.
Then now mark the point at which I am aiming:—not only do essential opposites exclude one another, but also concrete things, which, although not in themselves opposed, contain opposites; these, I say, likewise reject the idea which is opposed to that which is contained in them, and when it approaches them they either perish or withdraw. For example; Will not the number three endure annihilation or anything sooner than be converted into an even number, while remaining three?
Very true, said Cebes.
And yet, he said, the number two is certainly not opposed to the number three?
It is not.
Then not only do opposite ideas repel the advance of one another, but also there are other natures which repel the approach of opposites.
Very true, he said.
Suppose, he said, that we endeavour, if possible, to determine what these are.
By all means.
That is to say the opposites which give an impress to other things.
Are they not, Cebes, such as compel the things of which they have possession, not only to take their own form, but also the form of some opposite?
What do you mean?
I mean, as I was just now saying, and as I am sure that you know, that those things which are possessed by the number three must not only be three in number, but must also be odd.
Quite true.
And on this oddness, of which the number three has the impress, the opposite idea will never intrude?
No.
And this impress was given by the odd principle?
Yes.
And to the odd is opposed the even?
True.
Then the idea of the even number will never arrive at three?
No.
Then three has no part in the even?
None.
Then the triad or number three is uneven?
Very true.
Natures may not be opposed, and yet may not admit of opposites; e. g. three is not opposed to two, and yet does not admit the even any more than two admits of the odd.
To return then to my distinction of natures which are not opposed, and yet do not admit opposites—as, in the instance given, three, although not opposed to the even, does not any the more admit of the even, but always brings the opposite into play on the other side; or as two does not receive the odd, or fire the cold—from these examples (and 105there are many more of them) perhaps you may be able to arrive at the general conclusion, that not only opposites will not receive opposites, but also that nothing which brings the opposite will admit the opposite of that which it brings, in that to which it is brought. And here let me recapitulate—for there is no harm in repetition. The number five will not admit the nature of the even, any more than ten, which is the double of five, will admit the nature of the odd. The double has another opposite, and is not strictly opposed to the odd, but nevertheless rejects the odd altogether. Nor again will parts in the ratio 3:2, nor any fraction in which there is a half, nor again in which there is a third, admit the notion of the whole, although they are not opposed to the whole: You will agree?
Yes, he said, I entirely agree and go along with you in that.
The merely verbal truth may be replaced by a higher one.
And now, he said, let us begin again; and do not you answer my question in the words in which I ask it: let me have not the old safe answer of which I spoke at first, but another equally safe, of which the truth will be inferred by you from what has been just said. I mean that if any one asks you ‘what that is, of which the inherence makes the body hot,’ you will reply not heat (this is what I call the safe and stupid answer), but fire, a far superior answer, which we are now in a condition to give. Or if any one asks you ‘why a body is diseased,’ you will not say from disease, but from fever; and instead of saying that oddness is the cause of odd numbers, you will say that the monad is the cause of them: and so of things in general, as I dare say that you will understand sufficiently without my adducing any further examples.
Yes, he said, I quite understand you.
Tell me, then, what is that of which the inherence will render the body alive?
We may now say, not life makes alive, but the soul makes alive; and the soul has a life-giving power which does not admit of death and is therefore immortal.
The soul, he replied.
And is this always the case?
Yes, he said, of course.
Then whatever the soul possesses, to that she comes bearing life?
Yes, certainly.
And is there any opposite to life?
There is, he said.
And what is that?
Death.
Then the soul, as has been acknowledged, will never receive the opposite of what she brings.
Impossible, replied Cebes.
And now, he said, what did we just now call that principle which repels the even?
The odd.
And that principle which repels the musical or the just?
The unmusical, he said, and the unjust.
And what do we call that principle which does not admit of death?
The immortal, he said.
And does the soul admit of death?
No.
Then the soul is immortal?
Yes, he said.
And may we say that this has been proven?
Yes, abundantly proven, Socrates, he replied.
Illustrations.
106Supposing that the odd were imperishable, must not three be imperishable?
Of course.
And if that which is cold were imperishable, when the warm principle came attacking the snow, must not the snow have retired whole and unmelted—for it could never have perished, nor could it have remained and admitted the heat?
True, he said.
Again, if the uncooling or warm principle were imperishable, the fire when assailed by cold would not have perished or have been extinguished, but would have gone away unaffected?
Certainly, he said.
And the same may be said of the immortal: if the immortal is also imperishable, the soul when attacked by death cannot perish; for the preceding argument shows that the soul will not admit of death, or ever be dead, any more than three or the odd number will admit of the even, or fire, or the heat in the fire, of the cold. Yet a person may say: ‘But although the odd will not become even at the approach of the even, why may not the odd perish and the even take the place of the odd?’ Now to him who makes this objection, we cannot answer that the odd principle is imperishable; for this has not been acknowledged, but if this had been acknowledged, there would have been no difficulty in contending that at the approach of the even the odd principle and the number three took their departure; and the same argument would have held good of fire and heat and any other thing.
Very true.
The immortal is imperishable, and therefore the soul is imperishable.
And the same may be said of the immortal: if the immortal is also imperishable, then the soul will be imperishable as well as immortal; but if not, some other proof of her imperishableness will have to be given.
No other proof is needed, he said; for if the immortal, being eternal, is liable to perish, then nothing is imperishable.
Yes, replied Socrates, and yet all men will agree that God, and the essential form of life, and the immortal in general, will never perish.
Yes, all men, he said—that is true; and what is more, gods, if I am not mistaken, as well as men.
Seeing then that the immortal is indestructible, must not the soul, if she is immortal, be also imperishable?
Most certainly.
Then when death attacks a man, the mortal portion of him may be supposed to die, but the immortal retires at the approach of death and is preserved safe and sound?
True.
At death the soul retires into another world.
Then, Cebes, beyond question, the soul is immortal and imperishable, and our souls will truly exist in another 107world!
Socrates, Cebes, Simmias.
I am convinced, Socrates, said Cebes, and have nothing more to object; but if my friend Simmias, or any one else, has any further objection to make, he had better speak out, and not keep silence, since I do not know to what other season he can defer the discussion, if there is anything which he wants to say or to have said.
But I have nothing more to say, replied Simmias; nor can I see any reason for doubt after what has been said. But I still feel and cannot help feeling uncertain in my own mind, when I think of the greatness of the subject and the feebleness of man.
Yes, Simmias, replied Socrates, that is well said: and I may add that first principles, even if they appear certain, should be carefully considered; and when they are satisfactorily ascertained, then, with a sort of hesitating confidence in human reason, you may, I think, follow the course of the argument; and if that be plain and clear, there will be no need for any further enquiry.
Very true.
‘Wherefore, seeing all these things, what manner of persons ought we to be?’
But then, O my friends, he said, if the soul is really immortal, what care should be taken of her, not only in respect of the portion of time which is called life, but of eternity! And the danger of neglecting her from this point of view does indeed appear to be awful. If death had only been the end of all, the wicked would have had a good bargain in dying, for they would have been happily quit not only of their body, but of their own evil together with their souls. But now, inasmuch as the soul is manifestly immortal, there is no release or salvation from evil except the attainment of the highest virtue and wisdom. For the soul when on her progress to the world below takes nothing with her but nurture and education; and these are said greatly to benefit or greatly to injure the departed, at the very beginning of his journey thither.
The attendant genius of each brings him after death to the judgmentSocrates, Simmias.The different destinies of pure and impure souls.
For after death, as they say, the genius of each individual, to whom he belonged in life, leads him to a certain place in which the dead are gathered together, whence after judgment has been given they pass into the world below, following the guide, who is appointed to conduct them from this world to the other: and when they have there received their due and remained their time, another guide brings them back again after many revolutions of ages. Now this way to the other world is not, as Aeschylus says in the Telephus, a 108single and straight path—if that were so no guide would be needed, for no one could miss it; but there are many partings of the road, and windings, as I infer from the rites and sacrifices which are offered to the gods below in places where three ways meet on earth. The wise and orderly soul follows in the straight path and is conscious of her surroundings; but the soul which desires the body, and which, as I was relating before, has long been fluttering about the lifeless frame and the world of sight, is after many struggles and many sufferings hardly and with violence carried away by her attendant genius; and when she arrives at the place where the other souls are gathered, if she be impure and have done impure deeds, whether foul murders or other crimes which are the brothers of these, and the works of brothers in crime—from that soul every one flees and turns away; no one will be her companion, no one her guide, but alone she wanders in extremity of evil until certain times are fulfilled, and when they are fulfilled, she is borne irresistibly to her own fitting habitation; as every pure and just soul which has passed through life in the company and under the guidance of the gods has also her own proper home.
Description of the divers regions of earth.
Now the earth has divers wonderful regions, and is indeed in nature and extent very unlike the notions of geographers, as I believe on the authority of one who shall be nameless.
What do you mean, Socrates? said Simmias. I have myself heard many descriptions of the earth, but I do not know, and I should very much like to know, in which of these you put faith.
And I, Simmias, replied Socrates, if I had the art of Glaucus would tell you; although I know not that the art of Glaucus could prove the truth of my tale, which I myself should never be able to prove, and even if I could, I fear, Simmias, that my life would come to an end before the argument was completed. I may describe to you, however, the form and regions of the earth according to my conception of them.
That, said Simmias, will be enough.
The earth is a round body kept in her place by equipoise and the equability of the surrounding element.
Well then, he said, my conviction is, that the earth is a round body in the centre of the heavens, and therefore has 109no need of air or of any similar force to be a support, but is kept there and hindered from falling or inclining any way by the equability of the surrounding heaven and by her own equipoise. For that which, being in equipoise, is in the centre of that which is equably diffused, will not incline any way in any degree, but will always remain in the same state and not deviate. And this is my first notion.
Which is surely a correct one, said Simmias.
Mankind lives only in a small portion of the earth at a distance from the surface.If, like fishes who now and then put their heads out of the water, we could rise to the top of the atmosphere, we should behold the true heaven and the true earth.
Also I believe that the earth is very vast, and that we who dwell in the region extending from the river Phasis to the Pillars of Heracles inhabit a small portion only about the sea, like ants or frogs about a marsh, and that there are other inhabitants of many other like places; for everywhere on the face of the earth there are hollows of various forms and sizes, into which the water and the mist and the lower air collect. But the true earth is pure and situated in the pure heaven—there are the stars also; and it is the heaven which is commonly spoken of by us as the ether, and of which our own earth is the sediment gathering in the hollows beneath. But we who live in these hollows are deceived into the notion that we are dwelling above on the surface of the earth; which is just as if a creature who was at the bottom of the sea were to fancy that he was on the surface of the water, and that the sea was the heaven through which he saw the sun and the other stars, he having never come to the surface by reason of his feebleness and sluggishness, and having never lifted up his head and seen, nor ever heard from one who had seen, how much purer and fairer the world above is than his own. And such is exactly our case: for we are dwelling in a hollow of the earth, and fancy that we are on the surface; and the air we call the heaven, in which we imagine that the stars move. But the fact is, that owing to our feebleness and sluggishness we are prevented from reaching the surface of the air: for if any man could arrive at the exterior limit, or take the wings of a bird and come to the top, then like a fish who puts his head out of the water and sees this world, he would see a world beyond; and, if the nature of man could sustain the sight, he would acknowledge that this other world was the place of the true heaven and the true light and the true earth. For our earth, and the stones, and the entire region which 110surrounds us, are spolit and corroded, as in the sea all things are corroded by the brine, neither is there any noble or perfect growth, but caverns only, and sand, and an endless slough of mud; and even the shore is not to be compared to the fairer sights of this world. And still less is this our world to be compared with the other. Of that upper earth which is under the heaven, I can tell you a charming tale, Simmias, which is well worth hearing.
And we, Socrates, replied Simmias, shall be charmed to listen to you.
The upper earth is in every respect far fairer than the lower. There is gold and purple, and pure light, and trees and flowers lovelier far than our own, and all the stones are more precious than our precious stones.Socrates.The blessed gods dwell there and hold converse with the inhabitants.
The tale, my friend, he said, is as follows:—In the first place, the earth, when looked at from above, is in appearance streaked like one of those balls which have leather coverings in twelve pieces, and is decked with various colours, of which the colours used by painters on earth are in a manner samples. But there the whole earth is made up of them, and they are brighter far and clearer than ours; there is a purple of wonderful lustre, also the radiance of gold, and the white which is in the earth is whiter than any chalk or snow. Of these and other colours the earth is made up, and they are more in number and fairer than the eye of man has ever seen; the very hollows (of which I was speaking) filled with air and water have a colour of their own, and are seen like light gleaming amid the diversity of the other colours, so that the whole presents a single and continuous appearance of variety in unity. And in this fair region everything that grows—trees, and flowers, and fruits—are in a like degree fairer than any here; and there are hills, having stones in them in a like degree smoother, and more transparent, and fairer in colour than our highly-valued emeralds and sardonyxes and jaspers, and other gems, which are but minute fragments of them: for there all the stones are like our precious stones, and fairer still1 . The reason is, that they are pure, and not, like our precious stones, infected or corroded by the corrupt briny elements which coagulate among us, and which breed foulness and disease both in earth and stones, as well as in animals and plants. They are the jewels of the upper earth, which also 111shines with gold and silver and the like, and they are set in the light of day and are large and abundant and in all places, making the earth a sight to gladden the beholder’s eye. And there are animals and men, some in a middle region, others dwelling about the air as we dwell about the sea; others in islands which the air flows round, near the continent; and in a word, the air is used by them as the water and the sea are by us, and the ether is to them what the air is to us. Moreover, the temperament of their seasons is such that they have no disease, and live much longer than we do, and have sight and hearing and smell, and all the other senses, in far greater perfection, in the same proportion that air is purer than water or the ether than air. Also they have temples and sacred places in which the gods really dwell, and they hear their voices and receive their answers, and are conscious of them and hold converse with them; and they see the sun, moon, and stars as they truly are, and their other blessedness is of a piece with this.
Description of the interior of the earth and of the subterranean seas and rivers.
Such is the nature of the whole earth, and of the things which are around the earth; and there are divers regions in the hollows on the face of the globe everywhere, some of them deeper and more extended than that which we inhabit, others deeper but with a narrower opening than ours, and some are shallower and also wider. All have numerous perforations, and there are passages broad and narrow in the interior of the earth, connecting them with one another; and there flows out of and into them, as into basins, a vast tide of water, and huge subterranean streams of perennial rivers, and springs hot and cold, and a great fire, and great rivers of fire, and streams of liquid mud, thin or thick (like the rivers of mud in Sicily, and the lava streams which follow them), and the regions about which they happen to flow are filled up with them. And there is a swinging or see-saw in the interior of the earth which moves all this up and down, and is due to the following cause:—There is a chasm which is the vastest of them all, and pierces right 112through the whole earth; this is that chasm which Homer describes in the words,—
‘Far off, where is the inmost depth beneath the earth;’
and which he in other places, and many other poets, have called Tartarus. And the see-saw is caused by the streams flowing into and out of this chasm, and they each have the nature of the soil through which they flow. And the reason why the streams are always flowing in and out, is that the watery element has no bed or bottom, but is swinging and surging up and down, and the surrounding wind and air do the same; they follow the water up and down, hither and thither, over the earth—just as in the act of respiration the air is always in process of inhalation and exhalation;—and the wind swinging with the water in and out produces fearful and irresistible blasts: when the waters retire with a rush into the lower parts of the earth, as they are called, they flow through the earth in those regions, and fill them up like water raised by a pump, and then when they leave those regions and rush back hither, they again fill the hollows here, and when these are filled, flow through subterranean channels and find their way to their several places, forming seas, and lakes, and rivers, and springs. Thence they again enter the earth, some of them making a long circuit into many lands, others going to a few places and not so distant; and again fall into Tartarus, some at a point a good deal lower than that at which they rose, and others not much lower, but all in some degree lower than the point from which they came. And some burst forth again on the opposite side, and some on the same side, and some wind round the earth with one or many folds like the coils of a serpent, and descend as far as they can, but always return and fall into the chasm. The rivers flowing in either direction can descend only to the centre and no further, for opposite to the rivers is a precipice.
Oceanus, Acheron, Pyriphlegethon, and Styx (or Cocytus).
Now these rivers are many, and mighty, and diverse, and there are four principal ones, of which the greatest and outermost is that called Oceanus, which flows round the earth in a circle; and in the opposite direction flows Acheron, which passes under the earth through desert places into the 113Acherusian lake: this is the lake to the shores of which the souls of the many go when they are dead, and after waiting an appointed time, which is to some a longer and to some a shorter time, they are sent back to be born again as animals. The third river passes out between the two, and near the place of outlet pours into a vast region of fire, and forms a lake larger than the Mediterranean Sea, boiling with water and mud; and proceeding muddy and turbid, and winding about the earth, comes, among other places, to the extremities of the Acherusian lake, but mingles not with the waters of the lake, and after making many coils about the earth plunges into Tartarus at a deeper level. This is that Pyriphlegethon, as the stream is called, which throws up jets of fire in different parts of the earth. The fourth river goes out on the opposite side, and falls first of all into a wild and savage region, which is all of a dark blue colour, like lapis lazuli; and this is that river which is called the Stygian river, and falls into and forms the Lake Styx, and after falling into the lake and receiving strange powers in the waters, passes under the earth, winding round in the opposite direction, and comes near the Acherusian lake from the opposite side to Pyriphlegethon. And the water of this river too mingles with no other, but flows round in a circle and falls into Tartarus over against Pyriphlegethon; and the name of the river, as the poets say, is Cocytus.
The judgment of the dead.
Such is the nature of the other world; and when the dead arrive at the place to which the genius of each severally guides them, first of all, they have sentence passed upon them, as they have lived well and piously or not. And those who appear to have lived neither well nor ill, go to the river Acheron, and embarking in any vessels which they may find, are carried in them to the lake, and there they dwell and are purified of their evil deeds, and having suffered the penalty of the wrongs which they have done to others, they are absolved, and receive the rewards of their good deeds, each of them according to his deserts. But those who appear to be incurable by reason of the greatness of their crimes—who have committed many and terrible deeds of sacrilege, murders foul and violent, or the like—such are hurled into Tartarus which is their suitable destiny, and they never come out. Those again who have committed crimes, which, although great, are not irremediable—who in a moment of anger, for example, have done some violence to a father or a mother, and have repented for the remainder of their lives, or, who have taken 114the life of another under the like extenuating circumstances—these are plunged into Tartarus, the pains of which they are compelled to undergo for a year, but at the end of the year the wave casts them forth—mere homicides by way of Cocytus, parricides and matricides by Pyriphlegethon—and they are borne to the Acherusian lake, and there they lift up their voices and call upon the victims whom they have slain or wronged, to have pity on them, and to be kind to them, and let them come out into the lake. And if they prevail, then they come forth and cease from their troubles; but if not, they are carried back again into Tartarus and from thence into the rivers unceasingly, until they obtain mercy from those whom they have wronged: for that is the sentence inflicted upon them by their judges. Those too who have been pre-eminent for holiness of life are released from this earthly prison, and go to their pure home which is above, and dwell in the purer earth; and of these, such as have duly purified themselves with philosophy live henceforth altogether without the body, in mansions fairer still, which may not be described, and of which the time would fail me to tell.
Wherefore, Simmias, seeing all these things, what ought not we to do that we may obtain virtue and wisdom in this life? Fair is the prize, and the hope great!
These descriptions are not true to the letter, but something like them is true.Socrates, Crito.
A man of sense ought not to say, nor will I be very confident, that the description which I have given of the soul and her mansions is exactly true. But I do say that, inasmuch as the soul is shown to be immortal, he may venture to think, not improperly or unworthily, that something of the kind is true. The venture is a glorious one, and he ought to comfort himself with words like these, which is the reason why I lengthen out the tale. Wherefore, I say, let a man be of good cheer about his soul, who having cast away the pleasures and ornaments of the body as alien to him and working harm rather than good, has sought after the pleasures of knowledge; and has arrayed the soul, not in some foreign attire, but in her own proper jewels, temperance, and justice, and courage, and nobility, and truth—in these adorned she 115is ready to go on her journey to the world below, when her hour comes. You, Simmias and Cebes, and all other men, will depart at some time or other. Me already, as a tragic poet would say, the voice of fate calls. Soon I must drink the poison; and I think that I had better repair to the bath first, in order that the women may not have the trouble of washing my body after I am dead.
When he had done speaking, Crito said: And have you any commands for us, Socrates—anything to say about your children, or any other matter in which we can serve you?
Nothing particular, Crito, he replied: only, as I have always told you, take care of yourselves; that is a service which you may be ever rendering to me and mine and to all of us, whether you promise to do so or not. But if you have no thought for yourselves, and care not to walk according to the rule which I have prescribed for you, not now for the first time, however much you may profess or promise at the moment, it will be of no avail.
We will do our best, said Crito: And in what way shall we bury you?
The dead body which remains is not the true Socrates.Socrates, Crito, The Jailer.
In any way that you like; but you must get hold of me, and take care that I do not run away from you. Then he turned to us, and added with a smile:—I cannot make Crito believe that I am the same Socrates who have been talking and conducting the argument; he fancies that I am the other Socrates whom he will soon see, a dead body—and he asks, How shall he bury me? And though I have spoken many words in the endeavour to show that when I have drunk the poison I shall leave you and go to the joys of the blessed,—these words of mine, with which I was comforting you and myself, have had, as I perceive, no effect upon Crito. And therefore I want you to be surety for me to him now, as at the trial he was surety to the judges for me: but let the promise be of another sort; for he was surety for me to the judges that I would remain, and you must be my surety to him that I shall not remain, but go away and depart; and then he will suffer less at my death, and not be grieved when he sees my body being burned or buried. I would not have him sorrow at my hard lot, or say at the burial, Thus we lay out Socrates, or, Thus we follow him to the grave or bury him; for false words are not only evil in themselves, but they infect the soul with evil. Be of good cheer then, my dear Crito, and say that you are burying my body only, and do with that whatever is usual, and what you 116think best.
He takes leave of his family.
When he had spoken these words, he arose and went into a chamber to bathe; Crito followed him and told us to wait. So we remained behind, talking and thinking of the subject of discourse, and also of the greatness of our sorrow; he was like a father of whom we were being bereaved, and we were about to pass the rest of our lives as orphans. When he had taken the bath his children were brought to him—(he had two young sons and an elder one); and the women of his family also came, and he talked to them and gave them a few directions in the presence of Crito; then he dismissed them and returned to us.
The humanity of the jailer.
Now the hour of sunset was near, for a good deal of time had passed while he was within. When he came out, he sat down with us again after his bath, but not much was said. Soon the jailer, who was the servant of the Eleven, entered and stood by him, saying:—To you, Socrates, whom I know to be the noblest and gentlest and best of all who ever came to this place, I will not impute the angry feelings of other men, who rage and swear at me, when, in obedience to the authorities, I bid them drink the poison—indeed, I am sure that you will not be angry with me; for others, as you are aware, and not I, are to blame. And so fare you well, and try to bear lightly what must needs be—you know my errand. Then bursting into tears he turned away and went out.
Socrates looked at him and said: I return your good wishes, and will do as you bid. Then turning to us, he said, How charming the man is: since I have been in prison he has always been coming to see me, and at times he would talk to me, and was as good to me as could be, and now see how generously he sorrows on my account. We must do as he says, Crito; and therefore let the cup be brought, if the poison is prepared: if not, let the attendant prepare some.
Crito would detain Socrates a little while.
Yet, said Crito, the sun is still upon the hill-tops, and I know that many a one has taken the draught late, and after the announcement has been made to him, he has eaten and drunk, and enjoyed the society of his beloved; do not hurry—there is time enough.
Socrates thinks that there is nothing to be gained by delay.
Socrates said: Yes, Crito, and they of whom you speak are right in so acting, for they think that they will be gainers by the delay; but I am right in not following their example, for I do not think that I should gain anything by 117drinking the poison a little later; I should only be ridiculous in my own eyes for sparing and saving a life which is already forfeit. Please then to do as I say, and not to refuse me.
The poison is brought.He drinks the poison.The company of friends are unable to control themselves.Says Socrates, ‘A man should die in peace.’Socrates, Crito, Phaedo.The debt to Asclepius.
Crito made a sign to the servant, who was standing by; and he went out, and having been absent for some time, returned with the jailer carrying the cup of poison. Socrates said: You, my good friend, who are experienced in these matters, shall give me directions how I am to proceed. The man answered: You have only to walk about until your legs are heavy, and then to lie down, and the poison will act. At the same time he handed the cup to Socrates, who in the easiest and gentlest manner, without the least fear or change of colour or feature, looking at the man with all his eyes, Echecrates, as his manner was, took the cup and said: What do you say about making a libation out of this cup to any god? May I, or not? The man answered: We only prepare, Socrates, just so much as we deem enough. I understand, he said: but I may and must ask the gods to prosper my journey from this to the other world—even so—and so be it according to my prayer. Then raising the cup to his lips, quite readily and cheerfully he drank off the poison. And hitherto most of us had been able to control our sorrow; but now when we saw him drinking, and saw too that he had finished the draught, we could no longer forbear, and in spite of myself my own tears were flowing fast; so that I covered my face and wept, not for him, but at the thought of my own calamity in having to part from such a friend. Nor was I the first; for Crito, when he found himself unable to restrain his tears, had got up, and I followed; and at that moment, Apollodorus, who had been weeping all the time, broke out in a loud and passionate cry which made cowards of us all. Socrates alone retained his calmness: What is this strange outcry? he said. I sent away the women mainly in order that they might not misbehave in this way, for I have been told that a man should die in peace. Be quiet then, and have patience. When we heard his words we were ashamed, and refrained our tears; and he walked about until, as he said, his legs began to fail, and then he lay on his back, according to the directions, and the man who gave him the poison now and then looked at his feet and legs; and after a while he pressed his foot hard, and asked him if he could feel; and he said, No; and then his leg, and so upwards and 118upwards, and showed us that he was cold and stiff. And he felt them himself, and said: When the poison reaches the heart, that will be the end. He was beginning to grow cold about the groin, when he uncovered his face, for he had covered himself up, and said—they were his last words—he said: Crito, I owe a cock to Asclepius; will you remember to pay the debt? The debt shall be paid, said Crito; is there anything else? There was no answer to this question; but in a minute or two a movement was heard, and the attendants uncovered him; his eyes were set, and Crito closed his eyes and mouth.
Such was the end, Echecrates, of our friend; concerning whom I may truly say, that of all the men of his time whom I have known, he was the wisest and justest and best.
GORGIAS.
INTRODUCTION.
Gorgias.Introduction.
In several of the dialogues of Plato, doubts have arisen among his interpreters as to which of the various subjects discussed in them is the main thesis. The speakers have the freedom of conversation; no severe rules of art restrict them, and sometimes we are inclined to think, with one of the dramatis personae in the Theaetetus (177 C), that the digressions have the greater interest. Yet in the most irregular of the dialogues there is also a certain natural growth or unity; the beginning is not forgotten at the end, and numerous allusions and references are interspersed, which form the loose connecting links of the whole. We must not neglect this unity, but neither must we attempt to confine the Platonic dialogue on the Procrustean bed of a single idea. (Cp. Introduction to the Phaedrus.)
Two tendencies seem to have best the interpreters of Plato in this matter. First, they have endeavoured to hang the dialogues upon one another by the slightest threads; and have thus been led to opposite and contradictory assertions respecting their order and sequence. The mantle of Schleiermacher has descended upon his successors, who have applied his method with the most various results. The value and use of the method has been hardly, if at all, examined either by him or them. Secondly, they have extended almost indefinitely the scope of each separate dialogue; in this way they think that they have escaped all difficulties, not seeing that what they have gained in generality they have lost in truth and distinctness. Metaphysical conceptions easily pass into one another; and the simpler notions of antiquity, which we can only realize by an effort, imperceptibly blend with the more familiar theories of modern philosophers. An eye for proportion is needed (his own art of measuring) in the study of Plato, as well as of other great artists. We may readily admit that the moral antithesis of good and pleasure, or the intellectual antithesis of knowledge and opinion, being and appearance, are never far off in a Platonic discussion. But because they are in the background, we should not bring them into the foreground, or expect to discern them equally in all the dialogues.
There may be some advantage in drawing out a little the main outlines of the building; but the use of this is limited, and may be easily exaggerated. We may give Plato too much system, and alter the natural form and connection of his thoughts. Under the idea that his dialogues are finished works of art, we may find a reason for everything, and lose the highest characteristic of art, which is simplicity. Most great works receive a new light from a new and original mind. But whether these new lights are true or only suggestive, will depend on their agreement with the spirit of Plato, and the amount of direct evidence which can be urged in support of them. When a theory is running away with us, criticism does a friendly office in counselling moderation, and recalling us to the indications of the text.
Like the Phaedrus, the Gorgias has puzzled students of Plato by the appearance of two or more subjects. Under the cover of rhetoric higher themes are introduced; the argument expands into a general view of the good and evil of man. After making an ineffectual attempt to obtain a sound definition of his art from Gorgias, Socrates assumes the existence of a universal art of flattery or simulation having several branches;—this is the genus of which rhetoric is only one, and not the highest species. To flattery is opposed the true and noble art of life which he who possesses seeks always to impart to others, and which at last triumphs, if not here, at any rate in another world. These two aspects of life and knowledge appear to be the two leading ideas of the dialogue. The true and the false in individuals and states, in the treatment of the soul as well as of the body, are conceived under the forms of true and false art. In the development of this opposition there arise various other questions, such as the two famous paradoxes of Socrates (paradoxes as they are to the world in general, ideals as they may be more worthily called): (1) that to do is worse than to suffer evil; and (2) that when a man has done evil he had better be punished than unpunished; to which may be added (3) a third Socratic paradox or ideal, that bad men do what they think best, but not what they desire, for the desire of all is towards the good. That pleasure is to be distinguished from good is proved by the simultaneousness of pleasure and pain, and by the possibility of the bad having in certain cases pleasures as great as those of the good, or even greater. Not merely rhetoricians, but poets, musicians, and other artists, the whole tribe of statesmen, past as well as present, are included in the class of flatterers. The true and false finally appear before the judgment-seat of the gods below.
The dialogue naturally falls into three divisions, to which the three characters of Gorgias, Polus, and Callicles respectively correspond; and the form and manner change with the stages of the argument. Socrates is deferential towards Gorgias, playful and yet cutting in dealing with the youthful Polus, ironical and sarcastic in his encounter with Callicles. In the first division the question is asked—What is rhetoric? To this there is no answer given, for Gorgias is soon made to contradict himself by Socrates, and the argument is transferred to the hands of his disciple Polus, who rushes to the defence of his master. The answer has at last to be given by Socrates himself, but before he can even explain his meaning to Polus, he must enlighten him upon the great subject of shams or flatteries. When Polus finds his favourite art reduced to the level of cookery, he replies that at any rate rhetoricians, like despots, have great power. Socrates denies that they have any real power, and hence arise the three paradoxes already mentioned. Although they are strange to him, Polus is at last convinced of their truth; at least, they seem to him to follow legitimately from the premises. Thus the second act of the dialogue closes. Then Callicles appears on the scene, at first maintaining that pleasure is good, and that might is right, and that law is nothing but the combination of the many weak against the few strong. When he is confuted he withdraws from the argument, and leaves Socrates to arrive at the conclusion by himself. The conclusion is that there are two kinds of statesmanship, a higher and a lower—that which makes the people better, and that which only flatters them, and he exhorts Callicles to choose the higher. The dialogue terminates with a mythus of a final judgment, in which there will be no more flattery or disguise, and no further use for the teaching of rhetoric.
The characters of the three interlocutors also correspond to the parts which are assigned to them. Gorgias is the great rhetorician, now advanced in years, who goes from city to city displaying his talents, and is celebrated throughout Greece. Like all the Sophists in the dialogues of Plato, he is vain and boastful, yet he has also a certain dignity, and is treated by Socrates with considerable respect. But he is no match for him in dialectics. Although he has been teaching rhetoric all his life, he is still incapable of defining his own art. When his ideas begin to clear up, he is unwilling to admit that rhetoric can be wholly separated from justice and injustice, and this lingering sentiment of morality, or regard for public opinion, enables Socrates to detect him in a contradiction. Like Protagoras, he is described as of a generous nature; he expresses his approbation of Socrates’ manner of approaching a question; he is quite ‘one of Socrates’ sort, ready to be refuted as well as to refute,’ and very eager that Callicles and Socrates should have the game out. He knows by experience that rhetoric exercises great influence over other men, but he is unable to explain the puzzle how rhetoric can teach everything and know nothing.
Polus is an impetuous youth, a runaway ‘colt,’ as Socrates describes him, who wanted originally to have taken the place of Gorgias under the pretext that the old man was tired, and now avails himself of the earliest opportunity to enter the lists. He is said to be the author of a work on rhetoric (462 C), and is again mentioned in the Phaedrus (267 B), as the inventor of balanced or double forms of speech (cp. Gorg. 448 C, 467 C; Symp. 185 C). At first he is violent and ill-mannered, and is angry at seeing his master overthrown. But in the judicious hands of Socrates he is soon restored to good-humour, and compelled to assent to the required conclusion. Like Gorgias, he is overthrown because he compromises; he is unwilling to say that to do is fairer or more honourable than to suffer injustice. Though he is fascinated by the power of rhetoric, and dazzled by the splendour of success, he is not insensible to higher arguments. Plato may have felt that there would be an incongruity in a youth maintaining the cause of injustice against the world. He has never heard the other side of the question, and he listens to the paradoxes, as they appear to him, of Socrates with evident astonishment. He can hardly understand the meaning of Archelaus being miserable, or of rhetoric being only useful in self-accusation. When the argument with him has fairly run out,
Callicles, in whose house they are assembled, is introduced on the stage: he is with difficulty convinced that Socrates is in earnest; for if these things are true, then, as he says with real emotion, the foundations of society are upside down. In him another type of character is represented; he is neither sophist nor philosopher, but man of the world, and an accomplished Athenian gentleman. He might be described in modern language as a cynic or materialist, a lover of power and also of pleasure, and unscrupulous in his means of attaining both. There is no desire on his part to offer any compromise in the interests of morality; nor is any concession made by him. Like Thrasymachus in the Republic, though he is not of the same weak and vulgar class, he consistently maintains that might is right. His great motive of action is political ambition; in this he is characteristically Greek. Like Anytus in the Meno, he is the enemy of the Sophists; but favours the new art of rhetoric, which he regards as an excellent weapon of attack and defence. He is a despiser of mankind as he is of philosophy, and sees in the laws of the state only a violation of the order of nature, which intended that the stronger should govern the weaker (cp. Rep. ii. 358–360). Like other men of the world who are of a speculative turn of mind, he generalizes the bad side of human nature, and has easily brought down his principles to his practice. Philosophy and poetry alike supply him with distinctions suited to his view of human life. He has a good will to Socrates, whose talents he evidently admires, while he censures the puerile use which he makes of them. He expresses a keen intellectual interest in the argument. Like Anytus, again, he has a sympathy with other men of the world; the Athenian statesmen of a former generation, who showed no weakness and made no mistakes, such as Miltiades, Themistocles, Pericles, are his favourites. His ideal of human character is a man of great passions and great powers, which he has developed to the utmost, and which he uses in his own enjoyment and in the government of others. Had Critias been the name instead of Callicles, about whom we know nothing from other sources, the opinions of the man would have seemed to reflect the history of his life.
And now the combat deepens. In Callicles, far more than in any sophist or rhetorician, is concentrated the spirit of evil against which Socrates is contending, the spirit of the world, the spirit of the many contending against the one wise man, of which the Sophists, as he describes them in the Republic, are the imitators rather than the authors, being themselves carried away by the great tide of public opinion. Socrates approaches his antagonist warily from a distance, with a sort of irony which touches with a light hand both his personal vices (probably in allusion to some scandal of the day) and his servility to the populace. At the same time, he is in most profound earnest, as Chaerephon remarks. Callicles soon loses his temper, but the more he is irritated, the more provoking and matter of fact does Socrates become. A repartee of his which appears to have been really made to the ‘omniscient’ Hippias, according to the testimony of Xenophon (Mem. iv. 4, 6, 10), is introduced (490 E). He is called by Callicles a popular declaimer, and certainly shows that he has the power, in the words of Gorgias, of being ‘as long as he pleases,’ or ‘as short as he pleases’ (cp. Protag. 336 D). Callicles exhibits great ability in defending himself and attacking Socrates, whom he accuses of trifling and word-splitting; he is scandalized (p. 494) that the legitimate consequences of his own argument should be stated in plain terms; after the manner of men of the world, he wishes to preserve the decencies of life. But he cannot consistently maintain the bad sense of words; and getting confused between the abstract notions of better, superior, stronger, he is easily turned round by Socrates, and only induced to continue the argument by the authority of Gorgias. Once, when Socrates is describing the manner in which the ambitious citizen has to identify himself with the people, he partially recognizes the truth of his words.
The Socrates of the Gorgias may be compared with the Socrates of the Protagoras and Meno. As in other dialogues, he is the enemy of the Sophists and rhetoricians; and also of the statesmen, whom he regards as another variety of the same species. His behaviour is governed by that of his opponents; the least forwardness or egotism on their part is met by a corresponding irony on the part of Socrates. He must speak, for philosophy will not allow him to be silent. He is indeed more ironical and provoking than in any other of Plato’s writings: for he is ‘fooled to the top of his bent’ by the worldliness of Callicles. But he is also more deeply in earnest. He rises higher than even in the Phaedo and Crito: at first enveloping his moral convictions in a cloud of dust and dialectics, he ends by losing his method, his life, himself, in them. As in the Protagoras and Phaedrus, throwing aside the veil of irony, he makes a speech, but, true to his character, not until his adversary has refused to answer any more questions. The presentiment of his own fate is hanging over him. He is aware that Socrates, the single real teacher of politics, as he ventures to call himself, cannot safely go to war with the whole world, and that in the courts of earth he will be condemned. But he will be justified in the world below. Then the position of Socrates and Callicles will be reversed; all those things ‘unfit for ears polite’ which Callicles has prophesied as likely to happen to him in this life, the insulting language, the box on the ears, will recoil upon his assailant. (Compare Rep. x. 613, D, E, and the similar reversal of the position of the lawyer and the philosopher in the Theaetetus, 173–176.)
There is an interesting allusion to his own behaviour at the trial of the generals after the battle of Arginusae, which he ironically attributes to his ignorance of the manner in which a vote of the assembly should be taken (473 E). This is said to have happened ‘last year’ (b. c. 406), and therefore the assumed date of the dialogue has been fixed at 405 b. c., when Socrates would already have been an old man. The date is clearly marked, but is scarcely reconcilable with another indication of time, viz. the ‘recent’ usurpation of Archelaus, which occurred in the year 413 (470 D); and still less with the ‘recent’ death (503 B) of Pericles, who really died twenty-four years previously (429 b. c.) and is afterwards reckoned among the statesmen of a past age (cp. 517 A); or with the mention of Nicias, who died in 413, and is nevertheless spoken of as a living witness (472 A, B). But we shall hereafter have reason to observe, that although there is a general consistency of times and persons in the Dialogues of Plato, a precise dramatic date is an invention of his commentators (Preface to Republic, p. ix).
The conclusion of the Dialogue is remarkable, (1) for the truly characteristic declaration of Socrates (p. 509 A) that he is ignorant of the true nature and bearing of these things, while he affirms at the same time that no one can maintain any other view without being ridiculous. The profession of ignorance reminds us of the earlier and more exclusively Socratic Dialogues. But neither in them, nor in the Apology, nor in the Memorabilia of Xenophon, does Socrates express any doubt of the fundamental truths of morality. He evidently regards this ‘among the multitude of questions’ which agitate human life ‘as the principle which alone remains unshaken’ (527 B). He does not insist here, any more than in the Phaedo, on the literal truth of the myth, but only on the soundness of the doctrine which is contained in it, that doing wrong is worse than suffering, and that a man should be rather than seem; for the next best thing to a man’s being just is that he should be corrected and become just; also that he should avoid all flattery, whether of himself or of others; and that rhetoric should be employed for the maintenance of the right only. The revelation of another life is a recapitulation of the argument in a figure.
(2) Socrates makes the singular remark, that he is himself the only true politician of his age. In other passages, especially in the Apology, he disclaims being a politician at all. There he is convinced that he or any other good man who attempted to resist the popular will would be put to death before he had done any good to himself or others. Here he anticipates such a fate for himself, from the fact that he is ‘the only man of the present day who performs his public duties at all.’ The two points of view are not really inconsistent, but the difference between them is worth noticing: Socrates is and is not a public man. Not in the ordinary sense, like Alcibiades or Pericles, but in a higher one; and this will sooner or later entail the same consequences on him. He cannot be a private man if he would; neither can he separate morals from politics. Nor is he unwilling to be a politician, although he foresees the dangers which await him; but he must first become a better and wiser man, for he as well as Callicles is in a state of perplexity and uncertainty (527 D, E). And yet there is an inconsistency: for should not Socrates too have taught the citizens better than to put him to death (519)?
And now, as he himself says (506 D), we will ‘resume the argument from the beginning.’
Analysis.
Socrates, who is attended by his inseparable disciple, Chaerephon, 447meets Callicles in the streets of Athens. He is informed that he has just missed an exhibition of Gorgias, which he regrets, because he was desirous, not of hearing Gorgias display his rhetoric, but of interrogating him concerning the nature of his art. Callicles proposes that they shall go with him to his own house, where Gorgias is staying. There they find the great 448rhetorician and his younger friend and disciple Polus.
Soc. Put the question to him, Chaerephon. Ch. What question? Soc. Who is he?—such a question as would elicit from a man the answer, ‘I am a cobbler.’ Polus suggests that Gorgias may be tired, and desires to answer for him. ‘Who is Gorgias?’ asks Chaerephon, imitating the manner of his master Socrates. ‘One of the best of men, and a proficient in the best and noblest of experimental arts,’ etc., replies Polus, in rhetorical and balanced phrases. Socrates is dissatisfied at the length and unmeaningness of the answer; he tells the disconcerted volunteer that he has mistaken the quality for the nature of the art, and remarks to Gorgias, that Polus has learnt how to make a speech, but not how to answer a question. He wishes that Gorgias would answer him. Gorgias is willing enough, and replies to the question asked by Chaerephon,—that he is a rhetorician, and in Homeric language, ‘boasts 449himself to be a good one.’ At the request of Socrates he promises to be brief; for ‘he can be as long as he pleases, and as short as he pleases.’ Socrates would have him bestow his length on others, and proceeds to ask him a number of questions, which are answered by him to his own great satisfaction, and with a brevity which excites the admiration of Socrates. The result of the discussion may be summed up as follows:—
450Rhetoric treats of discourse; but music and medicine, and other particular arts, are also concerned with discourse; in what way then does rhetoric differ from them? Gorgias draws a distinction between the arts which deal with words, and the arts which have to do with external actions. Socrates extends this distinction further, and divides all productive arts into two classes: (1) arts which may be carried on in silence; and (2) arts which have to do with words, or in which words are coextensive with action, such as arithmetic, geometry, rhetoric. But still 451Gorgias could hardly have meant to say that arithmetic was the same as rhetoric. Even in the arts which are concerned with words there are differences. What then distinguishes rhetoric from the other arts which have to do with words? ‘The words which rhetoric uses relate to the best and greatest of human things.’ But tell me, Gorgias, what are the best? ‘Health first, beauty next, wealth third,’ in the words of the old song, or how would you rank them? The arts will come to you in a body, each 452claiming precedence and saying that her own good is superior to that of the rest—How will you choose between them? ‘I should say, Socrates, that the art of persuasion, which gives freedom to all men, and to individuals power in the state, is the greatest 453good.’ But what is the exact nature of this persuasion?—is the persevering retort: You could not describe Zeuxis as a painter, or even as a painter of figures, if there were other painters of figures; neither can you define rhetoric simply as an art of persuasion, because there are other arts which persuade, such as arithmetic, which is an art of persuasion about odd and even numbers. Gorgias is made to see the necessity of a further limitation, and he now defines rhetoric as the art of persuading in 454the law courts, and in the assembly, about the just and unjust. But still there are two sorts of persuasion: one which gives knowledge, and another which gives belief without knowledge; and knowledge is always true, but belief may be either true or 455false,—there is therefore a further question: which of the two sorts of persuasion does rhetoric effect in courts of law and assemblies? Plainly that which gives belief and not that which gives knowledge; for no one can impart a real knowledge of such matters to a crowd of persons in a few minutes. And there is another point to be considered:—when the assembly meets to advise about walls or docks or military expeditions, the rhetorician is not taken into counsel, but the architect, or the general. How would Gorgias explain this phenomenon? All who intend to become disciples, of whom there are several in the company, and not Socrates only, are eagerly asking:—About what then will rhetoric teach us to persuade or advise the state?
Gorgias illustrates the nature of rhetoric by adducing the example of Themistocles, who persuaded the Athenians to build their docks and walls, and of Pericles, whom Socrates himself has heard speaking about the middle wall of the Piraeus. He adds 456that he has exercised a similar power over the patients of his brother Herodicus. He could be chosen a physician by the assembly if he pleased, for no physician could compete with a rhetorician in popularity and influence. He could persuade the multitude of anything by the power of his rhetoric; not that the rhetorician ought to abuse this power any more than a boxer 457should abuse the art of self-defence. Rhetoric is a good thing, but, like all good things, may be unlawfully used. Neither is the teacher of the art to be deemed unjust because his pupils are unjust and make a bad use of the lessons which they have learned from him.
Socrates would like to know before he replies, whether Gorgias will quarrel with him if he points out a slight inconsistency into which he has fallen, or whether he, like himself, is one who loves 458to be refuted. Gorgias declares that he is quite one of his sort, but fears that the argument may be tedious to the company. The company cheer, and Chaerephon and Callicles exhort them to proceed. Socrates gently points out the supposed inconsistency into which Gorgias appears to have fallen, and which he is inclined to think may arise out of a misapprehension of his own. 459The rhetorician has been declared by Gorgias to be more persuasive to the ignorant than the physician, or any other expert. And he is said to be ignorant, and this ignorance of his is regarded by Gorgias as a happy condition, for he has escaped the trouble of learning. But is he as ignorant of just and unjust as he 460is of medicine or building? Gorgias is compelled to admit that if he did not know them previously he must learn them from his teacher as a part of the art of rhetoric. But he who has learned carpentry is a carpenter, and he who has learned music is a musician, and he who has learned justice is just. The rhetorician then must be a just man, and rhetoric is a just thing. But Gorgias has already admitted the opposite of this, viz. that rhetoric may be abused, and that the rhetorician may act unjustly. How is the 461inconsistency to be explained?
The fallacy of this argument is twofold; for in the first place, a man may know justice and not be just—here is the old confusion of the arts and the virtues;—nor can any teacher be expected to counteract wholly the bent of natural character; and secondly, a man may have a degree of justice, but not sufficient to prevent him from ever doing wrong. Polus is naturally exasperated at the sophism, which he is unable to detect; of course, he says, the rhetorician, like every one else, will admit that he knows justice (how can he do otherwise when pressed by the interrogations of Socrates?), but he thinks that great want of manners is shown in bringing the argument to such a pass. Socrates ironically replies, that when old men trip, the young set 462them on their legs again; and he is quite willing to retract, if he can be shown to be in error, but upon one condition, which is that Polus studies brevity. Polus is in great indignation at not being allowed to use as many words as he pleases in the free state of Athens. Socrates retorts, that yet harder will be his own case, if he is compelled to stay and listen to them. After some altercation they agree (cp. Protag. 338), that Polus shall ask and Socrates answer.
‘What is the art of Rhetoric?’ says Polus. Not an art at all, replies Socrates, but a thing which in your book you affirm to have created art. Polus asks, ‘What thing?’ and Socrates answers, An experience or routine of making a sort of delight or gratification. ‘But is not rhetoric a fine thing?’ I have not yet told you what rhetoric is. Will you ask me another question—What is cookery? ‘What is cookery?’ An experience or routine of making a sort of delight or gratification. Then they are the same, or rather fall under the same class, and rhetoric 463has still to be distinguished from cookery. ‘What is rhetoric?’ asks Polus once more. A part of a not very creditable whole, which may be termed flattery, is the reply. ‘But what part?’ A shadow of a part of politics. This, as might be expected, is wholly unintelligible, both to Gorgias and Polus; and, in order 464to explain his meaning to them, Socrates draws a distinction between shadows or appearances and realities; e.g. there is real health of body or soul, and the appearance of them; real arts and sciences, and the simulations of them. Now the soul and body have two arts waiting upon them, first the art of politics, which attends on the soul, having a legislative part and a judicial part; and another art attending on the body, which has no generic name, but may also be described as having two divisions, one of which is medicine and the other gymnastic. Corresponding with these four arts or sciences there are four shams or simulations of them, mere experiences, as they may be termed, because they give no reason of their own existence. The art of dressing up is the sham or simulation of gymnastic, the art of cookery, of medicine; 465rhetoric is the simulation of justice, and sophistic of legislation.
They may be summed up in an arithmetical formula:—
Tiring : gymnastic : : cookery : medicine : : sophistic : legislation.
And,
Cookery : medicine : : rhetoric : the art of justice.
And this is the true scheme of them, but when measured only by the gratification which they procure, they become jumbled together and return to their aboriginal chaos. Socrates apologizes for the 466length of his speech, which was necessary to the explanation of the subject, and begs Polus not unnecessarily to retaliate on him.
‘Do you mean to say that the rhetoricians are esteemed flatterers?’ They are not esteemed at all. ‘Why, have they not 467great power, and can they not do whatever they desire?’ They have no power, and they only do what they think best, and never what they desire; for they never attain the true object of desire, which is the good. ‘As if you, Socrates, would not envy the possessor of despotic power, who can imprison, exile, kill any one whom he -469pleases.’ But Socrates replies that he has no wish to put any one to death; he who kills another, even justly, is not to be envied, and he who kills him unjustly is to be pitied; it is better to suffer than to do injustice. He does not consider that going about with a dagger and putting men out of the way, or setting a house on 470fire, is real power. To this Polus assents, on the ground that such acts would be punished, but he is still of opinion that evildoers, if they are unpunished, may be happy enough. He instances Archelaus, son of Perdiccas, the usurper of Macedonia. 471Does not Socrates think him happy?—Socrates would like to know more about him; he cannot pronounce even the great king to be happy, unless he knows his mental and moral condition. Polus explains that Archelaus was a slave, being the son of a woman who was the slave of Alcetas, brother of Perdiccas king of Macedon—and he, by every species of crime, first murdering his uncle and then his cousin and half-brother, obtained the kingdom. This was very wicked, and yet all the world, including 472Socrates, would like to have his place. Socrates dismisses the appeal to numbers; Polus, if he will, may summon all the rich men of Athens, Nicias and his brothers, Aristocrates, the house of Pericles, or any other great family—this is the kind of evidence which is adduced in courts of justice, where truth depends upon numbers. But Socrates employs proof of another sort; his appeal is to one witness only,—that is to say, the person with whom he is speaking; him he will convict out of his own mouth. And he is prepared to show, after his manner, that Archelaus cannot be a wicked man and yet happy. 473
The evil-doer is deemed happy if he escapes, and miserable if he suffers punishment; but Socrates thinks him less miserable if he suffers than if he escapes. Polus is of opinion that such a paradox as this hardly deserves refutation, and is at any rate sufficiently refuted by the fact. Socrates has only to compare the lot of the successful tyrant who is the envy of the world, and of the wretch who, having been detected in a criminal attempt against the state, is crucified or burnt to death. Socrates replies, that if they are both criminal they are both miserable, but that the unpunished is the more miserable of the two. At this Polus laughs outright, which leads Socrates to remark that laughter is a new species of refutation. Polus replies, that he is already refuted; for if he will take the votes of the company, he will find that no one agrees with 474him. To this Socrates rejoins, that he is not a public man, and (referring to his own conduct at the trial of the generals after the battle of Arginusae) is unable to take the suffrages of any company, as he had shown on a recent occasion; he can only deal with one witness at a time, and that is the person with whom he is arguing. But he is certain that in the opinion of any man to do is worse than to suffer evil.
Polus, though he will not admit this, is ready to acknowledge that to do evil is considered the more foul or dishonourable of the two. But what is fair and what is foul; whether the terms are applied to bodies, colours, figures, laws, habits, studies, must they not be defined with reference to pleasure and utility? Polus 475assents to this latter doctrine, and is easily persuaded that the fouler of two things must exceed either in pain or in hurt. But the doing cannot exceed the suffering of evil in pain, and therefore must exceed in hurt. Thus doing is proved by the testimony of Polus himself to be worse or more hurtful than suffering.
There remains the other question: Is a guilty man better off 476when he is punished or when he is unpunished? Socrates replies, that what is done justly is suffered justly: if the act is just, the effect is just; if to punish is just, to be punished is just, and therefore fair, and therefore beneficent; and the benefit is that the soul 477is improved. There are three evils from which a man may suffer, and which affect him in estate, body, and soul;—these are, poverty, disease, injustice; and the foulest of these is injustice, the evil of the soul, because that brings the greatest hurt. And there are 478three arts which heal these evils—trading, medicine, justice—and the fairest of these is justice. Happy is he who has never committed 479injustice, and happy in the second degree he who has been healed by punishment. And therefore the criminal should himself 480go to the judge as he would to the physician, and purge away his crime. Rhetoric will enable him to display his guilt in proper colours, and to sustain himself and others in enduring the necessary 481penalty. And similarly if a man has an enemy, he will desire not to punish him, but that he shall go unpunished and become worse and worse, taking care only that he does no injury to himself. These are at least conceivable uses of the art, and no others have been discovered by us.
Here Callicles, who has been listening in silent amazement, asks Chaerephon whether Socrates is in earnest, and on receiving the assurance that he is, proceeds to ask the same question of Socrates himself. For if such doctrines are true, life must have been turned upside down, and all of us are doing the opposite of what we ought to be doing.
Socrates replies in a style of playful irony, that before men can understand one another they must have some common feeling. And such a community of feeling exists between himself and Callicles, for both of them are lovers, and they have both a pair of 482loves; the beloved of Callicles are the Athenian Demos and Demos the son of Pyrilampes; the beloved of Socrates are Alcibiades and philosophy. The peculiarity of Callicles is that he can never contradict his loves; he changes as his Demos changes in all his opinions; he watches the countenance of both his loves, and repeats their sentiments, and if any one is surprised at his sayings and doings, the explanation of them is, that he is not a free agent, but must always be imitating his two loves. And this is the explanation of Socrates’ peculiarities also. He is always repeating what his mistress, Philosophy, is saying to him, who, unlike his other love, Alcibiades, is ever the same, ever true. Callicles must refute her, or he will never be at unity with himself; and discord in life is far worse than the discord of musical sounds.
Callicles answers, that Gorgias was overthrown because, as Polus said, in compliance with popular prejudice he had admitted that if his pupil did not know justice the rhetorician must teach him; and Polus has been similarly entangled, because his modesty led him to admit that to suffer is more honourable than to do injustice. By custom ‘yes,’ but not by nature, says Callicles. And Socrates is 483always playing between the two points of view, and putting one in the place of the other. In this very argument, what Polus only meant in a conventional sense has been affirmed by him to be a law of nature. For convention says that ‘injustice is dishonourable,’ but nature says that ‘might is right.’ And we are always taming down the nobler spirits among us to the conventional level. But sometimes a great man will rise up and reassert his original rights, trampling under foot all our formularies, and then the light 484of natural justice shines forth. Pindar says, ‘Law, the king of all, does violence with high hand;’ as is indeed proved by the example of Heracles, who drove off the oxen of Geryon and never paid for them.
This is the truth, Socrates, as you will be convinced, if you leave philosophy and pass on to the real business of life. A little philosophy is an excellent thing; too much is the ruin of a man. He who has not ‘passed his metaphysics’ before he has grown up to manhood will never know the world. Philosophers are ridiculous when they take to politics, and I dare say that politicians are equally ridiculous when they take to philosophy: ‘Every man,’ as Euripides says, ‘is fondest of that in which he is best.’ Philosophy 485is graceful in youth, like the lisp of infancy, and should be cultivated as a part of education; but when a grown-up man lisps or studies philosophy, I should like to beat him. None of those over-refined natures ever come to any good; they avoid the busy haunts of men, and skulk in corners, whispering to a few admiring youths, and never giving utterance to any noble sentiments.
For you, Socrates, I have a regard, and therefore I say to you, as Zethus says to Amphion in the play, that you have ‘a noble soul 486disguised in a puerile exterior.’ And I would have you consider the danger which you and other philosophers incur. For you would not know how to defend yourself if any one accused you in a law-court,—there you would stand, with gaping mouth and dizzy brain, and might be murdered, robbed, boxed on the ears with impunity. Take my advice, then, and get a little common sense; leave to others these frivolities; walk in the ways of the wealthy and be wise.
Socrates professes to have found in Callicles the philosopher’s touchstone; and he is certain that any opinion in which they both agree must be the very truth. Callicles has all the three qualities 487which are needed in a critic—knowledge, good-will, frankness; Gorgias and Polus, although learned men, were too modest, and their modesty made them contradict themselves. But Callicles is well-educated; and he is not too modest to speak out (of this he has already given proof), and his good-will is shown both by his own profession and by his giving the same caution against philosophy to Socrates, which Socrates remembers hearing him give 488long ago to his own clique of friends. He will pledge himself to retract any error into which he may have fallen, and which Callicles may point out. But he would like to know first of all what he and Pindar mean by natural justice. Do they suppose that the rule of justice is the rule of the stronger or of the better? ‘There is no difference.’ Then are not the many superior to the one, and the opinions of the many better? And their opinion is that justice is equality, and that to do is more dishonourable than to suffer wrong. 489And as they are the superior or stronger, this opinion of theirs must be in accordance with natural as well as conventional justice. ‘Why will you continue splitting words? Have I not told you that the superior is the better?’ But what do you mean by the better? Tell me that, and please to be a little milder in your language, if 490you do not wish to drive me away. ‘I mean the worthier, the wiser.’ You mean to say that one man of sense ought to rule over ten thousand fools? ‘Yes, that is my meaning.’ Ought the physician then to have a larger share of meats and drinks? or the weaver to have more coats, or the cobbler larger shoes, or the 491farmer more seed? ‘You are always saying the same things, Socrates.’ Yes, and on the same subjects too; but you are never saying the same things. For, first, you defined the superior to be the stronger, and then the wiser, and now something else;—what do you mean? ‘I mean men of political ability, who ought to govern and to have more than the governed.’ Than themselves? ‘What do you mean?’ I mean to say that every man is his own governor. ‘I see that you mean those dolts, the temperate. But my doctrine is, that a man should let his desires grow, and take the means of satisfying them. To the many this is impossible, 492and therefore they combine to prevent him. But if he is a king, and has power, how base would he be in submitting to them! To invite the common herd to be lord over him, when he might have the enjoyment of all things! For the truth is, Socrates, that luxury and self-indulgence are virtue and happiness; all the rest is mere talk.’
Socrates compliments Callicles on his frankness in saying what other men only think. According to his view, those who want nothing are not happy. ‘Why,’ says Callicles, ‘if they were, stones and the dead would be happy.’ Socrates in reply is led into a half-serious, half-comic vein of reflection. ‘Who knows,’ as Euripides says, ‘whether life may not be death, and death life?’ Nay, there are philosophers who maintain that even in life we are 493dead, and that the body (σω̂μα) is the tomb (ση̂μα) of the soul. And some ingenious Sicilian has made an allegory, in which he represents fools as the uninitiated, who are supposed to be carrying water to a vessel, which is full of holes, in a similarly holey sieve, and this sieve is their own soul. The idea is fanciful, but nevertheless is a figure of a truth which I want to make you acknowledge, viz. that the life of contentment is better than the life of indulgence. Are you disposed to admit that? ‘Far otherwise.’ Then hear another parable. The life of self-contentment and self-indulgence may be represented respectively by two men, who are filling jars with streams of wine, honey, milk,—the jars of the one are sound, and the jars of the other leaky; the first fills his jars, and has no more trouble with them; the second is always filling 494them, and would suffer extreme misery if he desisted. Are you of the same opinion still? ‘Yes, Socrates, and the figure expresses what I mean. For true pleasure is a perpetual stream, flowing in and flowing out. To be hungry and always eating, to be thirsty and always drinking, and to have all the other desires and to satisfy them, that, as I admit, is my idea of happiness.’ And to be itching and always scratching? ‘I do not deny that there may be happiness even in that.’ And to indulge unnatural desires, if they are abundantly satisfied? Callicles is indignant at the introduction of such topics. But he is reminded by Socrates that they are 495introduced, not by him, but by the maintainer of the identity of pleasure and good. Will Callicles still maintain this? ‘Yes, for the sake of consistency, he will.’ The answer does not satisfy Socrates, who fears that he is losing his touchstone. A profession of seriousness on the part of Callicles reassures him, and they proceed with the argument. Pleasure and good are the same, but knowledge and courage are not the same either with pleasure or good, or with one another. Socrates disproves the first of these statements by showing that two opposites cannot coexist, but must 496alternate with one another—to be well and ill together is impossible. But pleasure and pain are simultaneous, and the cessation of them is simultaneous; e.g. in the case of drinking and thirsting, 497whereas good and evil are not simultaneous, and do not cease simultaneously, and therefore pleasure cannot be the same as good.
Callicles has already lost his temper, and can only be persuaded to go on by the interposition of Gorgias. Socrates, having already guarded against objections by distinguishing courage and knowledge from pleasure and good, proceeds:—The good are good by the presence of good, and the bad are bad by the presence of evil. 498And the brave and wise are good, and the cowardly and foolish are bad. And he who feels pleasure is good, and he who feels pain is bad, and both feel pleasure and pain in nearly the same degree, and sometimes the bad man or coward in a greater degree. 499Therefore the bad man or coward is as good as the brave or may be even better.
Callicles endeavours now to avert the inevitable absurdity by affirming that he and all mankind admitted some pleasures to be good and others bad. The good are the beneficial, and the bad are the hurtful, and we should choose the one and avoid the other. But this, as Socrates observes, is a return to the old doctrine of himself and Polus, that all things should be done for the sake of the good.
500Callicles assents to this, and Socrates, finding that they are agreed in distinguishing pleasure from good, returns to his old 501division of empirical habits, or shams, or flatteries, which study pleasure only, and the arts which are concerned with the higher interests of soul and body. Does Callicles agree to this division? Callicles will agree to anything, in order that he may get through the argument. Which of the arts then are flatteries? Flute-playing, harp-playing, choral exhibitions, the dithyrambics of Cinesias are all equally condemned on the ground that they give pleasure only; and Meles the harp-player, who was the father of 502Cinesias, failed even in that. The stately muse of Tragedy is bent upon pleasure, and not upon improvement. Poetry in general is only a rhetorical address to a mixed audience of men, women, and children. And the orators are very far from speaking with a view to what is best; their way is to humour the assembly as if they were children.
Callicles replies, that this is only true of some of them; others have a real regard for their fellow-citizens. Granted; then there are two species of oratory; the one a flattery, another which has a real regard for the citizens. But where are the orators among whom you find the latter? Callicles admits that there are none 503remaining, but there were such in the days when Themistocles, Cimon, Miltiades, and the great Pericles were still alive. Socrates replies that none of these were true artists, setting before themselves the duty of bringing order out of disorder. The good man 504and true orator has a settled design, running through his life, to which he conforms all his words and actions; he desires to implant justice and eradicate injustice, to implant all virtue and eradicate all vice in the minds of his citizens. He is the physician 505who will not allow the sick man to indulge his appetites with a variety of meats and drinks, but insists on his exercising self-restraint. And this is good for the soul, and better than the unrestrained indulgence which Callicles was recently approving.
Here Callicles, who had been with difficulty brought to this point, turns restive, and suggests that Socrates shall answer his own questions. ‘Then,’ says Socrates, ‘one man must do for two;’ and though he had hoped to have given Callicles an ‘Amphion’ in return for his ‘Zethus,’ he is willing to proceed; at the 506same time, he hopes that Callicles will correct him, if he falls into error. He recapitulates the advantages which he has already won:—
The pleasant is not the same as the good—Callicles and I are agreed about that,—but pleasure is to be pursued for the sake of the good, and the good is that of which the presence makes us good; we and all things good have acquired some virtue or other. And virtue, whether of body or soul, of things or persons, is not attained by accident, but is due to order and harmonious arrangement. 507And the soul which has order is better than the soul which is without order, and is therefore temperate and is therefore good, and the intemperate is bad. And he who is temperate is also just and brave and pious, and has attained the perfection of goodness and therefore of happiness, and the intemperate whom you approve is the opposite of all this and is wretched. He therefore who would be happy must pursue temperance and avoid intemperance, and if possible escape the necessity of punishment, but if he have done wrong he must endure punishment. In this 508way states and individuals should seek to attain harmony, which, as the wise tell us, is the bond of heaven and earth, of gods and men. Callicles has never discovered the power of geometrical proportion in both worlds; he would have men aim at disproportion and excess. But if he be wrong in this, and if self-control is the true secret of happiness, then the paradox is true that the only use of rhetoric is in self-accusation, and Polus was right in saying that to do wrong is worse than to suffer wrong, and Gorgias was right in saying that the rhetorician must be a just man. And you were wrong in taunting me with my defenceless condition, and in saying that I might be accused or put to death or boxed on the ears with impunity. For I may repeat once more, that to strike is 509worse than to be stricken—to do than to suffer. What I said then is now made fast in adamantine bonds. I myself know not the true nature of these things, but I know that no one can deny my words and not be ridiculous. To do wrong is the greatest of evils, 510and to suffer wrong is the next greatest evil. He who would avoid the last must be a ruler, or the friend of a ruler; and to be the friend he must be the equal of the ruler, and must also resemble him. Under his protection he will suffer no evil, but will he also do no evil? Nay, will he not rather do all the evil which 511he can and escape? And in this way the greatest of all evils will befall him. ‘But this imitator of the tyrant,’ rejoins Callicles, ‘will kill any one who does not similarly imitate him.’ Socrates replies that he is not deaf, and that he has heard that repeated many times, and can only reply, that a bad man will kill a good one. ‘Yes, and that is the provoking thing.’ Not provoking to a man of sense who is not studying the arts which will preserve him from danger; and this, as you say, is the use of rhetoric in courts of justice. But how many other arts are there which also save men from death, and are yet quite humble in their pretensions—such as the art of swimming, or the art of the pilot? Does not the pilot do men at least as much service as the rhetorician, and yet for the voyage from Aegina to Athens he does not charge more than two obols, and when he disembarks is quite unassuming in his demeanour? The reason is that he is not certain 512whether he has done his passengers any good in saving them from death, if one of them is diseased in body, and still more if he is diseased in mind—who can say? The engineer too will often save whole cities, and yet you despise him, and would not allow your son to marry his daughter, or his son to marry yours. But what reason is there in this? For if virtue only means the saving of life, whether your own or another’s, you have no right to despise him or any practiser of saving arts. But is not virtue something different from saving and being saved? I would have 513you rather consider whether you ought not to disregard length of life, and think only how you can live best, leaving all besides to the will of Heaven. For you must not expect to have influence either with the Athenian Demos or with Demos the son of Pyrilampes, unless you become like them. What do you say to this?
‘There is some truth in what you are saying, but I do not entirely believe you.’
That is because you are in love with Demos. But let us have a little more conversation. You remember the two processes—one which was directed to pleasure, the other which was directed to making men as good as possible. And those who have the care of the city should make the citizens as good as possible. But who 514would undertake a public building, if he had never had a teacher of the art of building, and had never constructed a building before? or who would undertake the duty of state-physician, if he had never cured either himself or any one else? Should we not examine him before we entrusted him with the office? And as Callicles is about to enter public life, should we not examine him? Whom has he made better? For we have already admitted that 515 this is the statesman’s proper business. And we must ask the same question about Pericles, and Cimon, and Miltiades, and Themistocles. Whom did they make better? Nay, did not Pericles make the citizens worse? For he gave them pay, and at first he was very popular with them, but at last they condemned him to 516death. Yet surely he would be a bad tamer of animals who, having received them gentle, taught them to kick and butt, and man is an animal; and Pericles who had the charge of man only made him wilder, and more savage and unjust, and therefore he could not have been a good statesman. The same tale might be repeated about Cimon, Themistocles, Miltiades. But the 517charioteer who keeps his seat at first is not thrown out when he gains greater experience and skill. The inference is, that the statesman of a past age were no better than those of our own. They may have been cleverer constructors of docks and harbours, but they did not improve the character of the citizens. I have told you again and again (and I purposely use the same images) that the soul, like the body, may be treated in two ways—there is 518the meaner and the higher art. You seemed to understand what I said at the time, but when I ask you who were the really good statesmen, you answer—as if I asked you who were the good trainers, and you answered, Thearion, the baker, Mithoecus, the author of the Sicilian cookery-book, Sarambus, the vintner. And you would be affronted if I told you that these are a parcel of cooks who make men fat only to make them thin. And those whom they have fattened applaud them, instead of finding fault with them, and lay the blame of their subsequent disorders on their physicians. In this respect, Callicles, you are like them; you applaud the statesmen of old, who pandered to the vices of the citizens, and filled the city with docks and harbours, but neglected 519virtue and justice. And when the fit of illness comes, the citizens who in like manner applauded Themistocles, Pericles, and others, will lay hold of you and my friend Alcibiades, and you will suffer for the misdeeds of your predecessors. The old story is always being repeated—‘after all his services, the ungrateful city banished him, or condemned him to death.’ As if the statesman should not have taught the city better! He surely cannot blame the state for having unjustly used him, any more than the sophist or teacher 520can find fault with his pupils if they cheat him. And the sophist and orator are in the same case; although you admire rhetoric and despise sophistic, whereas sophistic is really the higher of the two. The teacher of the arts takes money, but the teacher of virtue or politics takes no money, because this is the only kind of service which makes the disciple desirous of requiting his teacher.
Socrates concludes by finally asking, to which of the two modes of serving the state Callicles invites him:—‘to the inferior and ministerial one,’ is the ingenuous reply. That is the only way of 521avoiding death, replies Socrates; and he has heard often enough, and would rather not hear again, that the bad man will kill the good. But he thinks that such a fate is very likely reserved for him, because he remarks that he is the only person who teaches the true art of politics. And very probably, as in the case which 522he described to Polus, he may be the physician who is tried by a jury of children. He cannot say that he has procured the citizens any pleasure, and if any one charges him with perplexing them, or with reviling their elders, he will not be able to make them understand that he has only been actuated by a desire for their good. And therefore there is no saying what his fate may be. ‘And do you think that a man who is unable to help himself is in a good condition?’ Yes, Callicles, if he have the true self-help, which is never to have said or done any wrong to himself or others. If I had not this kind of self-help, I should be ashamed; but if I die for want of your flattering rhetoric, I shall die in peace. For death is no evil, but to go to the world below laden with offences is the worst of evils. In proof of which I will tell you a tale:—
Under the rule of Cronos, men were judged on the day of their 523death, and when judgment had been given upon them they departed—the good to the islands of the blest, the bad to the house of vengeance. But as they were still living, and had their clothes on at the time when they were being judged, there was favouritism, and Zeus, when he came to the throne, was obliged to alter the mode of procedure, and try them after death, having first sent down Prometheus to take away from them the foreknowledge of death. Minos, Rhadamanthus, and Aeacus were appointed to be the 524judges; Rhadamanthus for Asia, Aeacus for Europe, and Minos was to hold the court of appeal. Now death is the separation of soul and body, but after death soul and body alike retain their characteristics; the fat man, the dandy, the branded slave, are all distinguishable. Some prince or potentate, perhaps even the great king himself, appears before Rhadamanthus, and he instantly 525detects him, though he knows not who he is; he sees the scars of perjury and iniquity, and sends him away to the house of torment.
For there are two classes of souls who undergo punishment—the curable and the incurable. The curable are those who are benefited by their punishment; the incurable are such as Archelaus, who benefit others by becoming a warning to them. The latter class are generally kings and potentates; meaner persons, happily for themselves, have not the same power of doing injustice. Sisyphus and Tityus, not Thersites, are supposed by Homer to be undergoing everlasting punishment. Not that there is anything to prevent a great man from being a good one, as is 526shown by the famous example of Aristeides, the son of Lysimachus. But to Rhadamanthus the souls are only known as good or bad; they are stripped of their dignities and preferments; he despatches the bad to Tartarus, labelled either as curable or incurable, and looks with love and admiration on the soul of some just one, whom he sends to the islands of the blest. Similar is the practice of Aeacus; and Minos overlooks them, holding a golden sceptre, as Odysseus in Homer saw him
‘Wielding a sceptre of gold, and giving laws to the dead.’
My wish for myself and my fellow-men is, that we may present our souls undefiled to the judge in that day; my desire in life is to 527be able to meet death. And I exhort you, and retort upon you the reproach which you cast upon me,—that you will stand before the judge, gaping, and with dizzy brain, and any one may box you on the ear, and do you all manner of evil.
Perhaps you think that this is an old wives’ fable. But you, who are the three wisest men in Hellas, have nothing better to say, and no one will ever show that to do is better than to suffer evil. A man should study to be, and not merely to seem. If he is bad, he should become good, and avoid all flattery, whether of the many or of the few.
Follow me, then; and if you are looked down upon, that will do you no harm. And when we have practised virtue, we will betake ourselves to politics, but not until we are delivered from the shameful state of ignorance and uncertainty in which we are at present. Let us follow in the way of virtue and justice, and not in the way to which you, Callicles, invite us; for that way is nothing worth.
Introduction.
We will now consider in order some of the principal points of the dialogue. Having regard (1) to the age of Plato and the ironical character of his writings, we may compare him with himself and with other great teachers, and we may note in passing the objections of his critics. And then (2) casting one eye upon him, we may cast another upon ourselves, and endeavour to draw out the great lessons which he teaches for all time, stripped of the accidental form in which they are enveloped.
(1) In the Gorgias, as in nearly all the other dialogues of Plato, we are made aware that formal logic has as yet no existence. The old difficulty of framing a definition recurs. The illusive analogy of the arts and the virtues also continues. The ambiguity of several words, such as nature, custom, the honourable, the good, is not cleared up. The Sophists are still floundering about the distinction of the real and seeming. Figures of speech are made the basis of arguments. The possibility of conceiving a universal art or science, which admits of application to a particular subject-matter, is a difficulty which remains unsolved, and has not altogether ceased to haunt the world at the present day (cp. Charmides, 166 ff.). The defect of clearness is also apparent in Socrates himself, unless we suppose him to be practising on the simplicity of his opponent, or rather perhaps trying an experiment in dialectics. Nothing can be more fallacious than the contradiction which he pretends to have discovered in the answers of Gorgias (see Analysis). The advantages which he gains over Polus are also due to a false antithesis of pleasure and good, and to an erroneous assertion that an agent and a patient may be described by similar predicates;—a mistake which Aristotle partly shares and partly corrects in the Nicomachean Ethics, V. i. 4; xi. 2. Traces of a ‘robust sophistry’ are likewise discernible in his argument with Callicles (pp. 490, 496, 516).
(2) Although Socrates professes to be convinced by reason only, yet the argument is often a sort of dialectical fiction, by which he conducts himself and others to his own ideal of life and action. And we may sometimes wish that we could have suggested answers to his antagonists, or pointed out to them the rocks which lay concealed under the ambiguous terms good, pleasure, and the like. But it would be as useless to examine his arguments by the requirements of modern logic, as to criticise this ideal from a merely utilitarian point of view. If we say that the ideal is generally regarded as unattainable, and that mankind will by no means agree in thinking that the criminal is happier when punished than when unpunished, any more than they would agree to the stoical paradox that a man may be happy on the rack, Plato has already admitted that the world is against him. Neither does he mean to say that Archelaus is tormented by the stings of conscience; or that the sensations of the impaled criminal are more agreeable than those of the tyrant drowned in luxurious enjoyment. Neither is he speaking, as in the Protagoras, of virtue as a calculation of pleasure, an opinion which he afterwards repudiates in the Phaedo. What then is his meaning? His meaning we shall be able to illustrate best by parallel notions, which, whether justifiable by logic or not, have always existed among mankind. We must remind the reader that Socrates himself implies that he will be understood or appreciated by very few.
He is speaking not of the consciousness of happiness, but of the idea of happiness. When a martyr dies in a good cause, when a soldier falls in battle, we do not suppose that death or wounds are without pain, or that their physical suffering is always compensated by a mental satisfaction. Still we regard them as happy, and we would a thousand times rather have their death than a shameful life. Nor is this only because we believe that they will obtain an immortality of fame, or that they will have crowns of glory in another world, when their enemies and persecutors will be proportionably tormented. Men are found in a few instances to do what is right, without reference to public opinion or to consequences. And we regard them as happy on this ground only, much as Socrates’ friends in the opening of the Phaedo are described as regarding him; or as was said of another, ‘they looked upon his face as upon the face of an angel.’ We are not concerned to justify this idealism by the standard of utility or public opinion, but merely to point out the existence of such a sentiment in the better part of human nature.
The idealism of Plato is founded upon this sentiment. He would maintain that in some sense or other truth and right are alone to be sought, and that all other goods are only desirable as means towards these. He is thought to have erred in ‘considering the agent only, and making no reference to the happiness of others, as affected by him.’ But the happiness of others or of mankind, if regarded as an end, is really quite as ideal and almost as paradoxical to the common understanding as Plato’s conception of happiness. For the greatest happiness of the greatest number may mean also the greatest pain of the individual which will procure the greatest pleasure of the greatest number. Ideas of utility, like those of duty and right, may be pushed to unpleasant consequences. Nor can Plato in the Gorgias be deemed purely self-regarding, considering that Socrates expressly mentions the duty of imparting the truth when discovered to others. Nor must we forget that the side of ethics which regards others is by the ancients merged in politics. Both in Plato and Aristotle, as well as in the Stoics, the social principle, though taking another form, is really far more prominent than in most modern treatises on ethics.
The idealizing of suffering is one of the conceptions which have exercised the greatest influence on mankind. Into the theological import of this, or into the consideration of the errors to which the idea may have given rise, we need not now enter. All will agree that the ideal of the Divine Sufferer, whose words the world would not receive, the man of sorrows of whom the Hebrew prophets spoke, has sunk deep into the heart of the human race. It is a similar picture of suffering goodness which Plato desires to pourtray, not without an allusion to the fate of his master Socrates. He is convinced that, somehow or other, such an one must be happy in life or after death. In the Republic, he endeavours to show that his happiness would be assured here in a well-ordered state. But in the actual condition of human things the wise and good are weak and miserable; such an one is like a man fallen among wild beasts, exposed to every sort of wrong and obloquy.
Plato, like other philosophers, is thus led on to the conclusion, that if ‘the ways of God’ to man are to be ‘justified,’ the hopes of another life must be included. If the question could have been put to him, whether a man dying in torments was happy still, even if, as he suggests in the Apology, ‘death be only a long sleep,’ we can hardly tell what would have been his answer. There have been a few, who, quite independently of rewards and punishments or of posthumous reputation, or any other influence of public opinion, have been willing to sacrifice their lives for the good of others. It is difficult to say how far in such cases an unconscious hope of a future life, or a general faith in the victory of good in the world, may have supported the sufferers. But this extreme idealism is not in accordance with the spirit of Plato. He supposes a day of retribution, in which the good are to be rewarded and the wicked punished (522 E). Though, as he says in the Phaedo, no man of sense will maintain that the details of the stories about another world are true, he will insist that something of the kind is true, and will frame his life with a view to this unknown future. Even in the Republic he introduces a future life as an afterthought, when the superior happiness of the just has been established on what is thought to be an immutable foundation. At the same time he makes a point of determining his main thesis independently of remoter consequences (x. 612 A).
(3) Plato’s theory of punishment is partly vindictive, partly corrective. In the Gorgias, as well as in the Phaedo and Republic, a few great criminals, chiefly tyrants, are reserved as examples. But most men have never had the opportunity of attaining this pre-eminence of evil. They are not incurable, and their punishment is intended for their improvement. They are to suffer because they have sinned; like sick men, they must go to the physician and be healed. On this representation of Plato’s the criticism has been made, that the analogy of disease and injustice is partial only, and that suffering, instead of improving men, may have just the opposite effect.
Like the general analogy of the arts and the virtues, the analogy of disease and injustice, or of medicine and justice, is certainly imperfect. But ideas must be given through something; the nature of the mind which is unseen can only be represented under figures derived from visible objects. If these figures are suggestive of some new aspect under which the mind may be considered, we cannot find fault with them for not exactly coinciding with the ideas represented. They partake of the imperfect nature of language, and must not be construed in too strict a manner. That Plato sometimes reasons from them as if they were not figures but realities, is due to the defective logical analysis of his age.
Nor does he distinguish between the suffering which improves and the suffering which only punishes and deters. He applies to the sphere of ethics a conception of punishment which is really derived from criminal law. He does not see that such punishment is only negative, and supplies no principle of moral growth or development. He is not far off the higher notion of an education of man to be begun in this world, and to be continued in other stages of existence, which is further developed in the Republic. And Christian thinkers, who have ventured out of the beaten track in their meditations on the ‘last things,’ have found a ray of light in his writings. But he has not explained how or in what way punishment is to contribute to the improvement of mankind. He has not followed out the principle which he affirms in the Republic, that ‘God is the author of evil only with a view to good,’ and that ‘they were the better for being punished.’ Still his doctrine of a future state of rewards and punishments may be compared favourably with that perversion of Christian doctrine which makes the everlasting punishment of human beings depend on a brief moment of time, or even on the accident of an accident. And he has escaped the difficulty which has often beset divines, respecting the future destiny of the meaner sort of men (Thersites and the like), who are neither very good nor very bad, by not counting them worthy of eternal damnation.
We do Plato violence in pressing his figures of speech or chains of argument; and not less so in asking questions which were beyond the horizon of his vision, or did not come within the scope of his design. The main purpose of the Gorgias is not to answer questions about a future world, but to place in antagonism the true and false life, and to contrast the judgments and opinions of men with judgment according to the truth. Plato may be accused of representing a superhuman or transcendental virtue in the description of the just man in the Gorgias, or in the companion portrait of the philosopher in the Theaetetus; and at the same time may be thought to be condemning a state of the world which always has existed and always will exist among men. But such ideals act powerfully on the imagination of mankind. And such condemnations are not mere paradoxes of philosophers, but the natural rebellion of the higher sense of right in man against the ordinary conditions of human life. The greatest statesmen have fallen very far short of the political ideal, and are therefore justly involved in the general condemnation.
Subordinate to the main purpose of the dialogue are some other questions, which may be briefly considered:—
a. The antithesis of good and pleasure, which as in other dialogues is supposed to consist in the permanent nature of the one compared with the transient and relative nature of the other. Good and pleasure, knowledge and sense, truth and opinion, essence and generation, virtue and pleasure, the real and the apparent, the infinite and finite, harmony or beauty and discord, dialectic and rhetoric or poetry, are so many pairs of opposites, which in Plato easily pass into one another, and are seldom kept perfectly distinct. And we must not forget that Plato’s conception of pleasure is the Heracleitean flux transferred to the sphere of human conduct. There is some degree of unfairness in opposing the principle of good, which is objective, to the principle of pleasure, which is subjective. For the assertion of the permanence of good is only based on the assumption of its objective character. Had Plato fixed his mind, not on the ideal nature of good, but on the subjective consciousness of happiness, that would have been found to be as transient and precarious as pleasure.
b. The arts or sciences, when pursued without any view to truth, or the improvement of human life, are called flatteries. They are all alike dependent upon the opinion of mankind, from which they are derived. To Plato the whole world appears to be sunk in error, based on self-interest. To this is opposed the one wise man hardly professing to have found truth, yet strong in the conviction that a virtuous life is the only good, whether regarded with reference to this world or to another. Statesmen, Sophists, rhetoricians, poets, are alike brought up for judgment. They are the parodies of wise men, and their arts are the parodies of true arts and sciences. All that they call science is merely the result of that study of the tempers of the Great Beast, which he describes in the Republic.
c. Various other points of contact naturally suggest themselves between the Gorgias and other dialogues, especially the Republic, the Philebus, and the Protagoras. There are closer resemblances both of spirit and language in the Republic than in any other dialogue, the verbal similarity tending to show that they were written at the same period of Plato’s life. For the Republic supplies that education and training of which the Gorgias suggests the necessity. The theory of the many weak combining against the few strong in the formation of society (which is indeed a partial truth), is similar in both of them, and is expressed in nearly the same language. The sufferings and fate of the just man, the powerlessness of evil, and the reversal of the situation in another life, are also points of similarity. The poets, like the rhetoricians, are condemned because they aim at pleasure only, as in the Republic they are expelled the State, because they are imitators, and minister to the weaker side of human nature. That poetry is akin to rhetoric may be compared with the analogous notion, which occurs in the Protagoras, that the ancient poets were the Sophists of their day. In some other respects the Protagoras rather offers a contrast than a parallel. The character of Protagoras may be compared with that of Gorgias, but the conception of happiness is different in the two dialogues; being described in the former, according to the old Socratic notion, as deferred or accumulated pleasure, while in the Gorgias, and in the Phaedo, pleasure and good are distinctly opposed.
This opposition is carried out from a speculative point of view in the Philebus. There neither pleasure nor wisdom are allowed to be the chief good, but pleasure and good are not so completely opposed as in the Gorgias. For innocent pleasures, and such as have no antecedent pains, are allowed to rank in the class of goods. The allusion to Gorgias’ definition of rhetoric (Philebus, 58 A, B; cp. Gorg. 452 D, E), as the art of persuasion, of all arts the best, for to it all things submit, not by compulsion, but of their own free will—marks a close and perhaps designed connection between the two dialogues. In both the ideas of measure, order, harmony, are the connecting links between the beautiful and the good.
In general spirit and character, that is, in irony and antagonism to public opinion, the Gorgias most nearly resembles the Apology, Crito, and portions of the Republic, and like the Philebus, though from another point of view, may be thought to stand in the same relation to Plato’s theory of morals which the Theaetetus bears to his theory of knowledge.
d. A few minor points still remain to be summed up: (1) The extravagant irony in the reason which is assigned for the pilot’s modest charge (p. 512); and in the proposed use of rhetoric as an instrument of self-condemnation (p. 480); and in the mighty power of geometrical equality in both worlds (p. 508). (2) The reference of the mythus to the previous discussion should not be overlooked: the fate reserved for incurable criminals such as Archelaus (p. 525); the retaliation of the box on the ears (p. 527); the nakedness of the souls and of the judges who are stript of the clothes or disguises which rhetoric and public opinion have hitherto provided for them (p. 523; cp. Swift’s notion that the universe is a suit of clothes, Tale of a Tub, section 2). The fiction seems to have involved Plato in the necessity of supposing that the soul retained a sort of corporeal likeness after death (p. 524). (3) The appeal to the authority of Homer, who says that Odysseus saw Minos in his court ‘holding a golden sceptre,’ which gives verisimilitude to the tale (p. 526).
It is scarcely necessary to repeat that Plato is playing ‘both sides of the game,’ and that in criticising the characters of Gorgias and Polus, we are not passing any judgment on historical individuals, but only attempting to analyze the ‘dramatis personae’ as they were conceived by him. Neither is it necessary to enlarge upon the obvious fact that Plato is a dramatic writer, whose real opinions cannot always be assumed to be those which he puts into the mouth of Socrates, or any other speaker who appears to have the best of the argument; or to repeat the observation that he is a poet as well as a philosopher; or to remark that he is not to be tried by a modern standard, but interpreted with reference to his place in the history of thought and the opinion of his time.
It has been said that the most characteristic feature of the Gorgias is the assertion of the right of dissent, or private judgment. But this mode of stating the question is really opposed both to the spirit of Plato and of ancient philosophy generally. For Plato is not asserting any abstract right or duty of toleration, or advantage to be derived from freedom of thought; indeed, in some other parts of his writings (e. g. Laws, x), he has fairly laid himself open to the charge of intolerance. No speculations had as yet arisen respecting the ‘liberty of prophesying;’ and Plato is not affirming any abstract right of this nature: but he is asserting the duty and right of the one wise and true man to dissent from the folly and falsehood of the many. At the same time he acknowledges the natural result, which he hardly seeks to avert, that he who speaks the truth to a multitude, regardless of consequences, will probably share the fate of Socrates.
The irony of Plato sometimes veils from us the height of idealism to which he soars. When declaring truths which the many will not receive, he puts on an armour which cannot be pierced by them. The weapons of ridicule are taken out of their hands and the laugh is turned against themselves. The disguises which Socrates assumes are like the parables of the New Testament, or the oracles of the Delphian God; they half conceal, half reveal, his meaning. The more he is in earnest, the more ironical he becomes; and he is never more in earnest or more ironical than in the Gorgias. He hardly troubles himself to answer seriously the objections of Gorgias and Polus, and therefore he sometimes appears to be careless of the ordinary requirements of logic. Yet in the highest sense he is always logical and consistent with himself. The form of the argument may be paradoxical; the substance is an appeal to the higher reason. He is uttering truths before they can be understood, as in all ages the words of philosophers, when they are first uttered, have found the world unprepared for them. A further misunderstanding arises out of the wildness of his humour; he is supposed not only by Callicles, but by the rest of mankind, to be jesting when he is profoundly serious. At length he makes even Polus (p. 468) in earnest. Finally, he drops the argument, and heedless any longer of the forms of dialectic, he loses himself in a sort of triumph, while at the same time he retaliates upon his adversaries. From this confusion of jest and earnest, we may now return to the ideal truth, and draw out in a simple form the main theses of the dialogue.
First Thesis:—
It is a greater evil to do than to suffer injustice.
Compare the New Testament—
‘It is better to suffer for well doing than for evil doing.’—1 Pet. iii. 17.
And the Sermon on the Mount—
‘Blessed are they that are persecuted for righteousness’ sake.’—Matt. v. 10.
The words of Socrates are more abstract than the words of Christ, but they equally imply that the only real evil is moral evil. The righteous may suffer or die, but they have their reward; and even if they had no reward, would be happier than the wicked. The world, represented by Polus, is ready, when they are asked, to acknowledge that injustice is dishonourable, and for their own sakes men are willing to punish the offender (cp. Rep. ii. 360 D). But they are not equally willing to acknowledge that injustice, even if successful, is essentially evil, and has the nature of disease and death. Especially when crimes are committed on the great scale—the crimes of tyrants, ancient or modern—after a while, seeing that they cannot be undone, and have become a part of history, mankind are disposed to forgive them, not from any magnanimity or charity, but because their feelings are blunted by time, and ‘to forgive is convenient to them.’ The tangle of good and evil can no longer be unravelled; and although they know that the end cannot justify the means, they feel also that good has often come out of evil. But Socrates would have us pass the same judgment on the tyrant now and always; though he is surrounded by his satellites, and has the applauses of Europe and Asia ringing in his ears; though he is the civilizer or liberator of half a continent, he is, and always will be, the most miserable of men. The greatest consequences for good or for evil cannot alter a hair’s breadth the morality of actions which are right or wrong in themselves. This is the standard which Socrates holds up to us. Because politics, and perhaps human life generally, are of a mixed nature we must not allow our principles to sink to the level of our practice.
And so of private individuals—to them, too, the world occasionally speaks of the consequences of their actions:—if they are lovers of pleasure, they will ruin their health; if they are false or dishonest, they will lose their character. But Socrates would speak to them, not of what will be, but of what is—of the present consequence of lowering and degrading the soul. And all higher natures, or perhaps all men everywhere, if they were not tempted by interest or passion, would agree with him—they would rather be the victims than the perpetrators of an act of treachery or of tyranny. Reason tells them that death comes sooner or later to all, and is not so great an evil as an unworthy life, or rather, if rightly regarded, not an evil at all, but to a good man the greatest good. For in all of us there are slumbering ideals of truth and right, which may at any time awaken and develop a new life in us.
Second Thesis:—
It is better to suffer for wrong doing than not to suffer.
There might have been a condition of human life in which the penalty followed at once, and was proportioned to the offence. Moral evil would then be scarcely distinguishable from physical; mankind would avoid vice as they avoid pain or death. But nature, with a view of deepening and enlarging our characters, has for the most part hidden from us the consequences of our actions, and we can only foresee them by an effort of reflection. To awaken in us this habit of reflection is the business of early education, which is continued in maturer years by observation and experience. The spoilt child is in later life said to be unfortunate—he had better have suffered when he was young, and been saved from suffering afterwards. But is not the sovereign equally unfortunate whose education and manner of life are always concealing from him the consequences of his own actions, until at length they are revealed to him in some terrible downfall, which may, perhaps, have been caused not by his own fault? Another illustration is afforded by the pauper and criminal classes, who scarcely reflect at all, except on the means by which they can compass their immediate ends. We pity them, and make allowances for them; but we do not consider that the same principle applies to human actions generally. Not to have been found out in some dishonesty or folly, regarded from a moral or religious point of view, is the greatest of misfortunes. The success of our evil doings is a proof that the gods have ceased to strive with us, and have given us over to ourselves. There is nothing to remind us of our sins, and therefore nothing to correct them. Like our sorrows, they are healed by time;
- ‘While rank corruption, mining all within,
- Infects unseen.’
The ‘accustomed irony’ of Socrates adds a corollary to the argument:—‘Would you punish your enemy, you should allow him to escape unpunished’—this is the true retaliation. (Compare the obscure verse of Proverbs, xxv. 21, 22, ‘Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him,’ etc., quoted in Romans xii. 20.)
Men are not in the habit of dwelling upon the dark side of their own lives: they do not easily see themselves as others see them. They are very kind and very blind to their own faults; the rhetoric of self-love is always pleading with them on their own behalf. Adopting a similar figure of speech, Socrates would have them use rhetoric, not in defence but in accusation of themselves. As they are guided by feeling rather than by reason, to their feelings the appeal must be made. They must speak to themselves; they must argue with themselves; they must paint in eloquent words the character of their own evil deeds. To any suffering which they have deserved, they must persuade themselves to submit. Under the figure there lurks a real thought, which, expressed in another form, admits of an easy application to ourselves. For do not we too accuse as well as excuse ourselves? And we call to our aid the rhetoric of prayer and preaching, which the mind silently employs while the struggle between the better and the worse is going on within us. And sometimes we are too hard upon ourselves, because we want to restore the balance which self-love has overthrown or disturbed; and then again we may hear a voice as of a parent consoling us. In religious diaries a sort of drama is often enacted by the consciences of men ‘accusing or else excusing them.’ For all our life long we are talking with ourselves:—What is thought but speech? What is feeling but rhetoric? And if rhetoric is used on one side only we shall be always in danger of being deceived. And so the words of Socrates, which at first sounded paradoxical, come home to the experience of all of us.
Third Thesis:—
We do not what we will, but what we wish.
Socrates would teach us a lesson which we are slow to learn—that good intentions, and even benevolent actions, when they are not prompted by wisdom, are of no value. We believe something to be for our good which we afterwards find out not to be for our good. The consequences may be inevitable, for they may follow an invariable law, yet they may often be the very opposite of what is expected by us. When we increase pauperism by almsgiving; when we tie up property without regard to changes of circumstances; when we say hastily what we deliberately disapprove; when we do in a moment of passion what upon reflection we regret; when from any want of self-control we give another an advantage over us—we are doing not what we will, but what we wish. All actions of which the consequences are not weighed and foreseen, are of this impotent and paralytic sort; and the author of them has ‘the least possible power’ while seeming to have the greatest. For he is actually bringing about the reverse of what he intended. And yet the book of nature is open to him, in which he who runs may read if he will exercise ordinary attention; every day offers him experiences of his own and of other men’s characters, and he passes them unheeded by. The contemplation of the consequences of actions, and the ignorance of men in regard to them, seems to have led Socrates to his famous thesis:—‘Virtue is knowledge;’ which is not so much an error or paradox as a half truth, seen first in the twilight of ethical philosophy, but also the half of the truth which is especially needed in the present age. For as the world has grown older men have been too apt to imagine a right and wrong apart from consequences; while a few, on the other hand, have sought to resolve them wholly into their consequences. But Socrates, or Plato for him, neither divides nor identifies them; though the time has not yet arrived either for utilitarian or transcendental systems of moral philosophy, he recognizes the two elements which seem to lie at the basis of morality1 .
Fourth Thesis:—
To be and not to seem is the end of life.
The Greek in the age of Plato admitted praise to be one of the chief incentives to moral virtue, and to most men the opinion of their fellows is a leading principle of action. Hence a certain element of seeming enters into all things; all or almost all desire to appear better than they are, that they may win the esteem or admiration of others. A man of ability can easily feign the language of piety or virtue; and there is an unconscious as well as a conscious hypocrisy which, according to Socrates, is the worst of the two. Again, there is the sophistry of classes and professions. There are the different opinions about themselves and one another which prevail in different ranks of society. There is the bias given to the mind by the study of one department of human knowledge to the exclusion of the rest; and stronger far the prejudice engendered by a pecuniary or party interest in certain tenets. There is the sophistry of law, the sophistry of medicine, the sophistry of politics, the sophistry of theology. All of these disguises wear the appearance of the truth; some of them are very ancient, and we do not easily disengage ourselves from them; for we have inherited them, and they have become a part of us. The sophistry of an ancient Greek sophist is nothing compared with the sophistry of a religious order, or of a church in which during many ages falsehood has been accumulating, and everything has been said on one side, and nothing on the other. The conventions and customs which we observe in conversation, and the opposition of our interests when we have dealings with one another (‘the buyer saith, it is nought—it is nought,’ etc.), are always obscuring our sense of truth and right. The sophistry of human nature is far more subtle than the deceit of any one man. Few persons speak freely from their own natures, and scarcely any one dares to think for himself: most of us imperceptibly fall into the opinions of those around us, which we partly help to make. A man who would shake himself loose from them, requires great force of mind; he hardly knows where to begin in the search after truth. On every side he is met by the world, which is not an abstraction of theologians, but the most real of all things, being another name for ourselves when regarded collectively and subjected to the influences of society.
Then comes Socrates, impressed as no other man ever was, with the unreality and untruthfulness of popular opinion, and tells mankind that they must be and not seem. How are they to be? At any rate they must have the spirit and desire to be. If they are ignorant, they must acknowledge their ignorance to themselves; if they are conscious of doing evil, they must learn to do well; if they are weak, and have nothing in them which they can call themselves, they must acquire firmness and consistency; if they are indifferent, they must begin to take an interest in the great questions which surround them. They must try to be what they would fain appear in the eyes of their fellow-men. A single individual cannot easily change public opinion; but he can be true and innocent, simple and independent; he can know what he does, and what he does not know; and though not without an effort, he can form a judgment of his own, at least in common matters. In his most secret actions he can show the same high principle (cp. Rep. viii. 554 D) which he shows when supported and watched by public opinion. And on some fitting occasion, on some question of humanity or truth or right, even an ordinary man, from the natural rectitude of his disposition, may be found to take up arms against a whole tribe of politicians and lawyers, and be too much for them.
Who is the true and who the false statesman?—
The true statesman is he who brings order out of disorder; who first organizes and then administers the government of his own country; and having made a nation, seeks to reconcile the national interests with those of Europe and of mankind. He is not a mere theorist, nor yet a dealer in expedients; the whole and the parts grow together in his mind; while the head is conceiving, the hand is executing. Although obliged to descend to the world, he is not of the world. His thoughts are fixed not on power or riches or extension of territory, but on an ideal state, in which all the citizens have an equal chance of health and life, and the highest education is within the reach of all, and the moral and intellectual qualities of every individual are freely developed, and ‘the idea of good’ is the animating principle of the whole. Not the attainment of freedom alone, or of order alone, but how to unite freedom with order is the problem which he has to solve.
The statesman who places before himself these lofty aims has undertaken a task which will call forth all his powers. He must control himself before he can control others; he must know mankind before he can manage them. He has no private likes or dislikes; he does not conceal personal enmity under the disguise of moral or political principle: such meannesses, into which men too often fall unintentionally, are absorbed in the consciousness of his mission, and in his love for his country and for mankind. He will sometimes ask himself what the next generation will say of him; not because he is careful of posthumous fame, but because he knows that the result of his life as a whole will then be more fairly judged. He will take time for the execution of his plans; not hurrying them on when the mind of a nation is unprepared for them; but like the Ruler of the Universe Himself, working in the appointed time, for he knows that human life, ‘if not long in comparison with eternity’ (Rep. vi. 498 D), is sufficient for the fulfilment of many great purposes. He knows, too, that the work will be still going on when he is no longer here; and he will sometimes, especially when his powers are failing, think of that other ‘city of which the pattern is in heaven’ (Rep. ix. 592 B).
The false politician is the serving-man of the state. In order to govern men he becomes like them; their ‘minds are married in conjunction;’ they ‘bear themselves’ like vulgar and tyrannical masters, and he is their obedient servant. The true politician, if he would rule men, must make them like himself; he must ‘educate his party’ until they cease to be a party; he must breathe into them the spirit which will hereafter give form to their institutions. Politics with him are not a mechanism for seeming what he is not, or for carrying out the will of the majority. Himself a representative man, he is the representative not of the lower but of the higher elements of the nation. There is a better (as well as a worse) public opinion of which he seeks to lay hold; as there is also a deeper current of human affairs in which he is borne up when the waves nearer the shore are threatening him. He acknowledges that he cannot take the world by force—two or three moves on the political chessboard are all that he can foresee—two or three weeks or months are granted to him in which he can provide against a coming struggle. But he knows also that there are permanent principles of politics which are always tending to the well-being of states—better administration, better education, the reconciliation of conflicting elements, increased security against external enemies. These are not ‘of to-day or yesterday,’ but are the same in all times, and under all forms of government. Then when the storm descends and the winds blow, though he knows not beforehand the hour of danger, the pilot, not like Plato’s captain in the Republic, half-blind and deaf, but with penetrating eye and quick ear, is ready to take command of the ship and guide her into port.
The false politician asks not what is true, but what is the opinion of the world—not what is right, but what is expedient. The only measures of which he approves are the measures which will pass. He has no intention of fighting an uphill battle; he keeps the roadway of politics. He is unwilling to incur the persecution and enmity which political convictions would entail upon him. He begins with popularity, and in fair weather sails gallantly along. But unpopularity soon follows him. For men expect their leaders to be better and wiser than themselves: to be their guides in danger, their saviours in extremity; they do not really desire them to obey all the ignorant impulses of the popular mind; and if they fail them in a crisis they are disappointed. Then, as Socrates says, the cry of ingratitude is heard, which is most unreasonable; for the people, who have been taught no better, have done what might be expected of them, and their statesmen have received justice at their hands.
The true statesman is aware that he must adapt himself to times and circumstances. He must have allies if he is to fight against the world; he must enlighten public opinion; he must accustom his followers to act together. Although he is not the mere executor of the will of the majority, he must win over the majority to himself. He is their leader and not their follower, but in order to lead he must also follow. He will neither exaggerate nor undervalue the power of a statesman, neither adopting the ‘laissez faire’ nor the ‘paternal government’ principle; but he will, whether he is dealing with children in politics, or with full-grown men, seek to do for the people what the government can do for them, and what, from imperfect education or deficient powers of combination, they cannot do for themselves. He knows that if he does too much for them they will do nothing; and that if he does nothing for them they will in some states of society be utterly helpless. For the many cannot exist without the few; if the material force of a country is from below, wisdom and experience are from above. It is not a small part of human evils which kings and governments make or cure. The statesman is well aware that a great purpose carried out consistently during many years will at last be executed. He is playing for a stake which may be partly determined by some accident, and therefore he will allow largely for the unknown element of politics. But the game being one in which chance and skill are combined, if he plays long enough he is certain of victory. He will not be always consistent, for the world is changing; and though he depends upon the support of a party, he will remember that he is the minister of the whole. He lives not for the present, but for the future, and he is not at all sure that he will be appreciated either now or then. For he may have the existing order of society against him, and may not be remembered by a distant posterity.
There are always discontented idealists in politics who, like Socrates in the Gorgias, find fault with all statesmen past as well as present, not excepting the greatest names of history. Mankind have an uneasy feeling that they ought to be better governed than they are. Just as the actual philosopher falls short of the one wise man, so does the actual statesman fall short of the ideal. And so partly from vanity and egotism, but partly also from a true sense of the faults of eminent men, a temper of dissatisfaction and criticism springs up among those who are ready enough to acknowledge the inferiority of their own powers. No matter whether a statesman makes high professions or none at all—they are reduced sooner or later to the same level. And sometimes the more unscrupulous man is better esteemed than the more conscientious, because he has not equally deceived expectations. Such sentiments may be unjust, but they are widely spread; we constantly find them recurring in reviews and newspapers, and still oftener in private conversation.
We may further observe that the art of government, while in some respects tending to improve, has in others a tendency to degenerate, as institutions become more popular. Governing for the people cannot easily be combined with governing by the people: the interests of classes are too strong for the ideas of the statesman who takes a comprehensive view of the whole. According to Socrates the true governor will find ruin or death staring him in the face, and will only be induced to govern from the fear of being governed by a worse man than himself (Rep. i. 347 C). And in modern times, though the world has grown milder, and the terrible consequences which Plato foretells no longer await an English statesman, any one who is not actuated by a blind ambition will only undertake from a sense of duty a work in which he is most likely to fail; and even if he succeed, will rarely be rewarded by the gratitude of his own generation.
Socrates, who is not a politician at all, tells us that he is the only real politician of his time. Let us illustrate the meaning of his words by applying them to the history of our own country. He would have said that not Pitt or Fox, or Canning or Sir R. Peel, are the real politicians of their time, but Locke, Hume, Adam Smith, Bentham, Ricardo. These during the greater part of their lives occupied an inconsiderable space in the eyes of the public. They were private persons; nevertheless they sowed in the minds of men seeds which in the next generation have become an irresistible power. ‘Herein is that saying true, One soweth and another reapeth.’ We may imagine with Plato an ideal statesman in whom practice and speculation are perfectly harmonized; for there is no necessary opposition between them. But experience shows that they are commonly divorced—the ordinary politician is the interpreter or executor of the thoughts of others, and hardly ever brings to the birth a new political conception. One or two only in modern times, like the Italian statesman Cavour, have created the world in which they moved. The philosopher is naturally unfitted for political life; his great ideas are not understood by the many; he is a thousand miles away from the questions of the day. Yet perhaps the lives of thinkers, as they are stiller and deeper, are also happier than the lives of those who are more in the public eye. They have the promise of the future, though they are regarded as dreamers and visionaries by their own contemporaries. And when they are no longer here, those who would have been ashamed of them during their lives claim kindred with them, and are proud to be called by their names. (Cp. Thucyd. vi. 16.)
Who is the true poet?
Plato expels the poets from his Republic because they are allied to sense; because they stimulate the emotions; because they are thrice removed from the ideal truth. And in a similar spirit he declares in the Gorgias that the statcly muse of tragedy is a votary of pleasure and not of truth. In modern times we almost ridicule the idea of poetry admitting of a moral. The poet and the prophet, or preacher, in primitive antiquity are one and the same; but in later ages they seem to fall apart. The great art of novel writing, that peculiar creation of our own and the last century, which, together with the sister art of review writing, threatens to absorb all literature, has even less of seriousness in her composition. Do we not often hear the novel writer censured for attempting to convey a lesson to the minds of his readers?
Yet the true office of a poet or writer of fiction is not merely to give amusement, or to be the expression of the feelings of mankind, good or bad, or even to increase our knowledge of human nature. There have been poets in modern times, such as Goethe or Wordsworth, who have not forgotten their high vocation of teachers; and the two greatest of the Greek dramatists owe their sublimity to their ethical character. The noblest truths, sung of in the purest and sweetest language, are still the proper material of poetry. The poet clothes them with beauty, and has a power of making them enter into the hearts and memories of men. He has not only to speak of themes above the level of ordinary life, but to speak of them in a deeper and tenderer way than they are ordinarily felt, so as to awaken the feeling of them in others. The old he makes young again; the familiar principle he invests with a new dignity; he finds a noble expression for the common-places of morality and politics. He uses the things of sense so as to indicate what is beyond; he raises us through earth to heaven. He expresses what the better part of us would fain say, and the half-conscious feeling is strengthened by the expression. He is his own critic, for the spirit of poetry and of criticism are not divided in him. His mission is not to disguise men from themselves, but to reveal to them their own nature, and make them better acquainted with the world around them. True poetry is the remembrance of youth, of love, the embodiment in words of the happiest and holiest moments of life, of the noblest thoughts of man, of the greatest deeds of the past. The poet of the future may return to his greater calling of the prophet or teacher; indeed, we hardly know what may not be effected for the human race by a better use of the poetical and imaginative faculty. The reconciliation of poetry, as of religion, with truth, may still be possible. Neither is the element of pleasure to be excluded. For when we substitute a higher pleasure for a lower we raise men in the scale of existence. Might not the novelist, too, make an ideal, or rather many ideals of social life, better than a thousand sermons? Plato, like the Puritans, is too much afraid of poetic and artistic influences. But he is not without a true sense of the noble purposes to which art may be applied (Rep. iii. 401).
Modern poetry is often a sort of plaything, or, in Plato’s language, a flattery, a sophistry, or sham, in which, without any serious purpose, the poet lends wings to his fancy and exhibits his gifts of language and metre. Such an one seeks to gratify the taste of his readers; he has the ‘savoir faire,’ or trick of writing, but he has not the higher spirit of poetry. He has no conception that true art should bring order out of disorder (504 A); that it should make provision for the soul’s highest interest (501 C); that it should be pursued only with a view to ‘the improvement of the citizens’ (502, 503). He ministers to the weaker side of human nature (Rep. x. 603–605); he idealizes the sensual; he sings the strain of love in the latest fashion; instead of raising men above themselves he brings them back to the ‘tyranny of the many masters,’ from which all his life long a good man has been praying to be delivered. And often, forgetful of measure and order, he will express not that which is truest, but that which is strongest. Instead of a great and nobly-executed subject, perfect in every part, some fancy of a heated brain is worked out with the strangest incongruity. He is not the master of his words, but his words—perhaps borrowed from another—the faded reflection of some French or German or Italian writer, have the better of him. Though we are not going to banish the poets, how can we suppose that such utterances have any healing or life-giving influence on the minds of men?
‘Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter:’ Art then must be true, and politics must be true, and the life of man must be true and not a seeming or sham. In all of them order has to be brought out of disorder, truth out of error and falsehood. This is what we mean by the greatest improvement of man. And so, having considered in what way ‘we can best spend the appointed time, we leave the result with God’ (512 E). Plato does not say that God will order all things for the best (cp. Phaedo, 97 C), but he indirectly implies that the evils of this life will be corrected in another. And as we are very far from the best imaginable world at present, Plato here, as in the Phaedo and Republic, supposes a purgatory or place of education for mankind in general, and for a very few a Tartarus or hell. The myth which terminates the dialogue is not the revelation, but rather, like all similar descriptions, whether in the Bible or Plato, the veil of another life. For no visible thing can reveal the invisible. Of this Plato, unlike some commentators on Scripture, is fully aware. Neither will he dogmatize about the manner in which we are ‘born again’ (Rep. vi. 498 D). Only he is prepared to maintain the ultimate triumph of truth and right, and declares that no one, not even the wisest of the Greeks, can affirm any other doctrine without being ridiculous.
There is a further paradox of ethics, in which pleasure and pain are held to be indifferent, and virtue at the time of action and without regard to consequences is happiness. From this elevation or exaggeration of feeling Plato seems to shrink: he leaves it to the Stoics in a later generation to maintain that when impaled or on the rack the philosopher may be happy (cp. Rep. ii. 361 ff.). It is observable that in the Republic he raises this question, but it is not really discussed; the veil of the ideal state, the shadow of another life, are allowed to descend upon it and it passes out of sight. The martyr or sufferer in the cause of right or truth is often supposed to die in raptures, having his eye fixed on a city which is in heaven. But if there were no future, might he not still be happy in the performance of an action which was attended only by a painful death? He himself may be ready to thank God that he was thought worthy to do Him the least service, without looking for a reward; the joys of another life may not have been present to his mind at all. Do we suppose that the mediaeval saint, St. Bernard, St. Francis, St. Catharine of Sienna, or the Catholic priest who lately devoted himself to death by a lingering disease that he might solace and help others, was thinking of the ‘sweets’ of heaven? No; the work was already heaven to him and enough. Much less will the dying patriot be dreaming of the praises of man or of an immortality of fame: the sense of duty, of right, and trust in God will be sufficient, and as far as the mind can reach, in that hour. If he were certain that there were no life to come, he would not have wished to speak or act otherwise than he did in the cause of truth or of humanity. Neither, on the other hand, will he suppose that God has forsaken him or that the future is to be a mere blank to him. The greatest act of faith, the only faith which cannot pass away, is his who has not known, but yet has believed. A very few among the sons of men have made themselves independent of circumstances, past, present, or to come. He who has attained to such a temper of mind has already present with him eternal life; he needs no arguments to convince him of immortality; he has in him already a principle stronger than death. He who serves man without the thought of reward is deemed to be a more faithful servant than he who works for hire. May not the service of God, which is the more disinterested, be in like manner the higher? And although only a very few in the course of the world’s history—Christ himself being one of them—have attained to such a noble conception of God and of the human soul, yet the ideal of them may be present to us, and the remembrance of them be an example to us, and their lives may shed a light on many dark places both of philosophy and theology.
The Myths of Plato.
The myths of Plato are a phenomenon unique in literature. There are four longer ones: these occur in the Phaedrus (244–256), Phaedo (110–115), Gorgias (523–527), and Republic (x. 614–621). That in the Republic is the most elaborate and finished of them. Three of these greater myths, namely those contained in the Phaedo, the Gorgias and the Republic, relate to the destiny of human souls in a future life. The magnificent myth in the Phaedrus treats of the immortality, or rather the eternity of the soul, in which is included a former as well as a future state of existence. To these may be added, (1) the myth, or rather fable, occurring in the Statesman (268–274), in which the life of innocence is contrasted with the ordinary life of man and the consciousness of evil: (2) the legend of the Island of Atlantis, an imaginary history, which is a fragment only, commenced in the Timaeus (21–26) and continued in the Critias: (3) the much less artistic fiction of the foundation of the Cretan colony which is introduced in the preface to the Laws (iii. 702), but soon falls into the background: (4) the beautiful but rather artificial tale of Prometheus and Epimetheus narrated in his rhetorical manner by Protagoras in the dialogue called after him (320–328): (5) the speech at the beginning of the Phaedrus (231–234), which is a parody of the orator Lysias; the rival speech of Socrates and the recantation of it (237–241). To these may be added (6) the tale of the grasshoppers, and (7) the tale of Thamus and of Theuth, both in the Phaedrus (259 and 274–5): (8) the parable of the Cave (Rep. vii. ad init.), in which the previous argument is recapitulated, and the nature and degrees of knowledge having been previously set forth in the abstract are represented in a picture: (9) the fiction of the earthborn men (Rep. iii. 414; cp. Laws ii. 664), in which by the adaptation of an old tradition Plato makes a new beginning for his society: (10) the myth of Aristophanes respecting the division of the sexes, Sym. 189: (11) the parable of the noble captain, the pilot, and the mutinous sailors (Rep. vi. 488), in which is represented the relation of the better part of the world, and of the philosopher, to the mob of politicians: (12) the ironical tale of the pilot who plies between Athens and Aegina charging only a small payment for saving men from death, the reason being that he is uncertain whether to live or die is better for them (Gor. 511): (13) the treatment of freemen and citizens by physicians and of slaves by their apprentices,—a somewhat laboured figure of speech intended to illustrate the two different ways in which the laws speak to men (Laws iv. 720). There also occur in Plato continuous images; some of them extend over several pages, appearing and reappearing at intervals: such as the bees stinging and stingless (paupers and thieves) in the Eighth Book of the Republic (554), who are generated in the transition from timocracy to oligarchy: the sun, which is to the visible world what the idea of good is to the intellectual, in the Sixth Book of the Republic (508–9): the composite animal, having the form of a man, but containing under a human skin a lion and a many-headed monster (Rep. ix. 588–9): the great beast (vi. 493), i.e. the populace: and the wild beast within us, meaning the passions which are always liable to break out (ix. 571): the animated comparisons of the degradation of philosophy by the arts to the dishonoured maiden (vi. 495–6), and of the tyrant to the parricide, who ‘beats his father, having first taken away his arms’ (viii. 569): the dog, who is your only philosopher (ii. 376 B): the grotesque and rather paltry image of the argument wandering about without a head (Laws vi. 752), which is repeated, not improved, from the Gorgias (509 D): the argument personified as veiling her face (Rep. vi. 503 A), as engaged in a chase (iv. 427 C), as breaking upon us in a first, second and third wave (v. 457 C, 472 A, 473 C):—on these figures of speech the changes are rung many times over. It is observable that nearly all these parables or continuous images are found in the Republic; that which occurs in the Theaetetus (149 ff.), of the midwifery of Socrates, is perhaps the only exception. To make the list complete, the mathematical figure of the number of the state (Rep. viii. 546), or the numerical interval which separates king from tyrant (ix. 587–8), should not be forgotten.
The myth in the Gorgias is one of those descriptions of another life which, like the Sixth Aeneid of Virgil, appear to contain reminiscences of the mysteries. It is a vision of the rewards and punishments which await good and bad men after death. It supposes the body to continue and to be in another world what it has become in this. It includes a Paradiso, Purgatorio, and Inferno, like the sister myths of the Phaedo and the Republic. The Inferno is reserved for great criminals only. The argument of the dialogue is frequently referred to, and the meaning breaks through so as rather to destroy the liveliness and consistency of the picture. The structure of the fiction is very slight, the chief point or moral being that in the judgments of another world there is no possibility of concealment: Zeus has taken from men the power of foreseeing death, and brings together the souls both of them and their judges naked and undisguised at the judgment-seat. Both are exposed to view, stripped of the veils and clothes which might prevent them from seeing into or being seen by one another.
The myth of the Phaedo is of the same type, but it is more cosmological, and also more poetical. The beautiful and ingenious fancy occurs to Plato that the upper atmosphere is an earth and heaven in one, a glorified earth, fairer and purer than that in which we dwell. As the fishes live in the ocean, mankind are living in a lower sphere, out of which they put their heads for a moment or two and behold a world beyond. The earth which we inhabit is a sediment of the coarser particles which drop from the world above, and is to that heavenly earth what the desert and the shores of the ocean are to us. A part of the myth consists of description of the interior of the earth, which gives the opportunity of introducing several mythological names and of providing places of torment for the wicked. There is no clear distinction of soul and body; the spirits beneath the earth are spoken of as souls only, yet they retain a sort of shadowy form when they cry for mercy on the shores of the lake; and the philosopher alone is said to have got rid of the body. All the three myths in Plato which relate to the world below have a place for repentant sinners, as well as other homes or places for the very good and very bad. It is a natural reflection which is made by Plato elsewhere, that the two extremes of human character are rarely met with, and that the generality of mankind are between them. Hence a place must be found for them. In the myth of the Phaedo they are carried down the river Acheron to the Acherusian lake, where they dwell, and are purified of their evil deeds, and receive the rewards of their good. There are also incurable sinners, who are cast into Tartarus, there to remain as the penalty of atrocious crimes; these suffer everlastingly. And there is another class of hardly-curable sinners who are allowed from time to time to approach the shores of the Acherusian lake, where they cry to their victims for mercy; which if they obtain they come out into the lake and cease from their torments.
Neither this, nor any of the three greater myths of Plato, nor perhaps any allegory or parable relating to the unseen world, is consistent with itself. The language of philosophy mingles with that of mythology; abstract ideas are transformed into persons, figures of speech into realities. These myths may be compared with the Pilgrim’s Progress of Bunyan, in which discussions of theology are mixed up with the incidents of travel, and mythological personages are associated with human beings: they are also garnished with names and phrases taken out of Homer, and with other fragments of Greek tradition.
The myth of the Republic is more subtle and also more consistent than either of the two others. It has a greater verisimilitude than they have, and is full of touches which recall the experiences of human life. It will be noticed by an attentive reader that the twelve days during which Er lay in a trance after he was slain coincide with the time passed by the spirits in their pilgrimage. It is a curious observation, not often made, that good men who have lived in a well-governed city (shall we say in a religious and respectable society?) are more likely to make mistakes in their choice of life than those who have had more experience of the world and of evil. It is a more familiar remark that we constantly blame others when we have only ourselves to blame; and the philosopher must acknowledge, however reluctantly, that there is an element of chance in human life with which it is sometimes impossible for man to cope. That men drink more of the waters of forgetfulness than is good for them is a poetical description of a familiar truth. We have many of us known men who, like Odysseus, have wearied of ambition and have only desired rest. We should like to know what became of the infants ‘dying almost as soon as they were born,’ but Plato only raises, without satisfying, our curiosity. The two companies of souls, ascending and descending at either chasm of heaven and earth, and conversing when they come out into the meadow, the majestic figures of the judges sitting in heaven, the voice heard by Ardiaeus, are features of the great allegory which have an indescribable grandeur and power. The remark already made respecting the inconsistency of the two other myths must be extended also to this: it is at once an orrery, or model of the heavens, and a picture of the Day of Judgment.
The three myths are unlike anything else in Plato. There is an Oriental, or rather an Egyptian element in them, and they have an affinity to the mysteries and to the Orphic modes of worship. To a certain extent they are un-Greek; at any rate there is hardly anything like them in other Greek writings which have a serious purpose; in spirit they are mediaeval. They are akin to what may be termed the underground religion in all ages and countries. They are presented in the most lively and graphic manner, but they are never insisted on as true; it is only affirmed that nothing better can be said about a future life. Plato seems to make use of them when he has reached the limits of human knowledge; or, to borrow an expression of his own, when he is standing on the outside of the intellectual world. They are very simple in style; a few touches bring the picture home to the mind, and make it present to us. They have also a kind of authority gained by the employment of sacred and familiar names, just as mere fragments of the words of Scripture, put together in any form and applied to any subject, have a power of their own. They are a substitute for poetry and mythology; and they are also a reform of mythology. The moral of them may be summed up in a word or two: After death the Judgment; and ‘there is some better thing remaining for the good than for the evil.’
All literature gathers into itself many elements of the past: for example, the tale of the earth-born men in the Republic appears at first sight to be an extravagant fancy, but it is restored to propriety when we remember that it is based on a legendary belief. The art of making stories of ghosts and apparitions credible is said to consist in the manner of telling them. The effect is gained by many literary and conversational devices, such as the previous raising of curiosity, the mention of little circumstances, simplicity, picturesqueness, the naturalness of the occasion, and the like. This art is possessed by Plato in a degree which has never been equalled.
The myth in the Phaedrus is even greater than the myths which have been already described, but is of a different character. It treats of a former rather than of a future life. It represents the conflict of reason aided by passion or righteous indignation on the one hand, and of the animal lusts and instincts on the other. The soul of man has followed the company of some god, and seen truth in the form of the universal before it was born in this world. Our present life is the result of the struggle which was then carried on. This world is relative to a former world, as it is often projected into a future. We ask the question, Where were men before birth? as we likewise enquire, What will become of them after death? The first question is unfamiliar to us, and therefore seems to be unnatural; but if we survey the whole human race, it has been as influential and as widely spread as the other. In the Phaedrus it is really a figure of speech in which the ‘spiritual combat’ of this life is represented. The majesty and power of the whole passage—especially of what may be called the theme or proem (beginning ‘The mind through all her being is immortal’)—can only be rendered very inadequately in another language.
The myth in the Statesman relates to a former cycle of existence, in which men were born of the earth, and by the reversal of the earth’s motion had their lives reversed and were restored to youth and beauty: the dead came to life; the old grew middle-aged, and the middle-aged young; the youth became a child, the child an infant, the infant vanished into the earth. The connection between the reversal of the earth’s motion and the reversal of human life is of course verbal only, yet Plato, like theologians in other ages, argues from the consistency of the tale to its truth. The new order of the world was immediately under the government of God; it was a state of innocence in which men had neither wants nor cares, in which the earth brought forth all things spontaneously, and God was to man what man now is to the animals. There were no great estates, or families, or private possessions, nor any traditions of the past, because men were all born out of the earth. This is what Plato calls the ‘reign of Cronos;’ and in like manner he connects the reversal of the earth’s motion with some legend of which he himself was probably the inventor.
The question is then asked, under which of these two cycles of existence was man the happier,—under that of Cronos, which was a state of innocence, or that of Zeus, which is our ordinary life? For a while Plato balances the two sides of the serious controversy, which he has suggested in a figure. The answer depends on another question: What use did the children of Cronos make of their time? They had boundless leisure and the faculty of discoursing, not only with one another, but with the animals. Did they employ these advantages with a view to philosophy, gathering from every nature some addition to their store of knowledge? or, Did they pass their time in eating and drinking and telling stories to one another and to the beasts?—in either case there would be no difficulty in answering. But then, as Plato rather mischievously adds, ‘Nobody knows what they did,’ and therefore the doubt must remain undetermined.
To the first there succeeds a second epoch. After another natural convulsion, in which the order of the world and of human life is once more reversed, God withdraws his guiding hand, and man is left to the government of himself. The world begins again, and arts and laws are slowly and painfully invented. A secular age succeeds to a theocratical. In this fanciful tale Plato has dropped, or almost dropped, the garb of mythology. He suggests several curious and important thoughts, such as the possibility of a state of innocence, the existence of a world without traditions, and the difference between human and divine government. He has also carried a step further his speculations concerning the abolition of the family and of property, which he supposes to have no place among the children of Cronos any more than in the ideal state.
It is characteristic of Plato and of his age to pass from the abstract to the concrete, from poetry to reality. Language is the expression of the seen, and also of the unseen, and moves in a region between them. A great writer knows how to strike both these chords, sometimes remaining within the sphere of the visible, and then again comprehending a wider range and soaring to the abstract and universal. Even in the same sentence he may employ both modes of speech not improperly or inharmoniously. It is useless to criticise the broken metaphors of Plato, if the effect of the whole is to create a picture not such as can be painted on canvas, but which is full of life and meaning to the reader. A poem may be contained in a word or two, which may call up not one but many latent images; or half reveal to us by a sudden flash the thoughts of many hearts. Often the rapid transition from one image to another is pleasing to us: on the other hand, any single figure of speech if too often repeated, or worked out too much at length, becomes prosy and monotonous. In theology and philosophy we necessarily include both ‘the moral law within and the starry heaven above,’ and pass from one to the other (cp. for examples Psalm xviii. 1–25, xix. 1–9, etc.). Whether such a use of language is puerile or noble depends upon the genius of the writer or speaker, and the familiarity of the associations employed.
In the myths and parables of Plato the ease and grace of conversation is not forgotten: they are spoken, not written words, stories which are told to a living audience, and so well told that we are more than half-inclined to believe them (cp. Phaedrus 274). As in conversation too, the striking image or figure of speech is not forgotten, but is quickly caught up, and alluded to again and again; as it would still be in our own day in a genial and sympathetic society. The descriptions of Plato have a greater life and reality than is to be found in any modern writing. This is due to their homeliness and simplicity. Plato can do with words just as he pleases; to him they are indeed ‘more plastic than wax’ (Rep. ix. 588 D). We are in the habit of opposing speech and writing, poetry and prose. But he has discovered a use of language in which they are united; which gives a fitting expression to the highest truths; and in which the trifles of courtesy and the familiarities of daily life are not overlooked.
GORGIAS.
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE.
Callicles.
Socrates.
Chaerephon.
Gorgias.
Polus.
Scene: The house of Callicles.
Callicles.
Gorgias.Socrates, Callicles. Chaerephon.
447The wise man, as the proverb says, is late for a fray, but not for a feast.
Socrates.
And are we late for a feast?
Cal.
Yes, and a delightful feast; for Gorgias has just been exhibiting to us many fine things.
Soc.
It is not my fault, Callicles; our friend Chaerephon is to blame; for he would keep us loitering in the Agora.
Chaerephon.
Never mind, Socrates; the misfortune of which I have been the cause I will also repair; for Gorgias is a friend of mine, and I will make him give the exhibition again either now, or, if you prefer, at some other time.
Cal.
What is the matter, Chaerephon—does Socrates want to hear Gorgias?
Chaer.
Yes, that was our intention in coming.
Cal.
Come into my house, then; for Gorgias is staying with me, and he shall exhibit to you.
Soc.
Very good, Callicles; but will he answer our questions? for I want to hear from him what is the nature of his art, and what it is which he professes and teaches; he may, as you [Chaerephon] suggest, defer the exhibition to some other time.
Cal.
Socrates, Gorgias, Chaerephon, Polus.
There is nothing like asking him, Socrates; and indeed to answer questions is a part of his exhibition, for he was saying only just now, that any one in my house might put any question to him, and that he would answer.
Soc.
How fortunate! will you ask him, Chaerephon—?
Chaer.
What shall I ask him?
Soc.
Ask him who he is.
Chaer.
What do you mean?
Soc.
I mean such a question as would elicit from him, if he had been a maker of shoes, the answer that he is a cobbler. Do you understand?
Chaer.
I understand, and will ask him: Tell me, Gorgias, is our friend Callicles right in saying that you undertake to answer any questions which you are asked?
Gorgias.
Quite right, Chaerephon: I was saying as much only just now; and I may add, that many years have elapsed 448 since any one has asked me a new one.
Chaer.
Then you must be very ready, Gorgias.
Gor.
Of that, Chaerephon, you can make trial.
Polus.
Polus offers to take the place of Gorgias in the argument.
Yes, indeed, and if you like, Chaerephon, you may make trial of me too, for I think that Gorgias, who has been talking a long time, is tired.
Chaer.
And do you, Polus, think that you can answer better than Gorgias?
Pol.
What does that matter if I answer well enough for you?
Chaer.
Not at all:—and you shall answer if you like.
Pol.
Ask:—
Chaer.
My question is this: If Gorgias had the skill of his brother Herodicus, what ought we to call him? Ought he not to have the name which is given to his brother?
Pol.
Certainly.
Chaer.
Then we should be right in calling him a physician?
Pol.
Yes.
Chaer.
The question is asked, ‘What is Gorgias?’
And if he had the skill of Aristophon the son of Aglaophon, or of his brother Polygnotus, what ought we to call him?
Pol.
Clearly, a painter.
Chaer.
But now what shall we call him—what is the art in which he is skilled?
Pol.
Socrates, Gorgias, Polus.Answer:—Gorgias is one of the best proficients in the noblest art.
O Chaerephon, there are many arts among mankind which are experimental, and have their origin in experience, for experience makes the days of men to proceed according to art, and inexperience according to chance, and different persons in different ways are proficient in different arts, and the best persons in the best arts. And our friend Gorgias is one of the best, and the art in which he is a proficient is the noblest.
Soc.
Polus has been taught how to make a capital speech, Gorgias; but he is not fulfilling the promise which he made to Chaerephon.
Gor.
What do you mean, Socrates?
Soc.
I mean that he has not exactly answered the question which he was asked.
Gor.
Then why not ask him yourself?
Soc.
But I would much rather ask you, if you are disposed to answer: for I see, from the few words which Polus has uttered, that he has attended more to the art which is called rhetoric than to dialectic.
Pol.
What makes you say so, Socrates?
Soc.
This is no answer.
Because, Polus, when Chaerephon asked you what was the art which Gorgias knows, you praised it as if you were answering some one who found fault with it, but you never said what the art was.
Pol.
Why, did I not say that it was the noblest of arts?
Soc.
Yes, indeed, but that was no answer to the question: nobody asked what was the quality, but what was the nature, of the art, and by what name we were to describe Gorgias. 449And I would still beg you briefly and clearly, as you answered Chaerephon when he asked you at first, to say what this art is, and what we ought to call Gorgias: Or rather, Gorgias, let me turn to you, and ask the same question,—what are we to call you, and what is the art which you profess?
Gor.
Better:—Gorgias is a rhetorician and a teacher of rhetoric.
Rhetoric, Socrates, is my art.
Soc.
Then I am to call you a rhetorician?
Gor.
Yes, Socrates, and a good one too, if you would call me that which, in Homeric language, ‘I boast myself to be.’
Soc.
I should wish to do so.
Gor.
Then pray do.
Soc.
Socrates, Gorgias.
And are we to say that you are able to make other men rhetoricians?
Gor.
Yes, that is exactly what I profess to make them, not only at Athens, but in all places.
Soc.
And will you continue to ask and answer questions, Gorgias, as we are at present doing, and reserve for another occasion the longer mode of speech which Polus was attempting? Will you keep your promise, and answer shortly the questions which are asked of you?
Gor.
Some answers, Socrates, are of necessity longer; but I will do my best to make them as short as possible; for a part of my profession is that I can be as short as any one.
Soc.
That is what is wanted, Gorgias; exhibit the shorter method now, and the longer one at some other time.
Gor.
Well, I will; and you will certainly say, that you never heard a man use fewer words.
Soc.
Very good then; as you profess to be a rhetorician, and a maker of rhetoricians, let me ask you, with what is rhetoric concerned: I might ask with what is weaving concerned, and you would reply (would you not?), with the making of garments?
Gor.
Yes.
Soc.
And music is concerned with the composition of melodies?
Gor.
It is.
Soc.
By Herè, Gorgias, I admire the surpassing brevity of your answers.
Gor.
Yes, Socrates, I do think myself good at that.
Soc.
And rhetoric is concerned with discourse.
I am glad to hear it; answer me in like manner about rhetoric: with what is rhetoric concerned?
Gor.
With discourse.
Soc.
What sort of discourse, Gorgias?—such discourse as would teach the sick under what treatment they might get well?
Gor.
No.
Soc.
Then rhetoric does not treat of all kinds of discourse?
Gor.
Certainly not.
Soc.
And yet rhetoric makes men able to speak?
Gor.
Yes.
Soc.
And to understand that about which they speak?
Gor.
Of course.
Soc.
But does not the art of medicine, which we were just 450now mentioning, also make men able to understand and speak about the sick?
Gor.
Certainly.
Soc.
Then medicine also treats of discourse?
Gor.
Yes.
Soc.
Of discourse concerning diseases?
Gor.
Just so.
Soc.
And does not gymnastic also treat of discourse concerning the good or evil condition of the body?
Gor.
Very true.
Soc.
But so are all the other arts.
And the same, Gorgias, is true of the other arts:—all of them treat of discourse concerning the subjects with which they severally have to do.
Gor.
Clearly.
Soc.
Then why, if you call rhetoric the art which treats of discourse, and all the other arts treat of discourse, do you not call them arts of rhetoric?
Gor.
Because, Socrates, the knowledge of the other arts has only to do with some sort of external action, as of the hand; but there is no such action of the hand in rhetoric which works and takes effect only through the medium of discourse. And therefore I am justified in saying that rhetoric treats of discourse.
Soc.
I am not sure whether I entirely understand you, but I dare say I shall soon know better; please to answer me a question:—you would allow that there are arts?
Gor.
Yes.
Soc.
As to the arts generally, they are for the most part concerned with doing, and require little or no speaking; in painting, and statuary, and many other arts, the work may proceed in silence; and of such arts I suppose you would say that they do not come within the province of rhetoric.
Gor.
You perfectly conceive my meaning, Socrates.
Soc.
You mean to say that rhetoric belongs to that class of arts which is chiefly concerned with words.
But there are other arts which work wholly through the medium of language, and require either no action or very little, as, for example, the arts of arithmetic, of calculation, of geometry, and of playing draughts; in some of these speech is pretty nearly co-extensive with action, but in most of them the verbal element is greater—they depend wholly on words for their efficacy and power: and I take your meaning to be that rhetoric is an art of this latter sort?
Gor.
Exactly.
Soc.
And yet you would not call arithmetic rhetoric.
And yet I do not believe that you really mean to call any of these arts rhetoric; although the precise expression which you used was, that rhetoric is an art which works and takes effect only through the medium of discourse; and an adversary who wished to be captious might say, ‘And so, Gorgias, you call arithmetic rhetoric.’ But I do not think that you really call arithmetic rhetoric any more than geometry would be so called by you. 451
Gor.
You are quite right, Socrates, in your apprehension of my meaning.
Soc.
Illustrations.
Well, then, let me now have the rest of my answer:—seeing that rhetoric is one of those arts which works mainly by the use of words, and there are other arts which also use words, tell me what is that quality in words with which rhetoric is concerned:—Suppose that a person asks me about some of the arts which I was mentioning just now; he might say, ‘Socrates, what is arithmetic?’ and I should reply to him, as you replied to me, that arithmetic is one of those arts which take effect through words. And then he would proceed to ask: ‘Words about what?’ and I should reply, Words about odd and even numbers, and how many there are of each. And if he asked again: ‘What is the art of calculation?’ I should say, That also is one of the arts which is concerned wholly with words. And if he further said, ‘Concerned with what?’ I should say, like the clerks in the assembly, ‘as aforesaid’ of arithmetic, but with a difference, the difference being that the art of calculation considers not only the quantities of odd and even numbers, but also their numerical relations to themselves and to one another. And suppose, again, I were to say that astronomy is only words—he would ask, ‘Words about what, Socrates?’ and I should answer, that astronomy tells us about the motions of the stars and sun and moon, and their relative swiftness.
Gor.
You would be quite right, Socrates.
Soc.
And now let us have from you, Gorgias, the truth about rhetoric: which you would admit (would you not?) to be one of those arts which act always and fulfil all their ends through the medium of words?
Gor.
Rhetoric has to do with words: about the greatest and best of human things.
True.
Soc.
Words which do what? I should ask. To what class of things do the words which rhetoric uses relate?
Gor.
To the greatest, Socrates, and the best of human things.
Soc.
That again, Gorgias, is ambiguous; I am still in the dark: for which are the greatest and best of human things? I dare say that you have heard men singing at feasts the old drinking song, in which the singers enumerate the goods of life, first health, beauty next, thirdly, as the writer of the song says, wealth honestly obtained.
Gor.
452Yes, I know the song; but what is your drift?
Soc.
But which are they?
I mean to say, that the producers of those things which the author of the song praises, that is to say, the physician, the trainer, the money-maker, will at once come to you, and first the physician will say: ‘O Socrates, Gorgias is deceiving you, for my art is concerned with the greatest good of men and not his.’ And when I ask, Who are you? he will reply, ‘I am a physician.’ What do you mean? I shall say. Do you mean that your art produces the greatest good? ‘Certainly,’ he will answer, ‘for is not health the greatest good? What greater good can men have, Socrates?’ And after him the trainer will come and say, ‘I too, Socrates, shall be greatly surprised if Gorgias can show more good of his art than I can show of mine.’ To him again I shall say, Who are you, honest friend, and what is your business? ‘I am a trainer,’ he will reply, ‘and my business is to make men beautiful and strong in body.’ When I have done with the trainer, there arrives the money-maker, and he, as I expect, will utterly despise them all. ‘Consider, Socrates,’ he will say, ‘whether Gorgias or any one else can produce any greater good than wealth.’ Well, you and I say to him, and are you a creator of wealth? ‘Yes,’ he replies. And who are you? ‘A money-maker.’ And do you consider wealth to be the greatest good of man? ‘Of course,’ will be his reply. And we shall rejoin: Yes; but our friend Gorgias contends that his art produces a greater good than yours. And then he will be sure to go on and ask, ‘What good? Let Gorgias answer.’ Now I want you, Gorgias, to imagine that this question is asked of you by them and by me; What is that which, as you say, is the greatest good of man, and of which you are the creator? Answer us.
Gor.
Freedom and power,
That good, Socrates, which is truly the greatest, being that which gives to men freedom in their own persons, and to individuals the power of ruling over others in their several states.
Soc.
And what would you consider this to be?
Gor.
and the word which gives them.
What is there greater than the word which persuades the judges in the courts, or the senators in the council, or the citizens in the assembly, or at any other political meeting?—if you have the power of uttering this word, you will have the physician your slave, and the trainer your slave, and the money-maker of whom you talk will be found to gather treasures, not for himself, but for you who are able to speak and to persuade the multitude.
Soc.
Now I think, Gorgias, that you have very accurately explained what you conceive to be the art of rhetoric; and you mean to say, if I am not mistaken, that rhetoric is the 453artificer of persuasion, having this and no other business, and that this is her crown and end. Do you know any other effect of rhetoric over and above that of producing persuasion?
Gor.
Rhetoric is the art of persuading, says Gorgias.
No: the definition seems to me very fair, Socrates; for persuasion is the chief end of rhetoric.
Soc.
Then hear me, Gorgias, for I am quite sure that if there ever was a man who entered on the discussion of a matter from a pure love of knowing the truth, I am such a one, and I should say the same of you.
Gor.
What is coming, Socrates?
Soc.
I will tell you: I am very well aware that I do not know what, according to you, is the exact nature, or what are the topics of that persuasion of which you speak, and which is given by rhetoric; although I have a suspicion about both the one and the other. And I am going to ask—what is this power of persuasion which is given by rhetoric, and about what? But why, if I have a suspicion, do I ask instead of telling you? Not for your sake, but in order that the argument may proceed in such a manner as is most likely to set forth the truth. And I would have you observe, that I am right in asking this further question: If I asked, ‘What sort of a painter is Zeuxis?’ and you said, ‘The painter of figures,’ should I not be right in asking, ‘What kind of figures, and where do you find them?’
Gor.
Certainly.
Soc.
And the reason for asking this second question would be, that there are other painters besides, who paint many other figures?
Gor.
True.
Soc.
But if there had been no one but Zeuxis who painted them, then you would have answered very well?
Gor.
Quite so.
Soc.
But so is arithmetic, so is painting.
Now I want to know about rhetoric in the same way;—is rhetoric the only art which brings persuasion, or do other arts have the same effect? I mean to say—Does he who teaches anything persuade men of that which he teaches or not?
Gor.
He persuades, Socrates,—there can be no mistake about that.
Soc.
Again, if we take the arts of which we were just now speaking:—do not arithmetic and the arithmeticians teach us the properties of number?
Gor.
Certainly.
Soc.
And therefore persuade us of them?
Gor.
Yes.
Soc.
Then arithmetic as well as rhetoric is an artificer of persuasion?
Gor.
Clearly.
Soc.
And if any one asks us what sort of persuasion, and about what,—we shall answer, persuasion which teaches the quantity of odd and even; and we shall be able to show that 454all the other arts of which we were just now speaking are artificers of persuasion, and of what sort, and about what.
Gor.
Very true.
Soc.
Then rhetoric is not the only artificer of persuasion?
Gor.
True.
Soc.
Of what persuasion is rhetoric the artificer?
Seeing, then, that not only rhetoric works by persuasion, but that other arts do the same, as in the case of the painter, a question has arisen which is a very fair one: Of what persuasion is rhetoric the artificer, and about what?—is not that a fair way of putting the question?
Gor.
I think so.
Soc.
Then, if you approve the question, Gorgias, what is the answer?
Gor.
Of persuasion in the courts and assemblies about the just and unjust.
I answer, Socrates, that rhetoric is the art of persuasion in courts of law and other assemblies, as I was just now saying, and about the just and unjust.
Soc.
And that, Gorgias, was what I was suspecting to be your notion; yet I would not have you wonder if by-and-by I am found repeating a seemingly plain question; for I ask not in order to confute you, but as I was saying that the argument may proceed consecutively, and that we may not get the habit of anticipating and suspecting the meaning of one another’s words; I would have you develope your own views in your own way, whatever may be your hypothesis.
Gor.
I think that you are quite right, Socrates.
Soc.
Then let me raise another question; there is such a thing as ‘having learned’?
Gor.
Yes.
Soc.
And there is also ‘having believed’?
Gor.
Yes.
Soc.
Knowledge and belief are not the same things; for there may be a false belief, but not a false knowledge.
And is the ‘having learned’ the same as ‘having believed,’ and are learning and belief the same things?
Gor.
In my judgment, Socrates, they are not the same.
Soc.
And your judgment is right, as you may ascertain in this way:—If a person were to say to you, ‘Is there, Gorgias, a false belief as well as a true?’—you would reply, if I am not mistaken, that there is.
Gor.
Yes.
Soc.
Well, but is there a false knowledge as well as a true?
Gor.
No.
Soc.
No, indeed; and this again proves that knowledge and belief differ.
Gor.
Very true.
Soc.
And yet those who have learned as well as those who have believed are persuaded?
Gor.
Just so.
Soc.
Shall we then assume two sorts of persuasion,—one which is the source of belief without knowledge, as the other is of knowledge?
Gor.
By all means.
Soc.
And which sort of persuasion does rhetoric create in courts of law and other assemblies about the just and unjust, the sort of persuasion which gives belief without knowledge, or that which gives knowledge?
Gor.
455Clearly, Socrates, that which only gives belief.
Soc.
And rhetoric is only the creator of a belief, but gives no instruction.
Then rhetoric, as would appear, is the artificer of a persuasion which creates belief about the just and unjust, but gives no instruction about them?
Gor.
True.
Soc.
And the rhetorician does not instruct the courts of law or other assemblies about things just and unjust, but he creates belief about them; for no one can be supposed to instruct such a vast multitude about such high matters in a short time?
Gor.
Certainly not.
Soc.
Neither is the rhetorician taken into counsel when anything has to be done.
Come, then, and let us see what we really mean about rhetoric; for I do not know what my own meaning is as yet. When the assembly meets to elect a physician or a shipwright or any other craftsman, will the rhetorician be taken into counsel? Surely not. For at every election he ought to be chosen who is most skilled; and, again, when walls have to be built or harbours or docks to be constructed, not the rhetorician but the master workman will advise; or when generals have to be chosen and an order of battle arranged, or a position taken, then the military will advise and not the rhetoricians: what do you say, Gorgias? Since you profess to be a rhetorician and a maker of rhetoricians, I cannot do better than learn the nature of your art from you. And here let me assure you that I have your interest in view as well as my own. For likely enough some one or other of the young men present might desire to become your pupil, and in fact I see some, and a good many too, who have this wish, but they would be too modest to question you. And therefore when you are interrogated by me, I would have you imagine that you are interrogated by them. ‘What is the use of coming to you, Gorgias?’ they will say—‘about what will you teach us to advise the state?—about the just and unjust only, or about those other things also which Socrates has just mentioned?’ How will you answer them?
Gor.
But, says Gorgias, he will persuade people to do it.
I like your way of leading us on, Socrates, and I will endeavour to reveal to you the whole nature of rhetoric. You must have heard, I think, that the docks and the walls of the Athenians and the plan of the harbour were devised in accordance with the counsels, partly of Themistocles, and partly of Pericles, and not at the suggestion of the builders.
Soc.
Such is the tradition, Gorgias, about Themistocles; and I myself heard the speech of Pericles when he advised us about the middle wall.
Gor.
And you will observe, Socrates, that when a decision 456has to be given in such matters the rhetoricians are the advisers; they are the men who win their point.
Soc.
I had that in my admiring mind, Gorgias, when I asked what is the nature of rhetoric, which always appears to me, when I look at the matter in this way, to be a marvel of greatness.
Gor.
The rhetorician more than a match for a man of any other profession.His pupils may make a bad use of his instructions, but he is not to be blamed for this.
A marvel, indeed, Socrates, if you only knew how rhetoric comprehends and holds under her sway all the inferior arts. Let me offer you a striking example of this. On several occasions I have been with my brother Herodicus or some other physician to see one of his patients, who would not allow the physician to give him medicine, or apply the knife or hot iron to him; and I have persuaded him to do for me what he would not do for the physician just by the use of rhetoric. And I say that if a rhetorician and a physician were to go to any city, and had there to argue in the Ecclesia or any other assembly as to which of them should be elected state-physician, the physician would have no chance; but he who could speak would be chosen if he wished; and in a contest with a man of any other profession the rhetorician more than any one would have the power of getting himself chosen, for he can speak more persuasively to the multitude than any of them, and on any subject. Such is the nature and power of the art of rhetoric! And yet, Socrates, rhetoric should be used like any other competitive art, not against everybody,—the rhetorician ought not to abuse his strength any more than a pugilist or pancratiast or other master of fence;—because he has powers which are more than a match either for friend or enemy, he ought not therefore to strike, stab, or slay his friends. Suppose a man to have been trained in the palestra and to be a skilful boxer,—he in the fulness of his strength goes and strikes his father or mother or one of his familiars or friends; but that is no reason why the trainers or fencing-masters should be held in detestation or banished from the city;—surely not. For they taught their art for a good purpose, to be used against enemies and evil-doers, in self-defence not in aggression, and others have perverted 457their instructions, and turned to a bad use their own strength and skill. But not on this account are the teachers bad, neither is the art in fault, or bad in itself; I should rather say that those who make a bad use of the art are to blame. And the same argument holds good of rhetoric; for the rhetorician can speak against all men and upon any subject,—in short, he can persuade the multitude better than any other man of anything which he pleases, but he should not therefore seek to defraud the physician or any other artist of his reputation merely because he has the power; he ought to use rhetoric fairly, as he would also use his athletic powers. And if after having become a rhetorician he makes a bad use of his strength and skill, his instructor surely ought not on that account to be held in detestation or banished. For he was intended by his teacher to make a good use of his instructions, but he abuses them. And therefore he is the person who ought to be held in detestation, banished, and put to death, and not his instructor.
Soc.
If Gorgias, like Socrates, is one of those who rejoice in being refuted, he would like to cross-examine him; if not, not.Socrates, Gorgias, Chaerephon, Callicles.
You, Gorglas, like myself, have had great experience of disputations, and you must have observed, I think, that they do not always terminate in mutual edification, or in the definition by either party of the subjects which they are discussing; but disagreements are apt to arise—somebody says that another has not spoken truly or clearly; and then they get into a passion and begin to quarrel, both parties conceiving that their opponents are arguing from personal feeling only and jealousy of themselves, not from any interest in the question at issue. And sometimes they will go on abusing one another until the company at last are quite vexed at themselves for ever listening to such fellows. Why do I say this? Why, because I cannot help feeling that you are now saying what is not quite consistent or accordant with what you were saying at first about rhetoric. And I am afraid to point this out to you, lest you should think that I have some animosity against you, and that I speak, not for the sake of discovering the truth, but from jealousy of you. Now if you are one of my sort, I should like to cross-examine you, but if not I will let you alone. And what is my sort? 458you will ask. I am one of those who are very willing to be refuted if I say anything which is not true, and very willing to refute any one else who says what is not true, and quite as ready to be refuted as to refute; for I hold that this is the greater gain of the two, just as the gain is greater of being cured of a very great evil than of curing another. For I imagine that there is no evil which a man can endure so great as an erroneous opinion about the matters of which we are speaking; and if you claim to be one of my sort, let us have the discussion out, but if you would rather have done, no matter;—let us make an end of it.
Gor.
I should say, Socrates, that I am quite the man whom you indicate; but, perhaps, we ought to consider the audience, for, before you came, I had already given a long exhibition, and if we proceed the argument may run on to a great length. And therefore I think that we should consider whether we may not be detaining some part of the company when they are wanting to do something else.
Chaer.
Delight of the audience at the prospect of an argument.
You hear the audience cheering, Gorgias and Socrates, which shows their desire to listen to you; and for myself, Heaven forbid that I should have any business on hand which would take me away from a discussion so interesting and so ably maintained.
Cal.
By the gods, Chaerephon, although I have been present at many discussions, I doubt whether I was ever so much delighted before, and therefore if you go on discoursing all day I shall be the better pleased.
Soc.
I may truly say, Callicles, that I am willing, if Gorgias is.
Gor.
Socrates, Gorgias.
After all this, Socrates, I should be disgraced if I refused, especially as I have promised to answer all comers; in accordance with the wishes of the company, then, do you begin, and ask of me any question which you like.
Soc.
Let me tell you then, Gorgias, what surprises me in your words; though I dare say that you may be right, and I may have misunderstood your meaning. You say that you can make any man, who will learn of you, a rhetorician?
Gor.
Yes.
Soc.
Do you mean that you will teach him to gain the ears of the multitude on any subject, and this not by instruction 459but by persuasion?
Gor.
Quite so.
Soc.
The rhetorician has greater powers of persuasion with the mob than e. g. the physician.
You were saying, in fact, that the rhetorician will have greater powers of persuasion than the physician even in a matter of health?
Gor.
Yes, with the multitude,—that is.
Soc.
You mean to say, with the ignorant; for with those who know he cannot be supposed to have greater powers of persuasion.
Gor.
Very true.
Soc.
The more ignorant therefore will have more power than he who knows.
But if he is to have more power of persuasion than the physician, he will have greater power than he who knows?
Gor.
Certainly.
Soc.
Although he is not a physician:—is he?
Gor.
No.
Soc.
And he who is not a physician must, obviously, be ignorant of what the physician knows.
Gor.
Clearly.
Soc.
Then, when the rhetorician is more persuasive than the physician, the ignorant is more persuasive with the ignorant than he who has knowledge?—is not that the inference?
Gor.
In the case supposed:—yes.
Soc.
And the same holds of the relation of rhetoric to all the other arts; the rhetorician need not know the truth about things; he has only to discover some way of persuading the ignorant that he has more knowledge than those who know?
Gor.
Yes, Socrates, and is not this a great comfort?—not to have learned the other arts, but the art of rhetoric only, and yet to be in no way inferior to the professors of them?
Soc.
And is the rhetorician as ignorant of good and evil, just and unjust, as about special arts; or will Gorgias teach him these things first?
Whether the rhetorician is or is not inferior on this account is a question which we will hereafter examine if the enquiry is likely to be of any service to us; but I would rather begin by asking, whether he is or is not as ignorant of the just and unjust, base and honourable, good and evil, as he is of medicine and the other arts; I mean to say, does he really know anything of what is good and evil, base or honourable, just or unjust in them; or has he only a way with the ignorant of persuading them that he not knowing is to be esteemed to know more about these things than some one else who knows? Or must the pupil know these things and come to you knowing them before he can acquire the art of rhetoric? If he is ignorant, you who are the teacher of rhetoric will not teach him — it is not your business; but you will make him seem to the multitude to know them, when he does not know them; and seem to be a good man, when he is not. Or will you be unable to teach him rhetoric 460at all, unless he knows the truth of these things first? What is to be said about all this? By heaven, Gorgias, I wish that you would reveal to me the power of rhetoric, as you were saying that you would.
Gor.
He must be taught.
Well, Socrates, I suppose that if the pupil does chance not to know them, he will have to learn of me these things as well.
Soc.
Say no more, for there you are right; and so he whom you make a rhetorician must either know the nature of the just and unjust already, or he must be taught by you.
Gor.
Certainly.
Soc.
Well, and is not he who has learned carpentering a carpenter?
Gor.
Yes.
Soc.
And he who has learned music a musician?
Gor.
Yes.
Soc.
And he who has learned medicine is a physician, in like manner? He who has learned anything whatever is that which his knowledge makes him.
Gor.
Certainly.
Soc.
And in the same way, he who has learned what is just is just?
Gor.
To be sure.
Soc.
He who has learned what is just, is admitted to be just and to act justly. But if so, the rhetorician, having learned what is just, must act justly, and can never therefore make an ill use of rhetoric.
And he who is just may be supposed to do what is just?
Gor.
Yes.
Soc.
And must not1 the just man always desire to do what is just?
Gor.
That is clearly the inference.
Soc.
Surely, then, the just man will never consent to do injustice?
Gor.
Certainly not.
Soc.
And according to the argument the rhetorician must be a just man?
Gor.
Yes.
Soc.
And will therefore never be willing to do injustice?
Gor.
Clearly not.
Soc.
But do you remember saying just now that the trainer is not to be accused or banished if the pugilist makes a wrong use of his pugilistic art; and in like manner, if the rhetorician makes a bad and unjust use of his rhetoric, that is not to be laid to the charge of his teacher, who is not to be banished, but the wrong-doer himself who made a bad use of his rhetoric—he is to be banished—was not that said?
Gor.
Yes, it was.
Soc.
But now we are affirming that the aforesaid rhetorician will never have done injustice at all?
Gor.
True.
Soc.
And at the very outset, Gorgias, it was said that rhetoric treated of discourse, not [like arithmetic] about odd and even, but about just and unjust? Was not this said?
Gor.
Yes.
Soc.
Socrates, Polus.
I was thinking at the time, when I heard you saying so, that rhetoric, which is always discoursing about justice, could not possibly be an unjust thing. But when you added, shortly afterwards, that the rhetorician might make a bad use 461of rhetoric I noted with surprise the inconsistency into which you had fallen; and I said, that if you thought, as I did, that there was a gain in being refuted, there would be an advantage in going on with the question, but if not, I would leave off. And in the course of our investigations, as you will see yourself, the rhetorician has been acknowledged to be incapable of making an unjust use of rhetoric or of willingness to do injustice. By the dog, Gorgias, there will be a great deal of discussion, before we get at the truth of all this.
Polus.
The paradoxes of Socrates arouse the ire of Polus.
And do even you, Socrates, seriously believe what you are now saying about rhetoric? What! because Gorgias was ashamed to deny that the rhetorician knew the just and the honourable and the good, and admitted that to any one who came to him ignorant of them he could teach them, and then out of this admission there arose a contradiction—the thing which you so dearly love, and to which not he, but you, brought the argument by your captious questions—[do you seriously believe that there is any truth in all this?] For will any one ever acknowledge that he does not know, or cannot teach, the nature of justice? The truth is, that there is great want of manners in bringing the argument to such a pass.
Soc.
Socrates is willing enough to receive his correction, if he will only be brief.
Illustrious Polus, the reason why we provide ourselves with friends and children is, that when we get old and stumble, a younger generation may be at hand to set us on our legs again in our words and in our actions: and now, if I and Gorgias are stumbling, here are you who should raise us up; and I for my part engage to retract any error into which you may think that I have fallen—upon one condition:
Pol.
What condition?
Soc.
That you contract, Polus, the prolixity of speech in which you indulged at first.
Pol.
‘Am I to be deprived of speech in a free state?’
What! do you mean that I may not use as many words as I please?
Soc.
‘Am I to be compelled to listen?’
Only to think, my friend, that having come on a visit to Athens, which is the most free-spoken state in Hellas, you when you got there, and you alone, should be deprived of the power of speech—that would be hard indeed. But then consider my case:—shall not I be very hardly used, if, when you are making a long oration, and refusing to answer what you are asked, I am compelled to stay and listen to you, and may 462not go away? I say rather, if you have a real interest in the argument, or, to repeat my former expression, have any desire to set it on its legs, take back any statement which you please; and in your turn ask and answer, like myself and Gorgias—refute and be refuted: for I suppose that you would claim to know what Gorgias knows—would you not?
Pol.
Yes.
Soc.
And you, like him, invite any one to ask you about anything which he pleases, and you will know how to answer him?
Pol.
To be sure.
Soc.
And now, which will you do, ask or answer?
Pol.
I will ask; and do you answer me, Socrates, the same question which Gorgias, as you suppose, is unable to answer: What is rhetoric?
Soc.
Do you mean what sort of an art?
Pol.
Yes.
Soc.
Socrates in his answer contrives to give Polus a lesson.
To say the truth, Polus, it is not an art at all, in my opinion.
Pol.
Then what, in your opinion, is rhetoric?
Soc.
A thing which, as I was lately reading in a book of yours, you say that you have made an art.
Pol.
What thing?
Soc.
I should say a sort of experience.
Pol.
Does rhetoric seem to you to be an experience?
Soc.
That is my view, but you may be of another mind.
Pol.
An experience in what?
Soc.
An experience in producing a sort of delight and gratification.
Pol.
And if able to gratify others, must not rhetoric be a fine thing?
Soc.
What are you saying, Polus? Why do you ask me whether rhetoric is a fine thing or not, when I have not as yet told you what rhetoric is?
Pol.
Did I not hear you say that rhetoric was a sort of experience?
Soc.
Will you, who are so desirous to gratify others, afford a slight gratification to me?
Pol.
I will.
Soc.
Will you ask me, what sort of an art is cookery?
Pol.
What sort of an art is cookery?
Soc.
Not an art at all, Polus.
Pol.
Socrates, Polus, Gorgias.
What then?
Soc.
I should say an experience.
Pol.
He puts rhetoric and cookery in the same class;
In what? I wish that you would explain to me.
Soc.
An experience in producing a sort of delight and gratification, Polus.
Pol.
Then are cookery and rhetoric the same?
Soc.
No, they are only different parts of the same profession.
Pol.
Of what profession?
Soc.
I am afraid that the truth may seem discourteous; and I hesitate to answer, lest Gorgias should imagine that I am making fun of his own profession. For whether or no this is that art of rhetoric which Gorgias practises I 463really cannot tell:—from what he was just now saying, nothing appeared of what he thought of his art, but the rhetoric which I mean is a part of a not very creditable whole.
Gor.
A part of what, Socrates? Say what you mean, and never mind me.
Soc.
and that class is flattery.
In my opinion then, Gorgias, the whole of which rhetoric is a part is not an art at all, but the habit of a bold and ready wit, which knows how to manage mankind: this habit I sum up under the word ‘flattery;’ and it appears to me to have many other parts, one of which is cookery, which may seem to be an art, but, as I maintain, is only an experience or routine and not an art:—another part is rhetoric, and the art of attiring and sophistry are two others: thus there are four branches, and four different things answering to them. And Polus may ask, if he likes, for he has not as yet been informed, what part of flattery is rhetoric: he did not see that I had not yet answered him when he proceeded to ask a further question: Whether I do not think rhetoric a fine thing? But I shall not tell him whether rhetoric is a fine thing or not, until I have first answered, ‘What is rhetoric?’ For that would not be right, Polus; but I shall be happy to answer, if you will ask me, What part of flattery is rhetoric?
Pol.
I will ask, and do you answer? What part of flattery is rhetoric?
Soc.
Will you understand my answer? Rhetoric, according to my view, is the ghost or counterfeit of a part of politics.
Pol.
Rhetoric is the shadow of a part of politics.
And noble or ignoble?
Soc.
Ignoble, I should say, if I am compelled to answer, for I call what is bad ignoble:—though I doubt whether you understand what I was saying before.
Gor.
Indeed, Socrates, I cannot say that I understand myself.
Soc.
I do not wonder, Gorgias; for I have not as yet explained myself, and our friend Polus, colt by name and colt by nature, is apt to run away1 .
Gor.
‘But what in the world does this mean?’
Never mind him, but explain to me what you mean by saying that rhetoric is the counterfeit of a part of politics.
Soc.
I will try, then, to explain my notion of rhetoric, and 464if I am mistaken, my friend Polus shall refute me. We may assume the existence of bodies and of souls?
Gor.
Of course.
Soc.
Returning to first principles, Socrates assumes the existence of souls and bodies which may or may not be in a good condition, real or apparent.
You would further admit that there is a good condition of either of them?
Gor.
Yes.
Soc.
Which condition may not be really good, but good only in appearance? I mean to say, that there are many persons who appear to be in good health, and whom only a physician or trainer will discern at first sight not to be in good health.
Gor.
True.
Soc.
And this applies not only to the body, but also to the soul: in either there may be that which gives the appearance of health and not the reality?
Gor.
Yes, certainly.
Soc.
To the soul corresponds the art of politics which has two parts, legislation and justice, and to the body corresponds another nameless art of training which has two parts, medicine and gymnastic; and these four have four shams corresponding to them.Socrates.
And now I will endeavour to explain to you more clearly what I mean: The soul and body being two, have two arts corresponding to them: there is the art of politics attending on the soul; and another art attending on the body, of which I know no single name, but which may be described as having two divisions, one of them gymnastic, and the other medicine. And in politics there is a legislative part, which answers to gymnastic, as justice does to medicine; and the two parts run into one another, justice having to do with the same subject as legislation, and medicine with the same subject as gymnastic, but with a difference. Now, seeing that there are these four arts, two attending on the body and two on the soul for their highest good; flattery knowing, or rather guessing their natures, has distributed herself into four shams or simulations of them; she puts on the likeness of some one or other of them, and pretends to be that which she simulates, and having no regard for men’s highest interests, is ever making pleasure the bait of the unwary, and deceiving them into the belief that she is of the highest value to them. Cookery simulates the disguise of medicine, and pretends to know what food is the best for the body; and if the physician and the cook had to enter into a competition in which children were the judges, or men who had no more sense than children, as to which of them best understands the goodness or badness of food, the physician would be starved to death. A flattery I deem this to be and of an ignoble sort, Polus, for to you 465I am now addressing myself, because it aims at pleasure without any thought of the best. An art I do not call it, but only an experience, because it is unable to explain or to give a reason of the nature of its own applications. And I do not call any irrational thing an art; but if you dispute my words, I am prepared to argue in defence of them.
Cookery, then, I maintain to be a flattery which takes the form of medicine; and tiring, in like manner, is a flattery which takes the form of gymnastic, and is knavish, false, ignoble, illiberal, working deceitfully by the help of lines, and colours, and enamels, and garments, and making men affect a spurious beauty to the neglect of the true beauty which is given by gymnastic.
The shams are cooking, dressing up, sophistry, rhetoric.
I would rather not be tedious, and therefore I will only say, after the manner of the geometricians, (for I think that by this time you will be able to follow,)
as tiring : gymnastic : : cookery : medicine;
or rather,
as tiring : gymnastic : : sophistry : legislation;
and
Socrates, Polus.
as cookery : medicine : : rhetoric : justice.
Socrates excuses himself for the length at which he has spoken.
And this, I say, is the natural difference between the rhetorician and the sophist, but by reason of their near connection, they are apt to be jumbled up together; neither do they know what to make of themselves, nor do other men know what to make of them. For if the body presided over itself, and were not under the guidance of the soul, and the soul did not discern and discriminate between cookery and medicine, but the body was made the judge of them, and the rule of judgment was the bodily delight which was given by them, then the word of Anaxagoras, that word with which you, friend Polus, are so well acquainted, would prevail far and wide: ‘Chaos’ would come again, and cookery, health, and medicine would mingle in an indiscriminate mass. And now I have told you my notion of rhetoric, which is, in relation to the soul, what cookery is to the body. I may have been inconsistent in making a long speech, when I would not allow you to discourse at length. But I think that I may be excused, because you did not understand me, and could make no use of my answer when I spoke shortly, and therefore 466I had to enter into an explanation. And if I show an equal inability to make use of yours, I hope that you will speak at equal length; but if I am able to understand you, let me have the benefit of your brevity, as is only fair: And now you may do what you please with my answer.
Pol.
What do you mean? do you think that rhetoric is flattery?
Soc.
Nay, I said a part of flattery; if at your age, Polus, you cannot remember, what will you do by-and-by, when you get older?
Pol.
And are the good rhetoricians meanly regarded in states, under the idea that they are flatterers?
Soc.
Is that a question or the beginning of a speech?
Pol.
I am asking a question.
Soc.
Then my answer is, that they are not regarded at all.
Pol.
Polus cannot be made to understand that rhetoricians have
How not regarded? Have they not very great power in states?
Soc.
Not if you mean to say that power is a good to the possessor.
Pol.
And that is what I do mean to say.
Soc.
Then, if so, I think that they have the least power of all the citizens.
Pol.
no real power in a state, because they do not do what they ultimately will, but only what they think best.
What! are they not like tyrants? They kill and despoil and exile any one whom they please.
Soc.
By the dog, Polus, I cannot make out at each deliverance of yours, whether you are giving an opinion of your own, or asking a question of me.
Pol.
I am asking a question of you.
Soc.
Yes, my friend, but you ask two questions at once.
Pol.
How two questions?
Soc.
Why, did you not say just now that the rhetoricians are like tyrants, and that they kill and despoil or exile any one whom they please?
Pol.
I did.
Soc.
Well then, I say to you that here are two questions in one, and I will answer both of them. And I tell you, Polus, that rhetoricians and tyrants have the least possible power in states, as I was just now saying; for they do literally nothing which they will, but only what they think best.
Pol.
And is not that a great power?
Soc.
Polus has already said the reverse.
Pol.
Said the reverse! nay, that is what I assert.
Soc.
No, by the great—what do you call him?—not you, for you say that great power is a good to him who has the power.
Pol.
I do.
Soc.
And would you maintain that if a fool does what he thinks best, this is a good, and would you call this great power?
Pol.
I should not.
Soc.
For a fool and a flatterer cannot know what is good.
Then you must prove that the rhetorician is not a fool, and that rhetoric is an art and not a flattery—and so 467you will have refuted me; but if you leave me unrefuted, why, the rhetoricians who do what they think best in states, and the tyrants, will have nothing upon which to congratulate themselves, if, as you say, power be indeed a good, admitting at the same time that what is done without sense is an evil.
Pol.
Yes: I admit that.
Soc.
How then can the rhetoricians or the tyrants have great power in states, unless Polus can refute Socrates, and prove to him that they do as they will?
Pol.
This fellow—
Soc.
I say that they do not do as they will;—now refute me.
Pol.
Why, have you not already said that they do as they think best?
Soc.
And I say so still.
Pol.
Then surely they do as they will?
Soc.
I deny it.
Pol.
But they do what they think best?
Soc.
Aye.
Pol.
That, Socrates, is monstrous and absurd.
Soc.
Good words, good Polus, as I may say in your own peculiar style; but if you have any questions to ask of me, either prove that I am in error or give the answer yourself.
Pol.
Very well, I am willing to answer that I may know what you mean.
Soc.
Do men appear to you to will that which they do, or to will that further end for the sake of which they do a thing? when they take medicine, for example, at the bidding of a physician, do they will the drinking of the medicine which is painful, or the health for the sake of which they drink?
Pol.
Clearly, the health.
Soc.
And when men go on a voyage or engage in business, they do not will that which they are doing at the time; for who would desire to take the risk of a voyage or the trouble of business?—But they will, to have the wealth for the sake of which they go on a voyage.
Pol.
Certainly.
Soc.
A man cannot will unless he knows the ultimate good for the sake of which he acts.
And is not this universally true? If a man does something for the sake of something else, he wills not that which he does, but that for the sake of which he does it.
Pol.
Yes.
Soc.
And are not all things either good or evil, or intermediate and indifferent?
Pol.
To be sure, Socrates.
Soc.
Wisdom and health and wealth and the like you would call goods, and their opposites evils?
Pol.
I should.
Soc.
And the things which are neither good nor evil, and 468which partake sometimes of the nature of good and at other times of evil, or of neither, are such as sitting, walking, running, sailing; or, again, wood, stones, and the like:—these are the things which you call neither good nor evil?
Pol.
Exactly so.
Soc.
Are these indifferent things done for the sake of the good, or the good for the sake of the indifferent?
Pol.
Clearly, the indifferent for the sake of the good.
Soc.
When we walk we walk for the sake of the good, and under the idea that it is better to walk, and when we stand we stand equally for the sake of the good?
Pol.
Yes.
Soc.
And when we kill a man we kill him or exile him or despoil him of his goods, because, as we think, it will conduce to our good?
Pol.
Certainly.
Soc.
Men who do any of these things do them for the sake of the good?
Pol.
Yes.
Soc.
And did we not admit that in doing something for the sake of something else, we do not will those things which we do, but that other thing for the sake of which we do them?
Pol.
Most true.
Soc.
Then we do not will simply to kill a man or to exile him or to despoil him of his goods, but we will to do that which conduces to our good, and if the act is not conducive to our good we do not will it; for we will, as you say, that which is our good, but that which is neither good nor evil, or simply evil, we do not will. Why are you silent, Polus? Am I not right?
Pol.
You are right.
Soc.
Hence we may infer, that if any one, whether he be a tyrant or a rhetorician, kills another or exiles another or deprives him of his property, under the idea that the act is for his own interests when really not for his own interests, he may be said to do what seems best to him?
Pol.
Yes.
Soc.
But does he do what he wills if he does what is evil? Why do you not answer?
Pol.
No man does what he wills who does what is evil.
Well, I suppose not.
Soc.
Then if great power is a good as you allow, will such a one have great power in a state?
Pol.
He will not.
Soc.
Then I was right in saying that a man may do what seems good to him in a state, and not have great power, and not do what he wills?
Pol.
As though you, Socrates, would not like to have the power of doing what seemed good to you in the state, rather than not; you would not be jealous when you saw any one killing or despoiling or imprisoning whom he pleased, Oh, no!
Soc.
469Justly or unjustly, do you mean?
Pol.
In either case is he not equally to be envied?
Soc.
Forbear, Polus!
Pol.
Why ‘forbear’?
Soc.
Because you ought not to envy wretches who are not to be envied, but only to pity them.
Pol.
And are those of whom I spoke wretches?
Soc.
Yes, certainly they are.
Pol.
He who makes a bad use of power is not to be envied, but pitied.
And so you think that he who slays any one whom he pleases, and justly slays him, is pitiable and wretched?
Soc.
No, I do not say that of him: but neither do I think that he is to be envied.
Pol.
Were you not saying just now that he is wretched?
Soc.
Yes, my friend, if he killed another unjustly, in which case he is also to be pitied; and he is not to be envied if he killed him justly.
Pol.
At any rate you will allow that he who is unjustly put to death is wretched, and to be pitied?
Soc.
Not so much, Polus, as he who kills him, and not so much as he who is justly killed.
Pol.
How can that be, Socrates?
Soc.
That may very well be, inasmuch as doing injustice is the greatest of evils.
Pol.
But is it the greatest? Is not suffering injustice a greater evil?
Soc.
Certainly not.
Pol.
Then would you rather suffer than do injustice?
Soc.
Better to suffer than to do injustice.
I should not like either, but if I must choose between them, I would rather suffer than do.
Pol.
Then you would not wish to be a tyrant?
Soc.
Not if you mean by tyranny what I mean.
Pol.
I mean, as I said before, the power of doing whatever seems good to you in a state, killing, banishing, doing in all things as you like.
Soc.
A tyrant has no real power any more than a man who runs out into the Agora carrying a dagger.
Well then, illustrious friend, when I have said my say, do you reply to me. Suppose that I go into a crowded Agora, and take a dagger under my arm. Polus, I say to you, I have just acquired rare power, and become a tyrant; for if I think that any of these men whom you see ought to be put to death, the man whom I have a mind to kill is as good as dead; and if I am disposed to break his head or tear his garment, he will have his head broken or his garment torn in an instant. Such is my great power in this city. And if you do not believe me, and I show you the dagger, you would probably reply: Socrates, in that sort of way any one may have great power—he may burn any house which he pleases, and the docks and triremes of the Athenians, and all their other vessels, whether public or private—but can you believe that this mere doing as you think best is great power?
Pol.
Certainly not such doing as this.
Soc.
But can you tell me why you disapprove of such a 470power?
Pol.
I can.
Soc.
Why then?
Pol.
Why, because he who did as you say would be certain to be punished.
Soc.
And punishment is an evil?
Pol.
Certainly.
Soc.
And you would admit once more, my good sir, that great power is a benefit to a man if his actions turn out to his advantage, and that this is the meaning of great power; and if not, then his power is an evil and is no power. But let us look at the matter in another way:—do we not acknowledge that the things of which we were speaking, the infliction of death, and exile, and the deprivation of property are sometimes a good and sometimes not a good?
Pol.
Certainly.
Soc.
Even what we commonly call the evils of life may be goods in disguise.
About that you and I may be supposed to agree?
Pol.
Yes.
Soc.
Tell me, then, when do you say that they are good and when that they are evil—what principle do you lay down?
Pol.
I would rather, Socrates, that you should answer as well as ask that question.
Soc.
Well, Polus, since you would rather have the answer from me, I say that they are good when they are just, and evil when they are unjust.
Pol.
You are hard of refutation, Socrates, but might not a child refute that statement?
Soc.
Then I shall be very grateful to the child, and equally grateful to you if you will refute me and deliver me from my foolishness. And I hope that refute me you will, and not weary of doing good to a friend.
Pol.
Yes, Socrates, and I need not go far or appeal to antiquity; events which happened only a few days ago are enough to refute you, and to prove that many men who do wrong are happy.
Soc.
What events?
Pol.
You see, I presume, that Archelaus the son of Perdiccas is now the ruler of Macedonia?
Soc.
At any rate I hear that he is.
Pol.
And do you think that he is happy or miserable?
Soc.
I cannot say, Polus, for I have never had any acquaintance with him.
Pol.
And cannot you tell at once, and without having an acquaintance with him, whether a man is happy?
Soc.
Most certainly not.
Pol.
Is the great king happy?
Then clearly, Socrates, you would say that you did not even know whether the great king was a happy man?
Soc.
And I should speak the truth; for I do not know how he stands in the matter of education and justice.
Pol.
What! and does all happiness consist in this?
Soc.
Yes, indeed, Polus, that is my doctrine; the men and women who are gentle and good are also happy, as I maintain, and the unjust and evil are miserable.
Pol.
Then, according to your doctrine, the said Archelaus 471is miserable?
Soc.
Yes, my friend, if he is wicked.
Pol.
Polus attempts to prove the happiness of the unjust by the story of Archelaus, who has lately by many crimes gained the throne of Macedonia.
That he is wicked I cannot deny; for he had no title at all to the throne which he now occupies, he being only the son of a woman who was the slave of Alcetas the brother of Perdiccas; he himself therefore in strict right was the slave of Alcetas; and if he had meant to do rightly he would have remained his slave, and then, according to your doctrine, he would have been happy. But now he is unspeakably miserable, for he has been guilty of the greatest crimes: in the first place he invited his uncle and master, Alcetas, to come to him, under the pretence that he would restore to him the throne which Perdiccas had usurped, and after entertaining him and his son Alexander, who was his own cousin, and nearly of an age with him, and making them drunk, he threw them into a waggon and carried them off by night, and slew them, and got both of them out of the way; and when he had done all this wickedness he never discovered that he was the most miserable of all men, and was very far from repenting: shall I tell you how he showed his remorse? he had a younger brother, a child of seven years old, who was the legitimate son of Perdiccas, and to him of right the kingdom belonged; Archelaus, however, had no mind to bring him up as he ought and restore the kingdom to him; that was not his notion of happiness; but not long afterwards he threw him into a well and drowned him, and declared to his mother Cleopatra that he had fallen in while running after a goose, and had been killed. And now as he is the greatest criminal of all the Macedonians, he may be supposed to be the most miserable and not the happiest of them, and I dare say that there are many Athenians, and you would be at the head of them, who would rather be any other Macedonian than Archelaus!
Soc.
Socrates sees no force in such arguments.
I praised you at first, Polus, for being a rhetorician rather than a reasoner. And this, as I suppose, is the sort of argument with which you fancy that a child might refute me, and by which I stand refuted when I say that the unjust man is not happy. But, my good friend, where is the refutation? I cannot admit a word which you have been saying.
Pol.
That is because you will not; for you surely must think as I do.
Soc.
The multitude of witnesses are nothing to him.He must convince his opponent and himself by argument.
Not so, my simple friend, but because you will refute me after the manner which rhetoricians practise in courts of law. For there the one party think that they refute the other when they bring forward a number of witnesses of good repute in proof of their allegations, and their adversary 472has only a single one or none at all. But this kind of proof is of no value where truth is the aim; a man may often be sworn down by a multitude of false witnesses who have a great air of respectability. And in this argument nearly every one, Athenian and stranger alike, would be on your side, if you should bring witnesses in disproof of my statement;—you may, if you will, summon Nicias the son of Niceratus, and let his brothers, who gave the row of tripods which stand in the precincts of Dionysus, come with him; or you may summon Aristocrates, the son of Scellius, who is the giver of that famous offering which is at Delphi; summon, if you will, the whole house of Pericles, or any other great Athenian family whom you choose;—they will all agree with you: I only am left alone and cannot agree, for you do not convince me; although you produce many false witnesses against me, in the hope of depriving me of my inheritance, which is the truth. But I consider that nothing worth speaking of will have been effected by me unless I make you the one witness of my words; nor by you, unless you make me the one witness of yours; no matter about the rest of the world. For there are two ways of refutation, one which is yours and that of the world in general; but mine is of another sort—let us compare them, and see in what they differ. For, indeed, we are at issue about matters which to know is honourable and not to know disgraceful; to know or not to know happiness and misery—that is the chief of them. And what knowledge can be nobler? or what ignorance more disgraceful than this? And therefore I will begin by asking you whether you do not think that a man who is unjust and doing injustice can be happy, seeing that you think Archelaus unjust, and yet happy? May I assume this to be your opinion?
Pol.
Certainly.
Soc.
According to Polus the unjust man may be happy if he is unpunished: Socrates maintains that he is more happy, or less unhappy, if he meets with retribution.
But I say that this is an impossibility—here is one point about which we are at issue:—very good. And do you mean to say also that if he meets with retribution and punishment he will still be happy?
Pol.
Certainly not; in that case he will be most miserable.
Soc.
On the other hand, if the unjust be not punished, then, according to you, he will be happy?
Pol.
Yes.
Soc.
But in my opinion, Polus, the unjust or doer of unjust actions is miserable in any case,—more miserable, however, if he be not punished and does not meet with retribution, and less miserable if he be punished and meets with retribution at the hands of gods and men. 473
Pol.
You are maintaining a strange doctrine, Socrates.
Soc.
I shall try to make you agree with me, O my friend, for as a friend I regard you. Then these are the points at issue between us—are they not? I was saying that to do is worse than to suffer injustice?
Pol.
Exactly so.
Soc.
And you said the opposite?
Pol.
Yes.
Soc.
I said also that the wicked are miserable, and you refuted me?
Pol.
By Zeus I did.
Soc.
In your own opinion, Polus.
Pol.
Yes, and I rather suspect that I was in the right.
Soc.
You further said that the wrong-doer is happy if he be unpunished?
Pol.
Certainly.
Soc.
And I affirm that he is most miserable, and that those who are punished are less miserable—are you going to refute this proposition also?
Pol.
A proposition which is harder of refutation than the other, Socrates.
Soc.
Say rather, Polus, impossible; for who can refute the truth?
Pol.
What nonsense! Do you mean that the man who expires among tortures is happier than the successful tyrant?
What do you mean? If a man is detected in an unjust attempt to make himself a tyrant, and when detected is racked, mutilated, has his eyes burned out, and after having had all sorts of great injuries inflicted on him, and having seen his wife and children suffer the like, is at last impaled or tarred and burned alive, will he be happier than if he escape and become a tyrant, and continue all through life doing what he likes and holding the reins of government, the envy and admiration both of citizens and strangers? Is that the paradox which, as you say, cannot be refuted?
Soc.
There again, noble Polus, you are raising hobgoblins instead of refuting me; just now you were calling witnesses against me. But please to refresh my memory a little; did you say—‘in an unjust attempt to make himself a tyrant’?
Pol.
Yes, I did.
Soc.
Neither is to be called happy if both are wicked.
Then I say that neither of them will be happier than the other,—neither he who unjustly acquires a tyranny, nor he who suffers in the attempt, for of two miserables one cannot be the happier, but that he who escapes and becomes a tyrant is the more miserable of the two. Do you laugh, Polus? Well, this is a new kind of refutation,—when any one says anything, instead of refuting him to laugh at him.
Pol.
Why refute what nobody believes? Ask the company.
But do you not think, Socrates, that you have been sufficiently refuted, when you say that which no human being will allow? Ask the company.
Soc.
Socrates never could count heads. [This is his description of one of the noblest actions of his life.]Say rather, why affirm what every body knows?
O Polus, I am not a public man, and only last year, when my tribe were serving as Prytanes, and it became my duty as their president to take the votes, there was a laugh at 474me, because I was unable to take them. And as I failed then, you must not ask me to count the suffrages of the company now; but if, as I was saying, you have no better argument than numbers, let me have a turn, and do you make trial of the sort of proof which, as I think, is required; for I shall produce one witness only of the truth of my words, and he is the person with whom I am arguing; his suffrage I know how to take; but with the many I have nothing to do, and do not even address myself to them. May I ask then whether you will answer in turn and have your words put to the proof? For I certainly think that I and you and every man do really believe, that to do is a greater evil than to suffer injustice: and not to be punished than to be punished.
Pol.
And I should say neither I, nor any man: would you yourself, for example, suffer rather than do injustice?
Soc.
Yes, and you, too; I or any man would.
Pol.
Quite the reverse; neither you, nor I, nor any man.
Soc.
But will you answer?
Pol.
To be sure, I will; for I am curious to hear what you can have to say.
Soc.
Polus, while denying that to do injustice is worse than to suffer, acknowledges it to be more disgraceful. Hence the shipwreck of his argument.
Tell me, then, and you will know, and let us suppose that I am beginning at the beginning: which of the two, Polus, in your opinion, is the worst?—to do injustice or to suffer?
Pol.
I should say that suffering was worst.
Soc.
And which is the greater disgrace?—Answer.
Pol.
To do.
Soc.
And the greater disgrace is the greater evil?
Pol.
Certainly not.
Soc.
I understand you to say, if I am not mistaken, that the honourable is not the same as the good, or the disgraceful as the evil?
Pol.
Certainly not.
Soc.
Let me ask a question of you: When you speak of beautiful things, such as bodies, colours, figures, sounds, institutions, do you not call them beautiful in reference to some standard: bodies, for example, are beautiful in proportion as they are useful, or as the sight of them gives pleasure to the spectators; can you give any other account of personal beauty?
Pol.
I cannot.
Soc.
And you would say of figures or colours generally that they were beautiful, either by reason of the pleasure which they give, or of their use, or of both?
Pol.
Yes, I should.
Soc.
And you would call sounds and music beautiful for the same reason?
Pol.
I should.
Soc.
Laws and institutions also have no beauty in them except in so far as they are useful or pleasant or both?
Pol.
I think not. 475
Soc.
And may not the same be said of the beauty of knowledge?
Pol.
To be sure, Socrates; and I very much approve of your measuring beauty by the standard of pleasure and utility.
Soc.
All things may be measured by the standard of pleasure and utility or of pain and evil.
And deformity or disgrace may be equally measured by the opposite standard of pain and evil?
Pol.
Certainly.
Soc.
Then when of two beautiful things one exceeds in beauty, the measure of the excess is to be taken in one or both of these; that is to say, in pleasure or utility or both?
Pol.
Very true.
Soc.
And of two deformed things, that which exceeds in deformity or disgrace, exceeds either in pain or evil—must it not be so?
Pol.
Yes.
Soc.
But then again, what was the observation which you just now made, about doing and suffering wrong? Did you not say, that suffering wrong was more evil, and doing wrong more disgraceful?
Pol.
I did.
Soc.
If to do is, as Polus admits, more disgraceful than to endure wrong, it must also be more evil.
Then, if doing wrong is more disgraceful than suffering, the more disgraceful must be more painful and must exceed in pain or in evil or both: does not that also follow?
Pol.
Of course.
Soc.
First, then, let us consider whether the doing of injustice exceeds the suffering in the consequent pain: Do the injurers suffer more than the injured?
Pol.
No, Socrates; certainly not.
Soc.
Then they do not exceed in pain?
Pol.
No.
Soc.
But if not in pain, then not in both?
Pol.
Certainly not.
Soc.
Then they can only exceed in the other?
Pol.
Yes.
Soc.
That is to say, in evil?
Pol.
True.
Soc.
Then doing injustice will have an excess of evil, and will therefore be a greater evil than suffering injustice?
Pol.
Clearly.
Soc.
But have not you and the world already agreed that to do injustice is more disgraceful than to suffer?
Pol.
Yes.
Soc.
And that is now discovered to be more evil?
Pol.
True.
Soc.
And would you prefer a greater evil or a greater dishonour to a less one? Answer, Polus, and fear not; for you will come to no harm if you nobly resign yourself into the healing hand of the argument as to a physician without shrinking, and either say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ to me.
Pol.
I should say ‘No.’
Soc.
Would any other man prefer a greater to a less evil?
Pol.
No, not according to this way of putting the case, Socrates.
Soc.
Polus is refuted out of his own mouth.
Then I said truly, Polus, that neither you, nor I, nor any man, would rather do than suffer injustice; for to do injustice is the greater evil of the two.
Pol.
That is the conclusion.
Soc.
The next question: Is it better for the guilty to suffer or not to suffer punishment?
You see, Polus, when you compare the two kinds of refutations, how unlike they are. All men, with the exception of myself, are of your way of thinking; but your single assent and witness are enough for me,—I have no need of any 476other; I take your suffrage, and am regardless of the rest. Enough of this, and now let us proceed to the next question; which is, Whether the greatest of evils to a guilty man is to suffer punishment, as you supposed, or whether to escape punishment is not a greater evil, as I supposed. Consider:—You would say that to suffer punishment is another name for being justly corrected when you do wrong?
Pol.
I should.
Soc.
And would you not allow that all just things are honourable in so far as they are just? Please to reflect, and tell me your opinion.
Pol.
Yes, Socrates, I think that they are.
Soc.
Consider again:—Where there is an agent, must there not also be a patient?
Pol.
I should say so.
Soc.
And will not the patient suffer that which the agent does, and will not the suffering have the quality of the action? I mean, for example, that if a man strikes, there must be something which is stricken?
Pol.
Yes.
Soc.
And if the striker strikes violently or quickly, that which is struck will be struck violently or quickly?
Pol.
True.
Soc.
And the suffering to him who is stricken is of the same nature as the act of him who strikes?
Pol.
Yes.
Soc.
And if a man burns, there is something which is burned?
Pol.
Certainly.
Soc.
And if he burns in excess or so as to cause pain, the thing burned will be burned in the same way?
Pol.
Truly.
Soc.
And if he cuts, the same argument holds—there will be something cut?
Pol.
Yes.
Soc.
And if the cutting be great or deep or such as will cause pain, the cut will be of the same nature?
Pol.
That is evident.
Soc.
Since the affection of the patient answers to the act of the agent, it follows that he who is punished justly suffers justly, and therefore honourably,
Then you would agree generally to the universal proposition which I was just now asserting: that the affection of the patient answers to the act of the agent?
Pol.
I agree.
Soc.
Then, as this is admitted, let me ask whether being punished is suffering or acting?
Pol.
Suffering, Socrates; there can be no doubt of that.
Soc.
And suffering implies an agent?
Pol.
Certainly, Socrates; and he is the punisher.
Soc.
And he who punishes rightly, punishes justly?
Pol.
Yes.
Soc.
And therefore he acts justly?
Pol.
Justly.
Soc.
Then he who is punished and suffers retribution, suffers justly?
Pol.
That is evident.
Soc.
And that which is just has been admitted to be honourable?
Pol.
Certainly.
Soc.
Then the punisher does what is honourable, and the punished suffers what is honourable?
Pol.
True.
Soc.
And if what is honourable, then what is good, for the honourable is either pleasant or useful? 477
Pol.
Certainly.
Soc.
Then he who is punished suffers what is good?
Pol.
That is true.
Soc.
Then he is benefited?
Pol.
Yes.
Soc.
Do I understand you to mean what I mean by the term ‘benefited’? I mean, that if he be justly punished his soul is improved.
Pol.
Surely.
Soc.
Then he who is punished is delivered from the evil of his soul?
Pol.
Yes.
Soc.
and is delivered from the greatest of all evils, the evil of the soul, which, being the most disgraceful, is also the most painful or hurtful.
And is he not then delivered from the greatest evil? Look at the matter in this way:—In respect of a man’s estate, do you see any greater evil than poverty?
Pol.
There is no greater evil.
Soc.
Again, in a man’s bodily frame, you would say that the evil is weakness and disease and deformity?
Pol.
I should.
Soc.
And do you not imagine that the soul likewise has some evil of her own?
Pol.
Of course.
Soc.
And this you would call injustice and ignorance and cowardice, and the like?
Pol.
Certainly.
Soc.
So then, in mind, body, and estate, which are three, you have pointed out three corresponding evils—injustice, disease, poverty?
Pol.
True.
Soc.
And which of the evils is the most disgraceful?—Is not the most disgraceful of them injustice, and in general the evil of the soul?
Pol.
By far the most.
Soc.
And if the most disgraceful, then also the worst?
Pol.
What do you mean, Socrates?
Soc.
I mean to say, that what is most disgraceful has been already admitted to be most painful or hurtful, or both.
Pol.
Certainly.
Soc.
And now injustice and all evil in the soul has been admitted by us to be most disgraceful?
Pol.
It has been admitted.
Soc.
And most disgraceful either because most painful and causing excessive pain, or most hurtful, or both?
Pol.
Certainly.
Soc.
And therefore to be unjust and intemperate, and cowardly and ignorant, is more painful than to be poor and sick?
Pol.
Polus stumbles at the notion which he has already admitted, that the evil of the soul is more painful than that of the body.
Nay, Socrates; the painfulness does not appear to me to follow from your premises.
Soc.
Then, if, as you would argue, not more painful, the evil of the soul is of all evils the most disgraceful; and the excess of disgrace must be caused by some preternatural greatness, or extraordinary hurtfulness of the evil.
Pol.
Clearly.
Soc.
And that which exceeds most in hurtfulness will be the greatest of evils?
Pol.
Yes.
Soc.
Then injustice and intemperance, and in general the depravity of the soul, are the greatest of evils?
Pol.
That is evident.
Soc.
Now, what art is there which delivers us from poverty? Does not the art of making money?
Pol.
Yes.
Soc.
And what art frees us from disease? Does not the art of medicine?
Pol.
Very true.
Soc.
478And what from vice and injustice? If you are not able to answer at once, ask yourself whither we go with the sick, and to whom we take them.
Pol.
To the physicians, Socrates.
Soc.
And to whom do we go with the unjust and intemperate?
Pol.
To the judges, you mean.
Soc.
—Who are to punish them?
Pol.
Yes.
Soc.
And do not those who rightly punish others, punish them in accordance with a certain rule of justice?
Pol.
Clearly.
Soc.
Then the art of money-making frees a man from poverty; medicine from disease; and justice from intemperance and injustice?
Pol.
That is evident.
Soc.
Which, then, is the best of these three?
Pol.
Will you enumerate them?
Soc.
Money-making, medicine, and justice.
Pol.
Justice, Socrates, far excels the two others.
Soc.
And justice, if the best, gives the greatest pleasure or advantage or both?
Pol.
Yes.
Soc.
But is the being healed a pleasant thing, and are those who are being healed pleased?
Pol.
I think not.
Soc.
A useful thing, then?
Pol.
Yes.
Soc.
Punishment is the deliverance from evil, and he who is punished, like him who is healed, is happier than he who is not punished or not healed.
Yes, because the patient is delivered from a great evil; and this is the advantage of enduring the pain—that you get well?
Pol.
Certainly.
Soc.
And would he be the happier man in his bodily condition, who is healed, or who never was out of health?
Pol.
Clearly he who was never out of health.
Soc.
Yes; for happiness surely does not consist in being delivered from evils, but in never having had them.
Pol.
True.
Soc.
And suppose the case of two persons who have some evil in their bodies, and that one of them is healed and delivered from evil, and another is not healed, but retains the evil—which of them is the most miserable?
Pol.
Clearly he who is not healed.
Soc.
And was not punishment said by us to be a deliverance from the greatest of evils, which is vice?
Pol.
True.
Soc.
And justice punishes us, and makes us more just, and is the medicine of our vice?
Pol.
True.
Soc.
Happiest of all is he who is just;
He, then, has the first place in the scale of happiness who has never had vice in his soul; for this has been shown to be the greatest of evils.
Pol.
Clearly.
Soc.
And he has the second place, who is delivered from vice?
Pol.
happy in the second degree he who is delivered from injustice by punishment, most deluded and most unhappy of all he who lives on, enjoying the fruit of his crimes.
True.
Soc.
That is to say, he who receives admonition and rebuke and punishment?
Pol.
Yes.
Soc.
Then he lives worst, who, having been unjust, has no deliverance from injustice?
Pol.
Certainly.
Soc.
479That is, he lives worst who commits the greatest crimes, and who, being the most unjust of men, succeeds in escaping rebuke or correction or punishment; and this, as you say, has been accomplished by Archelaus and other tyrants and rhetoricians and potentates1 ?
Pol.
True.
Soc.
May not their way of proceeding, my friend, be compared to the conduct of a person who is afflicted with the worst of diseases and yet contrives not to pay the penalty to the physician for his sins against his constitution, and will not be cured, because, like a child, he is afraid of the pain of being burned or cut:—Is not that a parallel case?
Pol.
Yes, truly.
Soc.
He would seem as if he did not know the nature of health and bodily vigour; and if we are right, Polus, in our previous conclusions, they are in a like case who strive to evade justice, which they see to be painful, but are blind to the advantage which ensues from it, not knowing how far more miserable a companion a diseased soul is than a diseased body; a soul, I say, which is corrupt and unrighteous and unholy. And hence they do all that they can to avoid punishment and to avoid being released from the greatest of evils; they provide themselves with money and friends, and cultivate to the utmost their powers of persuasion. But if we, Polus, are right, do you see what follows, or shall we draw out the consequences in form?
Pol.
If you please.
Soc.
Is it not a fact that injustice, and the doing of injustice, is the greatest of evils?
Pol.
That is quite clear.
Soc.
And further, that to suffer punishment is the way to be released from this evil?
Pol.
True.
Soc.
And not to suffer, is to perpetuate the evil?
Pol.
Yes.
Soc.
To do wrong, then, is second only in the scale of evils; but to do wrong and not to be punished, is first and greatest of all?
Pol.
That is true.
Soc.
Archelaus then is more miserable than his victims.
Well, and was not this the point in dispute, my friend? You deemed Archelaus happy, because he was a very great criminal and unpunished: I, on the other hand, maintained that he or any other who like him has done wrong and has not been punished, is, and ought to be, the most miserable of all men; and that the doer of injustice is more miserable than the sufferer; and he who escapes punishment, more miserable than he who suffers.—Was not that what I said?
Pol.
Yes.
Soc.
And it has been proved to be true?
Pol.
Certainly.
Soc.
Well, Polus, but if this is true, where is the great use 480of rhetoric? If we admit what has been just now said, every man ought in every way to guard himself against doing wrong, for he will thereby suffer great evil?
Pol.
True.
Soc.
Injustice, if not removed, will become the cancer of the soul.
And if he, or any one about whom he cares, does wrong, he ought of his own accord to go where he will be immediately punished; he will run to the judge, as he would to the physician, in order that the disease of injustice may not be rendered chronic and become the incurable cancer of the soul; must we not allow this consequence, Polus, if our former admissions are to stand:—is any other inference consistent with them?
Pol.
To that, Socrates, there can be but one answer.
Soc.
The only use of rhetoric is that it enables a man toSocrates, Polus, Callicles.expose his own injustice and to petition for speedy punishment.
Then rhetoric is of no use to us, Polus, in helping a man to excuse his own injustice, or that of his parents or friends, or children or country; but may be of use to any one who holds that instead of excusing he ought to accuse—himself above all, and in the next degree his family or any of his friends who may be doing wrong; he should bring to light the iniquity and not conceal it, that so the wrong-doer may suffer and be made whole; and he should even force himself and others not to shrink, but with closed eyes like brave men to let the physician operate with knife or searing iron, not regarding the pain, in the hope of attaining the good and the honourable; let him who has done things worthy of stripes, allow himself to be scourged, if of bonds, to be bound, if of a fine, to be fined, if of exile, to be exiled, if of death, to die, himself being the first to accuse himself and his own relations, and using rhetoric to this end, that his and their unjust actions may be made manifest, and that they themselves may be delivered from injustice, which is the greatest evil. Then, Polus, rhetoric would indeed be useful. Do you say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ to that?
Pol.
To me, Socrates, what you are saying appears very strange, though probably in agreement with your premises.
Soc.
Is not this the conclusion, if the premises are not disproven?
Pol.
Yes; it certainly is.
Soc.
A slighter and secondary use of rhetoric in self-defence against an enemy, or in preventing the punishment of an enemy.
And from the opposite point of view, if indeed it be our duty to harm another, whether an enemy or not—I except the case of self-defence—then I have to be upon my 481guard—but if my enemy injures a third person, then in every sort of way, by word as well as deed, I should try to prevent his being punished, or appearing before the judge; and if he appears, I should contrive that he should escape, and not suffer punishment: if he has stolen a sum of money, let him keep what he has stolen and spend it on him and his, regardless of religion and justice; and if he have done things worthy of death, let him not die, but rather be immortal in his wickedness; or, if this is not possible, let him at any rate be allowed to live as long as he can. For such purposes, Polus, rhetoric may be useful, but is of small if of any use to him who is not intending to commit injustice; at least, there was no such use discovered by us in the previous discussion.
Cal.
Tell me, Chaerephon, is Socrates in earnest, or is he joking?
Chaer.
Socrates, Callias, Chaerephon.
I should say, Callicles, that he is in most profound earnest; but you may as well ask him.
Cal.
Callicles asks in amazement whether Socrates really means what he says.
By the gods, and I will. Tell me, Socrates, are you in earnest, or only in jest? For if you are in earnest, and what you say is true, is not the whole of human life turned upside down; and are we not doing, as would appear, in everything the opposite of what we ought to be doing?
Soc.
I am only repeating the words of philosophy, whose lover I am. For as you love the Athenian people and their namesake Demus, so I have two loves, philosophy and Alcibiades.The son of Cleinias is inconstant, but philosophy is ever the same: she it is whom you have to refute: I am only her mouthpiece.Socrates, Callicles.
O Callicles, if there were not some community of feelings among mankind, however varying in different persons—I mean to say, if every man’s feelings were peculiar to himself and were not shared by the rest of his species—I do not see how we could ever communicate our impressions to one another. I make this remark because I perceive that you and I have a common feeling. For we are lovers both, and both of us have two loves apiece:—I am the lover of Alcibiades, the son of Cleinias, and of philosophy; and you of the Athenian Demus, and of Demus the son of Pyrilampes. Now, I observe that you, with all your cleverness, do not venture to contradict your favourite in any word or opinion of his; but as he changes you change, backwards and forwards. When the Athenian Demus denies anything that you are saying in the assembly, you go over to his opinion; and you do the same with Demus, the fair young son of Pyrilampes. For you have not the power to resist the words and ideas of your loves; and if a person were to express surprise at the strangeness of what you say from time to time when under their influence, you would probably reply to 482him, if you were honest, that you cannot help saying what your loves say unless they are prevented; and that you can only be silent when they are. Now you must understand that my words are an echo too, and therefore you need not wonder at me; but if you want to silence me, silence philosophy, who is my love, for she is always telling me what I am now telling you, my friend; neither is she capricious like my other love, for the son of Cleinias says one thing to-day and another thing to-morrow, but philosophy is always true. She is the teacher at whose words you are now wondering, and you have heard her yourself. Her you must refute, and either show, as I was saying, that to do injustice and to escape punishment is not the worst of all evils; or, if you leave her word unrefuted, by the dog the god of Egypt, I declare, O Callicles, that Callicles will never be at one with himself, but that his whole life will be a discord. And yet, my friend, I would rather that my lyre should be inharmonious, and that there should be no music in the chorus which I provided; aye, or that the whole world should be at odds with me, and oppose me, rather than that I myself should be at odds with myself, and contradict myself.
Cal.
Polus was vanquished because he refused to take a bold line.Callicles would return to the rule of nature in the lower sense of the term.Callicles.Convention was only introduced by the weak majority in order to protect themselves against the few strong.A man of courage would easily break down the guards of convention.
O Socrates, you are a regular declaimer, and seem to be running riot in the argument. And now you are declaiming in this way because Polus has fallen into the same error himself of which he accused Gorgias:—for he said that when Gorgias was asked by you, whether, if some one came to him who wanted to learn rhetoric, and did not know justice, he would teach him justice, Gorgias in his modesty replied that he would, because he thought that mankind in general would be displeased if he answered ‘No;’ and then in consequence of this admission, Gorgias was compelled to contradict himself, that being just the sort of thing in which you delight. Whereupon Polus laughed at you deservedly, as I think; but now he has himself fallen into the same trap. I cannot say very much for his wit when he conceded to you that to do is more dishonourable than to suffer injustice, for this was the admission which led to his being entangled by you; and because he was too modest to say what he thought, he had his mouth stopped. For the truth is, Socrates, that you, who pretend to be engaged in the pursuit of truth, are appealing now to the popular and vulgar notions of right, which are not natural, but only conventional. Convention and nature are generally at variance with one another: and hence, if a person is too 483modest to say what he thinks, he is compelled to contradict himself; and you, in your ingenuity perceiving the advantage to be thereby gained, slyly ask of him who is arguing conventionally a question which is to be determined by the rule of nature; and if he is talking of the rule of nature, you slip away to custom: as, for instance, you did in this very discussion about doing and suffering injustice. When Polus was speaking of the conventionally dishonourable, you assailed him from the point of view of nature; for by the rule of nature, to suffer injustice is the greater disgrace because the greater evil; but conventionally, to do evil is the more disgraceful. For the suffering of injustice is not the part of a man, but of a slave, who indeed had better die than live; since when he is wronged and trampled upon, he is unable to help himself, or any other about whom he cares. The reason, as I conceive, is that the makers of laws are the majority who are weak; and they make laws and distribute praises and censures with a view to themselves and to their own interests; and they terrify the stronger sort of men, and those who are able to get the better of them, in order that they may not get the better of them; and they say, that dishonesty is shameful and unjust; meaning, by the word injustice, the desire of a man to have more than his neighbours; for knowing their own inferiority, I suspect that they are too glad of equality. And therefore the endeavour to have more than the many, is conventionally said to be shameful and unjust, and is called injustice1 , whereas nature herself intimates that it is just for the better to have more than the worse, the more powerful than the weaker; and in many ways she shows, among men as well as among animals, and indeed among whole cities and races, that justice consists in the superior ruling over and having more than the inferior. For on what principle of justice did Xerxes invade Hellas, or his father the Scythians? (not to speak of numberless other examples). Nay, but these are the men who act according to nature; yes, by Heaven, and according to the law of nature: not, perhaps, according to that artificial law, which we invent and impose upon our fellows, of whom we take the best and strongest from their youth upwards, and tame them like young lions,—charming them with the sound 484of the voice, and saying to them, that with equality they must be content, and that the equal is the honourable and the just. But if there were a man who had sufficient force, he would shake off and break through, and escape from all this; he would trample under foot all our formulas and spells and charms, and all our laws which are against nature: the slave would rise in rebellion and be lord over us, and the light of natural justice would shine forth. And this I take to be the sentiment of Pindar, when he says in his poem, that
-
Callicles.
- ‘Law is the king of all, of mortals as well as of immortals;’
this, as he says,
Pindar.
‘Makes might to be right, doing violence with highest hand; as I infer from the deeds of Heracles, for without buying them—’1
A little philosophy not a bad thing in youth.
—I do not remember the exact words, but the meaning is, that without buying them, and without their being given to him, he carried off the oxen of Geryon, according to the law of natural right, and that the oxen and other possessions of the weaker and inferior properly belong to the stronger and superior. And this is true, as you may ascertain, if you will leave philosophy and go on to higher things: for philosophy, Socrates, if pursued in moderation and at the proper age, is an elegant accomplishment, but too much philosophy is the ruin of human life. Even if a man has good parts, still, if he carries philosophy into later life, he is necessarily ignorant of all those things which a gentleman and a person of honour ought to know; he is inexperienced in the laws of the State, and in the language which ought to be used in the dealings of man with man, whether private or public, and utterly ignorant of the pleasures and desires of mankind and of human character in general. And people of this sort, when they betake themselves to politics or business, are as ridiculous as I imagine the politicians to be, when they make their appearance in the arena of philosophy. For, as Euripides says,
Euripides.
‘Every man shines in that and pursues that, and devotes the greatest portion of the day to that in which he most excels2 ,’
Callicles.But the study should not be continued into later life.
485but anything in which he is inferior, he avoids and depreciates, and praises the opposite from partiality to himself, and because he thinks that he will thus praise himself. The true principle is to unite them. Philosophy, as a part of education, is an excellent thing, and there is no disgrace to a man while he is young in pursuing such a study; but when he is more advanced in years, the thing becomes ridiculous, and I feel towards philosophers as I do towards those who lisp and imitate children. For I love to see a little child, who is not of an age to speak plainly, lisping at his play; there is an appearance of grace and freedom in his utterance, which is natural to his childish years. But when I hear some small creature carefully articulating its words, I am offended; the sound is disagreeable, and has to my ears the twang of slavery. So when I hear a man lisping, or see him playing like a child, his behaviour appears to me ridiculous and unmanly and worthy of stripes. And I have the same feeling about students of philosophy; when I see a youth thus engaged,—the study appears to me to be in character, and becoming a man of a liberal education, and him who neglects philosophy I regard as an inferior man, who will never aspire to anything great or noble. But if I see him continuing the study in later life, and not leaving off, I should like to beat him, Socrates; for, as I was saying, such a one, even though he have good natural parts, becomes effeminate. He flies from the busy centre and the market-place, in which, as the poet says, men become distinguished; he creeps into a corner for the rest of his life, and talks in a whisper with three or four admiring youths, but never speaks out like a freeman in a satisfactory manner. Now I, Socrates, am very well inclined towards you, and my feeling may be compared with that of Zethus towards Amphion, in the play of Euripides, whom I was mentioning just now: for I am disposed to say to you much what Zethus said to his brother, that you, Socrates, are careless about the things of which you ought to be careful; and that you
- ‘Who have a soul so noble, are remarkable for a puerile exterior; 486
- Neither in a court of justice could you state a case, or give any reason or proof,
- Or offer valiant counsel on another’s behalf.’
Socrates, Callicles.
And you must not be offended, my dear Socrates, for I am speaking out of good-will towards you, if I ask whether you are not ashamed of being thus defenceless; which I affirm to be the condition not of you only but of all those who will carry the study of philosophy too far. For suppose that some one were to take you, or any one of your sort, off to prison, declaring that you had done wrong when you had done no wrong, you must allow that you would not know what to do:—there you would stand giddy and gaping, and not having a word to say; and when you went up before the Court, even if the accuser were a poor creature and not good for much, you would die if he were disposed to claim the penalty of death. And yet, Socrates, what is the value of
- ‘An art which converts a man of sense into a fool,’
who is helpless, and has no power to save either himself or others, when he is in the greatest danger and is going to be despoiled by his enemies of all his goods, and has to live, simply deprived of his rights of citizenship?—he being a man who, if I may use the expression, may be boxed on the ears with impunity. Then, my good friend, take my advice, and refute no more:
- ‘Learn the philosophy of business, and acquire the reputation of wisdom.
- But leave to others these niceties,’
whether they are to be described as follies or absurdities:
- ‘For they will only
- Give you poverty for the inmate of your dwelling.’
Cease, then, emulating these paltry splitters of words, and emulate only the man of substance and honour, who is well to do.
Soc.
Callicles the desired touchstone of Socrates.
If my soul, Callicles, were made of gold, should I not rejoice to discover one of those stones with which they test gold, and the very best possible one to which I might bring my soul; and if the stone and I agreed in approving of her training, then I should know that I was in a satisfactory state, and that no other test was needed by me.
Cal.
What is your meaning, Socrates?
Soc.
I will tell you; I think that I have found in you the desired touchstone.
Cal.
Why?
Soc.
Socrates.Other men have not the knowledge or frankness or good-will which is required; and they are too modest. His sincerity is shown by his consistency.Socrates, Callicles.But still he would ask, What Callicles means by the superior?
Because I am sure that if you agree with me in any of the opinions which my soul forms, I have at last found the truth indeed. For I consider that if a man is to make a 487complete trial of the good or evil of the soul, he ought to have three qualities—knowledge, good-will, outspokenness, which are all possessed by you. Many whom I meet are unable to make trial of me, because they are not wise as you are; others are wise, but they will not tell me the truth, because they have not the same interest in me which you have; and these two strangers, Gorgias and Polus, are undoubtedly wise men and my very good friends, but they are not outspoken enough, and they are too modest. Why, their modesty is so great that they are driven to contradict themselves, first one and then the other of them, in the face of a large company, on matters of the highest moment. But you have all the qualities in which these others are deficient, having received an excellent education; to this many Athenians can testify. And you are my friend. Shall I tell you why I think so? I know that you, Callicles, and Tisander of Aphidnae, and Andron the son of Androtion, and Nausicydes of the deme of Cholarges, studied together: there were four of you, and I once heard you advising with one another as to the extent to which the pursuit of philosophy should be carried, and, as I know, you came to the conclusion that the study should not be pushed too much into detail. You were cautioning one another not to be overwise; you were afraid that too much wisdom might unconsciously to yourselves be the ruin of you. And now when I hear you giving the same advice to me which you then gave to your most intimate friends, I have a sufficient evidence of your real good-will to me. And of the frankness of your nature and freedom from modesty I am assured by yourself, and the assurance is confirmed by your last speech. Well then, the inference in the present case clearly is, that if you agree with me in an argument about any point, that point will have been sufficiently tested by us, and will not require to be submitted to any further test. For you could not have agreed with me, either from lack of knowledge or from superfluity of modesty, nor yet from a desire to deceive me, for you are my friend, as you tell me yourself. And therefore when you and I are agreed, the result will be the attainment of perfect truth. Now there is no nobler enquiry, Callicles, than that which you censure me for making,—What ought the character of a man to be, and what his pursuits, and how far is he to go, both in maturer years and in youth? For be assured that if I err in my own conduct I do not err intentionally, 488but from ignorance. Do not then desist from advising me, now that you have begun, until I have learned clearly what this is which I am to practise, and how I may acquire it. And if you find me assenting to your words, and hereafter not doing that to which I assented, call me ‘dolt,’ and deem me unworthy of receiving further instruction. Once more, then, tell me what you and Pindar mean by natural justice: Do you not mean that the superior should take the property of the inferior by force; that the better should rule the worse, the noble have more than the mean? Am I not right in my recollection?
Cal.
Yes; that is what I was saying, and so I still aver.
Soc.
And do you mean by the better the same as the superior? for I could not make out what you were saying at the time—whether you meant by the superior the stronger, and that the weaker must obey the stronger, as you seemed to imply when you said that great cities attack small ones in accordance with natural right, because they are superior and stronger, as though the superior and stronger and better were the same; or whether the better may be also the inferior and weaker, and the superior the worse, or whether better is to be defined in the same way as superior:—this is the point which I want to have cleared up. Are the superior and better and stronger the same or different?
Cal.
I say unequivocally that they are the same.
Soc.
He means the better and stronger, and therefore the many who make the laws, which are noble because they are made by the better.
Then the many are by nature superior to the one, against whom, as you were saying, they make the laws?
Cal.
Certainly.
Soc.
Then the laws of the many are the laws of the superior?
Cal.
Very true.
Soc.
Then they are the laws of the better; for the superior class are far better, as you were saying?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
And since they are superior, the laws which are made by them are by nature good?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
And the many are also of opinion that to do is more disgraceful than to suffer injustice.Socrates, Callicles.
And are not the many of opinion, as you were lately 489saying, that justice is equality, and that to do is more disgraceful than to suffer injustice?—is that so or not? Answer, Callicles, and let no modesty be found to come in the way1 ; do the many think, or do they not think thus?—I must beg of you to answer, in order that if you agree with me I may fortify myself by the assent of so competent an authority.
Cal.
Yes; the opinion of the many is what you say.
Soc.
Then not only custom but nature also affirms that to do is more disgraceful than to suffer injustice, and that justice is equality; so that you seem to have been wrong in your former assertion, when accusing me you said that nature and custom are opposed, and that I, knowing this, was dishonestly playing between them, appealing to custom when the argument is about nature, and to nature when the argument is about custom?
Cal.
‘Of course I don’t mean the mob.’
This man will never cease talking nonsense. At your age, Socrates, are you not ashamed to be catching at words and chuckling over some verbal slip? do you not see—have I not told you already, that by superior I mean better: do you imagine me to say, that if a rabble of slaves and nondescripts, who are of no use except perhaps for their physical strength, get together, their ipsissima verba are laws?
Soc.
Ho! my philosopher, is that your line?
Cal.
Certainly.
Soc.
I was thinking, Callicles, that something of the kind must have been in your mind, and that is why I repeated the question,—What is the superior? I wanted to know clearly what you meant; for you surely do not think that two men are better than one, or that your slaves are better than you because they are stronger? Then please to begin again, and tell me who the better are, if they are not the stronger; and I will ask you, great Sir, to be a little milder in your instructions, or I shall have to run away from you.
Cal.
You are ironical.
Soc.
Then once more,—Who are the better?
No, by the hero Zethus, Callicles, by whose aid you were just now saying (486 A) many ironical things against me, I am not:—tell me, then, whom you mean by the better?
Cal.
I mean the more excellent.
Soc.
Do you not see that you are yourself using words which have no meaning and that you are explaining nothing?—will you tell me whether you mean by the better and superior the wiser, or if not, whom?
Cal.
490Most assuredly, I do mean the wiser.
Soc.
The wiser: the one wise among ten thousand fools,—he ought to rule.
Then according to you, one wise man may often be superior to ten thousand fools, and he ought to rule them, and they ought to be his subjects, and he ought to have more than they should. This is what I believe that you mean (and you must not suppose that I am word-catching), if you allow that the one is superior to the ten thousand?
Cal.
Yes; that is what I mean, and that is what I conceive to be natural justice—that the better and wiser should rule and have more than the inferior.
Soc.
But this is contrary to the analogy of the other arts.
Stop there, and let me ask you what you would say in this case: Let us suppose that we are all together as we are now; there are several of us, and we have a large common store of meats and drinks, and there are all sorts of persons in our company having various degrees of strength and weakness, and one of us, being a physician, is wiser in the matter of food than all the rest, and he is probably stronger than some and not so strong as others of us—will he not, being wiser, be also better than we are, and our superior in this matter of food?
Cal.
Certainly.
Soc.
Either, then, he will have a larger share of the meats and drinks, because he is better, or he will have the distribution of all of them by reason of his authority, but he will not expend or make use of a larger share of them on his own person, or if he does, he will be punished;—his share will exceed that of some, and be less than that of others, and if he be the weakest of all, he being the best of all will have the smallest share of all, Callicles:—am I not right, my friend?
Cal.
Callicles is disgusted at the commonplace parallels of Socrates.
You talk about meats and drinks and physicians and other nonsense; I am not speaking of them.
Soc.
Well, but do you admit that the wiser is the better? Answer ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
And ought not the better to have a larger share?
Cal.
Not of meats and drinks.
Soc.
I understand: then, perhaps, of coats—the skilfullest weaver ought to have the largest coat, and the greatest number of them, and go about clothed in the best and finest of them?
Cal.
Fudge about coats!
Soc.
Then the skilfullest and best in making shoes ought to have the advantage in shoes; the shoemaker, clearly, should walk about in the largest shoes, and have the greatest number of them?
Cal.
Fudge about shoes! What nonsense are you talking?
Soc.
Or, if this is not your meaning, perhaps you would say that the wise and good and true husbandman should actually have a larger share of seeds, and have as much seed as possible for his own land?
Cal.
How you go on, always talking in the same way, Socrates!
Soc.
Yes, Callicles, and also about the same things. 491
Cal.
Yes, by the Gods, you are literally always talking of cobblers and fullers and cooks and doctors, as if this had to do with our argument.
Soc.
But why will you not tell me in what a man must be superior and wiser in order to claim a larger share; will you neither accept a suggestion, nor offer one?
Cal.
I have already told you. In the first place, I mean by superiors not cobblers or cooks, but wise politicians who understand the administration of a state, and who are not only wise, but also valiant and able to carry out their designs, and not the men to faint from want of soul.
Soc.
Socrates is accused of always saying the same things: he accuses Callicles of never saying the same about the same.
See now, most excellent Callicles, how different my charge against you is from that which you bring against me, for you reproach me with always saying the same; but I reproach you with never saying the same about the same things, for at one time you were defining the better and the superior to be the stronger, then again as the wiser, and now you bring forward a new notion; the superior and the better are now declared by you to be the more courageous: I wish, my good friend, that you would tell me, once for all, whom you affirm to be the better and superior, and in what they are better?
Cal.
I have already told you that I mean those who are wise and courageous in the administration of a state—they ought to be the rulers of their states, and justice consists in their having more than their subjects.
Soc.
But whether rulers or subjects will they or will they not have more than themselves, my friend?
Cal.
What do you mean?
Soc.
I mean that every man is his own ruler; but perhaps you think that there is no necessity for him to rule himself; he is only required to rule others?
Cal.
What do you mean by his ‘ruling over himself’?
Soc.
A simple thing enough; just what is commonly said, that a man should be temperate and master of himself, and ruler of his own pleasures and passions.
Cal.
What innocence! you mean those fools,—the temperate?
Soc.
Certainly:—any one may know that to be my meaning.
Cal.
Callicles reasserts his doctrine that the esteem in which virtue and justice are held is due only to men’s fear for themselves. No man who has the power to enjoy himself practises self-control.
Quite so, Socrates; and they are really fools, for how can a man be happy who is the servant of anything? On the contrary, I plainly assert, that he who would truly live ought to allow his desires to wax to the uttermost, and not to chastise them; but when they have grown to their greatest 492he should have courage and intelligence to minister to them and to satisfy all his longings. And this I affirm to be natural justice and nobility. To this however the many cannot attain; and they blame the strong man because they are ashamed of their own weakness, which they desire to conceal, and hence they say that intemperance is base. As I have remarked already, they enslave the nobler natures, and being unable to satisfy their pleasures, they praise temperance and justice out of their own cowardice. For if a man had been originally the son of a king, or had a nature capable of acquiring an empire or a tyranny or sovereignty, what could be more truly base or evil than temperance—to a man like him, I say, who might freely be enjoying every good, and has no one to stand in his way, and yet has admitted custom and reason and the opinion of other men to be lords over him?—must not he be in a miserable plight whom the reputation of justice and temperance hinders from giving more to his friends than to his enemies, even though he be a ruler in his city? Nay, Socrates, for you profess to be a votary of the truth, and the truth is this:—that luxury and intemperance and licence, if they be provided with means, are virtue and happiness—all the rest is a mere bauble, agreements contrary to nature, foolish talk of men, nothing worth1 .
Soc.
There is a noble freedom, Callicles, in your way of approaching the argument; for what you say is what the rest of the world think, but do not like to say. And I must beg of you to persevere, that the true rule of human life may become manifest. Tell me, then:—you say, do you not, that in the rightly-developed man the passions ought not to be controlled, but that we should let them grow to the utmost and somehow or other satisfy them, and that this is virtue?
Cal.
Yes; I do.
Soc.
Then those who want nothing are not truly said to be happy?
Cal.
To live without pleasure or passion is to be dead.
No indeed, for then stones and dead men would be the happiest of all.
Soc.
But surely life according to your view is an awful thing; and indeed I think that Euripides may have been right in saying,
- ‘Who knows if life be not death and death life;’
No; the true death, as Pythagorean philosophy tells us, is to pour water out of a vessel full of holes into a colander full of holes.
and that we are very likely dead; I have heard a philosopher 493say that at this moment we are actually dead, and that the body (σω̂μα) is our tomb (ση̂μα2 ), and that the part of the soul which is the seat of the desires is liable to be tossed about by words and blown up and down; and some ingenious person, probably a Sicilian or an Italian, playing with the word, invented a tale in which he called the soul—because of its believing and make-believe nature—a vessel3 , and the ignorant he called the uninitiated or leaky, and the place in the souls of the uninitiated in which the desires are seated, being the intemperate and incontinent part, he compared to a vessel full of holes, because it can never be satisfied. He is not of your way of thinking, Callicles, for he declares, that of all the souls in Hades, meaning the invisible world (ἀειδὲς), these uninitiated or leaky persons are the most miserable, and that they pour water into a vessel which is full of holes out of a colander which is similarly perforated. The colander, as my informer assures me, is the soul, and the soul which he compares to a colander is the soul of the ignorant, which is likewise full of holes, and therefore incontinent, owing to a bad memory and want of faith. These notions are strange enough, but they show the principle which, if I can, I would fain prove to you; that you should change your mind, and, instead of the intemperate and insatiate life, choose that which is orderly and sufficient and has a due provision for daily needs. Do I make any impression on you, and are you coming over to the opinion that the orderly are happier than the intemperate? Or do I fail to persuade you, and, however many tales I rehearse to you, do you continue of the same opinion still?
Cal.
The latter, Socrates, is more like the truth.
Soc.
The temperate man is the sound, the intemperate the leaky vessel.
Well, I will tell you another image, which comes out of the same school:—Let me request you to consider how far you would accept this as an account of the two lives of the temperate and intemperate in a figure:—There are two men, both of whom have a number of casks; the one man has his casks sound and full, one of wine, another of honey, and a third of milk, besides others filled with other liquids, and the streams which fill them are few and scanty, and he can only obtain them with a great deal of toil and difficulty; but when his casks are once filled he has no need to feed them any more, and has no further trouble with them or care about them. The other, in like manner, can procure streams, though not without difficulty; but his vessels are leaky and unsound, and night and day he is compelled to be filling 494them, and if he pauses for a moment, he is in an agony of pain. Such are their respective lives:—And now would you say that the life of the intemperate is happier than that of the temperate? Do I not convince you that the opposite is the truth?
Cal.
The life of desire and pleasure is not to be compared to a full vessel, but to an ever-running stream.
You do not convince me, Socrates, for the one who has filled himself has no longer any pleasure left; and this, as I was just now saying, is the life of a stone: he has neither joy nor sorrow after he is once filled; but the pleasure depends on the superabundance of the influx.
Soc.
But the more you pour in, the greater the waste; and the holes must be large for the liquid to escape.
Cal.
Certainly.
Soc.
The life which you are now depicting is not that of a dead man, or of a stone, but of a cormorant; you mean that he is to be hungering and eating?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
And he is to be thirsting and drinking?
Cal.
Yes, that is what I mean; he is to have all his desires about him, and to be able to live happily in the gratification of them.
Soc.
Capital, excellent; go on as you have begun, and have no shame; I, too, must disencumber myself of shame: and first, will you tell me whether you include itching and scratching, provided you have enough of them and pass your life in scratching, in your notion of happiness?
Cal.
What a strange being you are, Socrates! a regular mob-orator.
Soc.
That was the reason, Callicles, why I scared Polus and Gorgias, until they were too modest to say what they thought; but you will not be too modest and will not be scared, for you are a brave man. And now, answer my question.
Cal.
I answer, that even the scratcher would live pleasantly.
Soc.
And if pleasantly, then also happily?
Cal.
To be sure.
Soc.
Callicles professes a virtuous indignation at the very mention of the consequences of his own doctrine.
But what if the itching is not confined to the head? Shall I pursue the question? And here, Callicles, I would have you consider how you would reply if consequences are pressed upon you, especially if in the last resort you are asked, whether the life of a catamite is not terrible, foul, miserable? Or would you venture to say, that they too are happy, if they only get enough of what they want?
Cal.
Are you not ashamed, Socrates, of introducing such topics into the argument?
Soc.
Well, my fine friend, but am I the introducer of these topics, or he who says without any qualification that all who feel pleasure in whatever manner are happy, and who admits of no distinction between good and bad pleasures? And I 495 would still ask, whether you say that pleasure and good are the same, or whether there is some pleasure which is not a good?
Cal.
Well, then, for the sake of consistency, I will say that they are the same.
Soc.
You are breaking the original agreement, Callicles, and will no longer be a satisfactory companion in the search after truth, if you say what is contrary to your real opinion.
Cal.
Why, that is what you are doing too, Socrates.
Soc.
Then we are both doing wrong. Still, my dear friend, I would ask you to consider whether pleasure, from whatever source derived, is the good; for, if this be true, then the disagreeable consequences which have been darkly intimated must follow, and many others.
Cal.
That, Socrates, is only your opinion.
Soc.
And do you, Callicles, seriously maintain what you are saying?
Cal.
Indeed I do.
Soc.
Then, as you are in earnest, shall we proceed with the argument?
Cal.
By all means1 .
Soc.
Callicles, having admitted that pleasure and good are the same, is led to make the further admission that pleasure and knowledge and courage are different.
Well, if you are willing to proceed, determine this question for me:—There is something, I presume, which you would call knowledge?
Cal.
There is.
Soc.
And were you not saying just now, that some courage implied knowledge?
Cal.
I was.
Soc.
And you were speaking of courage and knowledge as two things different from one another?
Cal.
Certainly I was.
Soc.
And would you say that pleasure and knowledge are the same, or not the same?
Cal.
Not the same, O man of wisdom.
Soc.
And would you say that courage differed from pleasure?
Cal.
Certainly.
Soc.
Well, then, let us remember that Callicles, the Acharnian, says that pleasure and good are the same; but that knowledge and courage are not the same, either with one another, or with the good.
Cal.
And what does our friend Socrates, of Foxton, say—does he assent to this, or not?
Soc.
He does not assent; neither will Callicles, when he sees himself truly. You will admit, I suppose, that good and evil fortune are opposed to each other?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
And if they are opposed to each other, then, like health and disease, they exclude one another; a man cannot have them both, or be without them both, at the same time?
Cal.
What do you mean?
Soc.
Take the case of any bodily affection:—a man may have the complaint in his eyes which is called ophthalmia?
Cal.
To be sure. 496
Soc.
But he surely cannot have the same eyes well and sound at the same time?
Cal.
Certainly not.
Soc.
And when he has got rid of his ophthalmia, has he got rid of the health of his eyes too? Is the final result, that he gets rid of them both together?
Cal.
Certainly not.
Soc.
That would surely be marvellous and absurd?
Cal.
Very.
Soc.
A man may have good and evil by turns, but not at the same time.
I suppose that he is affected by them, and gets rid of them in turns?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
And he may have strength and weakness in the same way, by fits?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
Or swiftness and slowness?
Cal.
Certainly.
Soc.
And does he have and not have good and happiness, and their opposites, evil and misery, in a similar alternation1 ?
Cal.
Certainly he has.
Soc.
If then there be anything which a man has and has not at the same time, clearly that cannot be good and evil—do we agree? Please not to answer without consideration.
Cal.
I entirely agree.
Soc.
Go back now to our former admissions.—Did you say that to hunger, I mean the mere state of hunger, was pleasant or painful?
Cal.
I said painful, but that to eat when you are hungry is pleasant.
Soc.
I know; but still the actual hunger is painful: am I not right?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
And thirst, too, is painful?
Cal.
Yes, very.
Soc.
Need I adduce any more instances, or would you agree that all wants or desires are painful?
Cal.
I agree, and therefore you need not adduce any more instances.
Soc.
Very good. And you would admit that to drink, when you are thirsty, is pleasant?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
And in the sentence which you have just uttered, the word ‘thirsty’ implies pain?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
And the word ‘drinking’ is expressive of pleasure, and of the satisfaction of the want?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
There is pleasure in drinking?
Cal.
Certainly.
Soc.
When you are thirsty?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
And in pain?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
But he may have pleasure and pain at the same time.
Do you see the inference:—that pleasure and pain are simultaneous, when you say that being thirsty, you drink? For are they not simultaneous, and do they not affect at the same time the same part, whether of the soul or the body?—which of them is affected cannot be supposed to be of any consequence: Is not this true?
Cal.
It is.
Soc.
You said also, that no man could have good and evil fortune at the same time?
Cal.
Yes, I did.
Soc.
Socrates, Callicles, Gorgias.
But you admitted, that when in pain a man might also 497have pleasure?
Cal.
Clearly.
Soc.
Therefore pleasure and pain are not the same as good and evil.
Then pleasure is not the same as good fortune, or pain the same as evil fortune, and therefore the good is not the same as the pleasant?
Cal.
I wish I knew, Socrates, what your quibbling means.
Soc.
You know, Callicles, but you affect not to know.
Cal.
Well, get on, and don’t keep fooling: then you will know what a wiseacre you are in your admonition of me.
Soc.
Does not a man cease from his thirst and from his pleasure in drinking at the same time?
Cal.
I do not understand what you are saying.
Gor.
Nay, Callicles, answer, if only for our sakes;—we should like to hear the argument out.
Cal.
Yes, Gorgias, but I must complain of the habitual trifling of Socrates; he is always arguing about little and unworthy questions.
Gor.
What matter? Your reputation, Callicles, is not at stake. Let Socrates argue in his own fashion.
Cal.
Well, then, Socrates, you shall ask these little peddling questions, since Gorgias wishes to have them.
Soc.
I envy you, Callicles, for having been initiated into the great mysteries before you were initiated into the lesser. I thought that this was not allowable. But to return to our argument:—Does not a man cease from thirsting and from the pleasure of drinking at the same moment?
Cal.
True.
Soc.
And if he is hungry, or has any other desire, does he not cease from the desire and the pleasure at the same moment?
Cal.
Very true.
Soc.
Then he ceases from pain and pleasure at the same moment?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
But he does not cease from good and evil at the same moment, as you have admitted:—do you still adhere to what you said?
Cal.
Yes, I do; but what is the inference?
Soc.
Socrates, Callicles.Another point of view.
Why, my friend, the inference is that the good is not the same as the pleasant, or the evil the same as the painful; there is a cessation of pleasure and pain at the same moment; but not of good and evil, for they are different. How then can pleasure be the same as good, or pain as evil? And I would have you look at the matter in another light, which could hardly, I think, have been considered by you when you identified them: Are not the good good because they have good present with them, as the beautiful are those who have beauty present with them?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
And do you call the fools and cowards good men? For you were saying just now that the courageous and the wise are the good—would you not say so?
Cal.
Certainly.
Soc.
And did you never see a foolish child rejoicing?
Cal.
Yes, I have.
Soc.
And a foolish man too?
Cal.
Yes, certainly; but what is your drift?
Soc.
498Nothing particular, if you will only answer.
Cal.
Yes, I have.
Soc.
And did you ever see a sensible man rejoicing or sorrowing?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
Which rejoice and sorrow most—the wise or the foolish?
Cal.
They are much upon a par, I think, in that respect.
Soc.
Enough: And did you ever see a coward in battle?
Cal.
To be sure.
Soc.
And which rejoiced most at the departure of the enemy, the coward or the brave?
Cal.
I should say ‘most’ of both; or at any rate, they rejoiced about equally.
Soc.
No matter; then the cowards, and not only the brave, rejoice?
Cal.
Greatly.
Soc.
And the foolish; so it would seem?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
And are only the cowards pained at the approach of their enemies, or are the brave also pained?
Cal.
Both are pained.
Soc.
And are they equally pained?
Cal.
I should imagine that the cowards are more pained.
Soc.
And are they not better pleased at the enemy’s departure?
Cal.
I dare say.
Soc.
Good is in proportion to pleasure, and the bad are often as much or more pleased than the good.
Then are the foolish and the wise and the cowards and the brave all pleased and pained, as you were saying, in nearly equal degree; but are the cowards more pleased and pained than the brave?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
But surely the wise and brave are the good, and the foolish and the cowardly are the bad?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
Then the good and the bad are pleased and pained in a nearly equal degree?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
Then are the good and bad good and bad in a nearly equal degree, or have the bad the advantage both in good and evil? [i. e. in having more pleasure and more pain.]
Cal.
I really do not know what you mean.
Soc.
Why, do you not remember saying that the good were good because good was present with them, and the evil because evil; and that pleasures were goods and pains evils?
Cal.
Yes, I remember.
Soc.
And are not these pleasures or goods present to those who rejoice—if they do rejoice?
Cal.
Certainly.
Soc.
Then those who rejoice are good when goods are present with them?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
And those who are in pain have evil or sorrow present with them?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
And would you still say that the evil are evil by reason of the presence of evil?
Cal.
I should.
Soc.
Then those who rejoice are good, and those who are in pain evil?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
The degrees of good and evil vary with the degrees of pleasure and of pain?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
Have the wise man and the fool, the brave and the coward, joy and pain in nearly equal degrees? or would you say that the coward has more?
Cal.
I should say that he has.
Soc.
Help me then to draw out the conclusion which follows from our admissions; for it is good to repeat and 499review what is good twice and thrice over, as they say. Both the wise man and the brave man we allow to be good?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
And the foolish man and the coward to be evil?
Cal.
Certainly.
Soc.
And he who has joy is good?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
And he who is in pain is evil?
Cal.
Certainly.
Soc.
The good and evil both have joy and pain, but, perhaps, the evil has more of them?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
Therefore the bad man is as good as the good, or perhaps even better.
Then must we not infer, that the bad man is as good and bad as the good, or, perhaps, even better?—is not this a further inference which follows equally with the preceding from the assertion that the good and the pleasant are the same:—can this be denied, Callicles?
Cal.
I have been listening and making admissions to you, Socrates; and I remark that if a person grants you anything in play, you, like a child, want to keep hold and will not give it back. But do you really suppose that I or any other human being denies that some pleasures are good and others bad?
Soc.
Socrates begins again with some obvious truisms.
Alas, Callicles, how unfair you are! you certainly treat me as if I were a child, sometimes saying one thing, and then another, as if you were meaning to deceive me. And yet I thought at first that you were my friend, and would not have deceived me if you could have helped. But I see that I was mistaken; and now I suppose that I must make the best of a bad business, as they said of old, and take what I can get out of you.—Well, then, as I understand you to say, I may assume that some pleasures are good and others evil?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
The beneficial are good, and the hurtful are evil?
Cal.
To be sure.
Soc.
And the beneficial are those which do some good, and the hurtful are those which do some evil?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
Take, for example, the bodily pleasures of eating and drinking, which we were just now mentioning—you mean to say that those which promote health, or any other bodily excellence, are good, and their opposites evil?
Cal.
Certainly.
Soc.
And in the same way there are good pains and there are evil pains?
Cal.
To be sure.
Soc.
And ought we not to choose and use the good pleasures and pains?
Cal.
Certainly.
Soc.
But not the evil?
Cal.
Clearly.
Soc.
Because, if you remember, Polus and I have agreed that all our actions are to be done for the sake of the good;—and will you agree with us in saying, that the good is the end of all our actions, and that all our actions are to be done for the sake of the good, and not the good for the sake of 500them?—will you add a third vote to our two?
Cal.
I will.
Soc.
Then pleasure, like everything else, is to be sought for the sake of that which is good, and not that which is good for the sake of pleasure?
Cal.
To be sure.
Soc.
But can every man choose what pleasures are good and what are evil, or must he have art or knowledge of them in detail?
Cal.
He must have art.
Soc.
Let me now remind you of what I was saying to Gorgias and Polus; I was saying, as you will not have forgotten, that there were some processes which aim only at pleasure, and know nothing of a better and worse, and there are other processes which know good and evil. And I considered that cookery, which I do not call an art, but only an experience, was of the former class, which is concerned with pleasure, and that the art of medicine was of the class which is concerned with the good. And now, by the god of friendship, I must beg you, Callicles, not to jest, or to imagine that I am jesting with you; do not answer at random and contrary to your real opinion;—for you will observe that we are arguing about the way of human life; and to a man who has any sense at all, what question can be more serious than this?—whether he should follow after that way of life to which you exhort me, and act what you call the manly part of speaking in the assembly, and cultivating rhetoric, and engaging in public affairs, according to the principles now in vogue; or whether he should pursue the life of philosophy;—and in what the latter way differs from the former. But perhaps we had better first try to distinguish them, as I did before, and when we have come to an agreement that they are distinct, we may proceed to consider in what they differ from one another, and which of them we should choose. Perhaps, however, you do not even now understand what I mean?
Cal.
No, I do not.
Soc.
Then I will explain myself more clearly: seeing that you and I have agreed that there is such a thing as good, and that there is such a thing as pleasure, and that pleasure is not the same as good, and that the pursuit and process of acquisition of the one, that is pleasure, is different from the pursuit and process of acquisition of the other, which is good—I wish that you would tell me whether you agree with me thus far or not—do you agree?
Cal.
I do.
Soc.
Socrates repeats his distinction between true arts and flatteries or shams.
Then I will proceed, and ask whether you also agree 501with me, and whether you think that I spoke the truth when I further said to Gorgias and Polus that cookery in my opinion is only an experience, and not an art at all; and that whereas medicine is an art, and attends to the nature and constitution of the patient, and has principles of action and reason in each case, cookery in attending upon pleasure never regards either the nature or reason of that pleasure to which she devotes herself, but goes straight to her end, nor ever considers or calculates anything, but works by experience and routine, and just preserves the recollection of what she has usually done when producing pleasure. And first, I would have you consider whether I have proved what I was saying, and then whether there are not other similar processes which have to do with the soul—some of them processes of art, making a provision for the soul’s highest interest—others despising the interest, and, as in the previous case, considering only the pleasure of the soul, and how this may be acquired, but not considering what pleasures are good or bad, and having no other aim but to afford gratification, whether good or bad. In my opinion, Callicles, there are such processes, and this is the sort of thing which I term flattery, whether concerned with the body or the soul, or whenever employed with a view to pleasure and without any consideration of good and evil. And now I wish that you would tell me whether you agree with us in this notion, or whether you differ.
Cal.
to which Callicles pretends to give assent.
I do not differ; on the contrary, I agree; for in that way I shall soonest bring the argument to an end, and shall oblige my friend Gorgias.
Soc.
And is this notion true of one soul, or of two or more?
Cal.
Equally true of two or more.
Soc.
Then a man may delight a whole assembly, and yet have no regard for their true interests?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
There are arts which delight mankind but which never consider the soul’s higher interest.
Can you tell me the pursuits which delight mankind—or rather, if you would prefer, let me ask, and do you answer, which of them belong to the pleasurable class, and which of them not? In the first place, what say you of flute-playing? Does not that appear to be an art which seeks only pleasure, Callicles, and thinks of nothing else?
Cal.
I assent.
Soc.
And is not the same true of all similar arts, as, for example, the art of playing the lyre at festivals?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
And what do you say of the choral art and of dithyrambic poetry?—are not they of the same nature? Do you imagine that Cinesias the son of Meles cares about what 502will tend to the moral improvement of his hearers, or about what will give pleasure to the multitude?
Cal.
There can be no mistake about Cinesias, Socrates.
Soc.
And what do you say of his father, Meles the harp-player? Did he perform with any view to the good of his hearers? Could he be said to regard even their pleasure? For his singing was an infliction to his audience. And of harp-playing and dithyrambic poetry in general, what would you say? Have they not been invented wholly for the sake of pleasure?
Cal.
That is my notion of them.
Soc.
And as for the Muse of Tragedy, that solemn and august personage—what are her aspirations? Is all her aim and desire only to give pleasure to the spectators, or does she fight against them and refuse to speak of their pleasant vices, and willingly proclaim in word and song truths welcome and unwelcome?—which in your judgment is her character?
Cal.
There can be no doubt, Socrates, that Tragedy has her face turned towards pleasure and the gratification of the audience.
Soc.
And is not that the sort of thing, Callicles, which we were just now describing as flattery?
Cal.
Quite true.
Soc.
Well now, suppose that we strip all poetry of song and rhythm and metre, there will remain speech1 ?
Cal.
To be sure.
Soc.
And this speech is addressed to a crowd of people?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
Then poetry is a sort of rhetoric?
Cal.
True.
Soc.
And do not the poets in the theatres seem to you to be rhetoricians?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
Poetry is of the nature of flattery.
Then now we have discovered a sort of rhetoric which is addressed to a crowd of men, women, and children, freemen and slaves. And this is not much to our taste, for we have described it as having the nature of flattery.
Cal.
Quite true.
Soc.
Oratory, too, as practised regards the interest of the speaker rather than the good of the people.
Very good. And what do you say of that other rhetoric which addresses the Athenian assembly and the assemblies of freemen in other states? Do the rhetoricians appear to you always to aim at what is best, and do they seek to improve the citizens by their speeches, or are they too, like the rest of mankind, bent upon giving them pleasure, forgetting the public good in the thought of their own interest, playing with the people as with children, and trying to amuse them, but never considering whether they are better or worse for this?
Cal.
I must distinguish. There are some who have a real 503care of the public in what they say, while others are such as you describe.
Soc.
There might be a higher style of oratory; and Callicles thinks that such really existed in the great days of old, the days of Miltiades and Themistocles and Pericles.
I am contented with the admission that rhetoric is of two sorts; one, which is mere flattery and disgraceful declamation; the other, which is noble and aims at the training and improvement of the souls of the citizens, and strives to say what is best, whether welcome or unwelcome, to the audience; but have you ever known such a rhetoric; or if you have, and can point out any rhetorician who is of this stamp, who is he?
Cal.
But, indeed, I am afraid that I cannot tell you of any such among the orators who are at present living.
Soc.
Well, then, can you mention any one of a former generation, who may be said to have improved the Athenians, who found them worse and made them better, from the day that he began to make speeches? for, indeed, I do not know of such a man.
Cal.
What! did you never hear that Themistocles was a good man, and Cimon and Miltiades and Pericles, who is just lately dead, and whom you heard yourself?
Soc.
Yet even these famous men had no ideal or standard.
Yes, Callicles, they were good men, if, as you said at first, true virtue consists only in the satisfaction of our own desires and those of others; but if not, and if, as we were afterwards compelled to acknowledge, the satisfaction of some desires makes us better, and of others, worse, and we ought to gratify the one and not the other, and there is an art in distinguishing them,—can you tell me of any of these statesmen who did distinguish them?
Cal.
No, indeed, I cannot.
Soc.
Some standard needed other than a man’s interest.
Yet, surely, Callicles, if you look you will find such a one. Suppose that we just calmly consider whether any of these was such as I have described. Will not the good man, who says whatever he says with a view to the best, speak with a reference to some standard and not at random; just as all other artists, whether the painter, the builder, the shipwright, or any other look all of them to their own work, and do not select and apply at random what they apply, but strive to give a definite form to it? The artist disposes all 504things in order, and compels the one part to harmonize and accord with the other part, until he has constructed a regular and systematic whole; and this is true of all artists, and in the same way the trainers and physicians, of whom we spoke before, give order and regularity to the body: do you deny this?
Cal.
No; I am ready to admit it.
Soc.
Order is good, disorder evil, in a ship, in a human body, in a human soul.
Then the house in which order and regularity prevail is good; that in which there is disorder, evil?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
And the same is true of a ship?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
And the same may be said of the human body?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
And what would you say of the soul? Will the good soul be that in which disorder is prevalent, or that in which there is harmony and order?
Cal.
The latter follows from our previous admissions.
Soc.
What is the name which is given to the effect of harmony and order in the body?
Cal.
I suppose that you mean health and strength?
Soc.
Yes, I do; and what is the name which you would give to the effect of harmony and order in the soul? Try and discover a name for this as well as for the other.
Cal.
Why not give the name yourself, Socrates?
Soc.
Well, if you had rather that I should, I will; and you shall say whether you agree with me, and if not, you shall refute and answer me. ‘Healthy,’ as I conceive, is the name which is given to the regular order of the body, whence comes health and every other bodily excellence: is that true or not?
Cal.
True.
Soc.
From order and law spring temperance and justice.
And ‘lawful’ and ‘law’ are the names which are given to the regular order and action of the soul, and these make men lawful and orderly:—and so we have temperance and justice: have we not?
Cal.
Granted.
Soc.
The true rhetorician will seek to implant these virtues, to implant justice and take away injustice.
And will not the true rhetorician who is honest and understands his art have his eye fixed upon these, in all the words which he addresses to the souls of men, and in all his actions, both in what he gives and in what he takes away? Will not his aim be to implant justice in the souls of his citizens and take away injustice, to implant temperance and take away intemperance, to implant every virtue and take away every vice? Do you not agree?
Cal.
I agree.
Soc.
For what use is there, Callicles, in giving to the body of a sick man who is in a bad state of health a quantity of the most delightful food or drink or any other pleasant thing, which may be really as bad for him as if you gave him 505nothing, or even worse if rightly estimated. Is not that true?
Cal.
I will not say No to it.
Soc.
The body of the sick and the soul of the wicked must be chastised and improved.
For in my opinion there is no profit in a man’s life if his body is in an evil plight—in that case his life also is evil: am I not right?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
When a man is in health the physicians will generally allow him to eat when he is hungry and drink when he is thirsty, and to satisfy his desires as he likes, but when he is sick they hardly suffer him to satisfy his desires at all: even you will admit that?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
And does not the same argument hold of the soul, my good sir? While she is in a bad state and is senseless and intemperate and unjust and unholy, her desires ought to be controlled, and she ought to be prevented from doing anything which does not tend to her own improvement.
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
Such treatment will be better for the soul herself?
Cal.
To be sure.
Soc.
And to restrain her from her appetites is to chastise her?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
Then restraint or chastisement is better for the soul than intemperance or the absence of control, which you were just now preferring?
Cal.
I do not understand you, Socrates, and I wish that you would ask some one who does.
Soc.
Callicles does not wish to be improved.
Here is a gentleman who cannot endure to be improved or to subject himself to that very chastisement of which the argument speaks!
Cal.
I do not heed a word of what you are saying, and have only answered hitherto out of civility to Gorgias.
Soc.
What are we to do, then? Shall we break off in the middle?
Cal.
You shall judge for yourself.
Soc.
Well, but people say that ‘a tale should have a head and not break off in the middle,’ and I should not like to have the argument going about without a head1 ; please then to go on a little longer, and put the head on.
Cal.
How tyrannical you are, Socrates! I wish that you and your argument would rest, or that you would get some one else to argue with you.
Soc.
But who else is willing?—I want to finish the argument.
Cal.
Cannot you finish without my help, either talking straight on, or questioning and answering yourself?
Soc.
Socrates, Gorgias, Callicles.
Must I then say with Epicharmus, ‘Two men spoke before, but now one shall be enough’? I suppose that there is absolutely no help. And if I am to carry on the enquiry by myself, I will first of all remark that not only I but all of us should have an ambition to know what is true and what is false in this matter, for the discovery of the truth is a common good. And now I will proceed to argue according to 506my own notion. But if any of you think that I arrive at conclusions which are untrue you must interpose and refute me, for I do not speak from any knowledge of what I am saying; I am an enquirer like yourselves, and therefore, if my opponent says anything which is of force, I shall be the first to agree with him. I am speaking on the supposition that the argument ought to be completed; but if you think otherwise let us leave off and go our ways.
Gor.
I think, Socrates, that we should not go our ways until you have completed the argument; and this appears to me to be the wish of the rest of the company; I myself should very much like to hear what more you have to say.
Soc.
I too, Gorgias, should have liked to. continue the argument with Callicles, and then I might have given him an ‘Amphion’ in return for his ‘Zethus’1 ; but since you, Callicles, are unwilling to continue, I hope that you will listen, and interrupt me if I seem to you to be in error. And if you refute me, I shall not be angry with you as you are with me, but I shall inscribe you as the greatest of benefactors on the tablets of my soul.
Cal.
My good fellow, never mind me, but get on.
Soc.
The pleasant not the same as the good, and is to be sought only for the sake of the good; and we are good when good is present in us, and good is the effect of order and truth and art.Socrates, Callicles.
Listen to me, then, while I recapitulate the argument:—Is the pleasant the same as the good? Not the same. Callicles and I are agreed about that. And is the pleasant to be pursued for the sake of the good? or the good for the sake of the pleasant? The pleasant is to be pursued for the sake of the good. And that is pleasant at the presence of which we are pleased, and that is good at the presence of which we are good? To be sure. And we are good, and all good things whatever are good when some virtue is present in us or them? That, Callicles, is my conviction. But the virtue of each thing, whether body or soul, instrument or creature, when given to them in the best way comes to them not by chance but as the result of the order and truth and art which are imparted to them: Am I not right? I maintain that I am. And is not the virtue of each thing dependent on order or arrangement? Yes, I say. And that which makes a thing good is the proper order inhering in each thing? Such is my view. And is not the soul which has an order of her own better than that which has no order? Certainly. And the soul which has order is orderly? Of course. And that which is orderly is temperate? Assuredly. And the 507 temperate soul is good? No other answer can I give, Callicles dear; have you any?
Cal.
Go on, my good fellow.
Soc.
Then I shall proceed to add, that if the temperate soul is the good soul, the soul which is in the opposite condition, that is, the foolish and intemperate, is the bad soul. Very true.
The temperate soul is the good soul, just in relation to men, and holy in relation to gods, and is therefore happy; and the intemperate is the reverse of all this.Socrates.If it be admitted that virtue is happiness and vice misery, then what Socrates said about the use of rhetoric in self-accusation turns out to be true.
And will not the temperate man do what is proper, both in relation to the gods and to men;—for he would not be temperate if he did not? Certainly he will do what is proper. In his relation to other men he will do what is just; and in his relation to the gods he will do what is holy; and he who does what is just and holy must be just and holy? Very true. And must he not be courageous? for the duty of a temperate man is not to follow or to avoid what he ought not, but what he ought, whether things or men or pleasures or pains, and patiently to endure when he ought; and therefore, Callicles, the temperate man, being, as we have described, also just and courageous and holy, cannot be other than a perfectly good man, nor can the good man do otherwise than well and perfectly whatever he does; and he who does well must of necessity be happy and blessed, and the evil man who does evil, miserable: now this latter is he whom you were applauding—the intemperate who is the opposite of the temperate. Such is my position, and these things I affirm to be true. And if they are true, then I further affirm that he who desires to be happy must pursue and practise temperance and run away from intemperance as fast as his legs will carry him: he had better order his life so as not to need punishment; but if either he or any of his friends, whether private individual or city, are in need of punishment, then justice must be done and he must suffer punishment, if he would be happy. This appears to me to be the aim which a man ought to have, and towards which he ought to direct all the energies both of himself and of the state, acting so that he may have temperance and justice present with him and be happy, not suffering his lusts to be unrestrained, and in the never-ending desire to satisfy them leading a robber’s life. Such a one is the friend neither of God nor man, for he is incapable of communion, and he who is incapable of communion is also incapable of friendship. And philosophers tell us, Callicles, that communion and friendship and orderliness and temperance and justice bind together 508heaven and earth and gods and men, and that this universe is therefore called Cosmos or order, not disorder or misrule, my friend. But although you are a philosopher you seem to me never to have observed that geometrical equality is mighty, both among gods and men; you think that you ought to cultivate inequality or excess, and do not care about geometry.—Well, then, either the principle that the happy are made happy by the possession of justice and temperance, and the miserable miserable by the possession of vice, must be refuted, or, if it is granted, what will be the consequences? All the consequences which I drew before, Callicles, and about which you asked me whether I was in earnest when I said that a man ought to accuse himself and his son and his friend if he did anything wrong, and that to this end he should use his rhetoric—all those consequences are true. And that which you thought that Polus was led to admit out of modesty is true, viz. that, to do injustice, if more disgraceful than to suffer, is in that degree worse; and the other position, which, according to Polus, Gorgias admitted out of modesty, that he who would truly be a rhetorician ought to be just and have a knowledge of justice, has also turned out to be true.
Socrates, Callicles.The greatest evil to do injustice, but there is a greater still, not to be punished for doing injustice.
And now, these things being as we have said, let us proceed in the next place to consider whether you are right in throwing in my teeth that I am unable to help myself or any of my friends or kinsmen, or to save them in the extremity of danger, and that I am in the power of another like an outlaw to whom any one may do what he likes,—he may box my ears, which was a brave saying of yours; or take away my goods or banish me, or even do his worst and kill me; a condition which, as you say, is the height of disgrace. My answer to you is one which has been already often repeated, but may as well be repeated once more. I tell you, Callicles, that to be boxed on the ears wrongfully is not the worst evil which can befall a man, nor to have my purse or my body cut open, but that to smite and slay me and mine wrongfully is far more disgraceful and more evil; aye, and to despoil and enslave and pillage, or in any way at all to wrong me and mine, is far more disgraceful and evil to the doer of the wrong than to me who am the sufferer. 509These truths, which have been already set forth as I state them in the previous discussion, would seem now to have been fixed and riveted by us, if I may use an expression which is certainly bold, in words which are like bonds of iron and adamant; and unless you or some other still more enterprising hero shall break them, there is no possibility of denying what I say. For my position has always been, that I myself am ignorant how these things are, but that I have never met any one who could say otherwise, any more than you can, and not appear ridiculous. This is my position still, and if what I am saying is true, and injustice is the greatest of evils to the doer of injustice, and yet there is if possible a greater than this greatest of evils1 , in an unjust man not suffering retribution, what is that defence of which the want will make a man truly ridiculous? Must not the defence be one which will avert the greatest of human evils? And will not the worst of all defences be that with which a man is unable to defend himself or his family or his friends?—and next will come that which is unable to avert the next greatest evil; thirdly that which is unable to avert the third greatest evil; and so of other evils. As is the greatness of evil so is the honour of being able to avert them in their several degrees, and the disgrace of not being able to avert them. Am I not right, Callicles?
Cal.
Yes, quite right.
Soc.
Seeing then that there are these two evils, the doing injustice and the suffering injustice—and we affirm that to do injustice is a greater, and to suffer injustice a lesser evil—by what devices can a man succeed in obtaining the two advantages, the one of not doing and the other of not suffering injustice? must he have the power, or only the will to obtain them? I mean to ask whether a man will escape injustice if he has only the will to escape, or must he have provided himself with the power?
Cal.
He must have provided himself with the power; that is clear.
Soc.
And what do you say of doing injustice? Is the will only sufficient, and will that prevent him from doing injustice, or must he have provided himself with power and art; and if he have not studied and practised, will he be unjust still? Surely you might say, Callicles, whether you think that Polus and I were right in admitting the conclusion that no one does wrong voluntarily, but that all do wrong against their will?
Cal.
Granted, Socrates, if you will only have done. 510
Soc.
Then, as would appear, power and art have to be provided in order that we may do no injustice?
Cal.
Certainly.
Soc.
And what art will protect us from suffering injustice, if not wholly, yet as far as possible? I want to know whether you agree with me; for I think that such an art is the art of one who is either a ruler or even tyrant himself, or the equal and companion of the ruling power.
Cal.
Well said, Socrates; and please to observe how ready I am to praise you when you talk sense.
Soc.
Think and tell me whether you would approve of another view of mine: To me every man appears to be most the friend of him who is most like to him—like to like, as ancient sages say: Would you not agree to this?
Cal.
I should.
Soc.
The tyrant naturally hates both his superiors and inferiors: he likes only those who resemble him in character.
But when the tyrant is rude and uneducated, he may be expected to fear any one who is his superior in virtue, and will never be able to be perfectly friendly with him.
Cal.
That is true.
Soc.
Neither will he be the friend of any one who is greatly his inferior, for the tyrant will despise him, and will never seriously regard him as a friend.
Cal.
That again is true.
Soc.
Then the only friend worth mentioning, whom the tyrant can have, will be one who is of the same character, and has the same likes and dislikes, and is at the same time willing to be subject and subservient to him; he is the man who will have power in the state, and no one will injure him with impunity:—is not that so?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
And the way to be a great man and not to suffer injury is to become like him. And there can be no greater evil to him than this.
And if a young man begins to ask how he may become great and formidable, this would seem to be the way—he will accustom himself, from his youth upward, to feel sorrow and joy on the same occasions as his master, and will contrive to be as like him as possible?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
And in this way he will have accomplished, as you and your friends would say, the end of becoming a great man and not suffering injury?
Cal.
Very true.
Soc.
But will he also escape from doing injury? Must not the very opposite be true, if he is to be like the tyrant in his 511injustice, and to have influence with him? Will he not rather contrive to do as much wrong as possible, and not be punished?
Cal.
True.
Soc.
And by the imitation of his master and by the power which he thus acquires will not his soul become bad and corrupted, and will not this be the greatest evil to him?
Cal.
You always contrive somehow or other, Socrates, to invert everything: do you not know that he who imitates the tyrant will, if he has a mind, kill him who does not imitate him and take away his goods?
Soc.
But how provoking that the bad man should slay the good!
Excellent Callicles, I am not deaf, and I have heard that a great many times from you and from Polus and from nearly every man in the city, but I wish that you would hear me too. I dare say that he will kill him if he has a mind—the bad man will kill the good and true.
Cal.
And is not that just the provoking thing?
Soc.
Nay, but we should not always study the arts which save us from death;—the art of swimming, the art of the pilot, &c.
Nay, not to a man of sense, as the argument shows: do you think that all our cares should be directed to prolonging life to the uttermost, and to the study of those arts which secure us from danger always; like that art of rhetoric which saves men in courts of law, and which you advise me to cultivate?
Cal.
Yes, truly, and very good advice too.
Soc.
Well, my friend, but what do you think of swimming; is that an art of any great pretensions?
Cal.
No, indeed.
Soc.
Socrates.The pilot demands a very moderate payment as the fare of a passenger from Athens to Aegina, because he is not certain whether salvation from death be a good or an evil.
And yet surely swimming saves a man from death, and there are occasions on which he must know how to swim. And if you despise the swimmers, I will tell you of another and greater art, the art of the pilot, who not only saves the souls of men, but also their bodies and properties from the extremity of danger, just like rhetoric. Yet his art is modest and unpresuming: it has no airs or pretences of doing anything extraordinary, and, in return for the same salvation which is given by the pleader, demands only two obols, if he brings us from Aegina to Athens, or for the longer voyage from Pontus or Egypt, at the utmost two drachmae, when he has saved, as I was just now saying, the passenger and his wife and children and goods, and safely disembarked them at the Piraeus,—this is the payment which he asks in return for so great a boon; and he who is the master of the art, and has done all this, gets out and walks about on the sea-shore by his ship in an unassuming way. For he is able to reflect and is aware that he cannot tell which of his fellow-passengers he has benefited, and which of them he has injured in not allowing them to be drowned. He knows that they are just the same when he has disembarked them as when they embarked, 512and not a whit better either in their bodies or in their souls; and he considers that if a man who is afflicted by great and incurable bodily diseases is only to be pitied for having escaped, and is in no way benefited by him in having been saved from drowning, much less he who has great and incurable diseases, not of the body, but of the soul, which is the more valuable part of him; neither is life worth having nor of any profit to the bad man, whether he be delivered from the sea, or the law-courts, or any other devourer;—and so he reflects that such a one had better not live, for he cannot live well1 .
The engineer, too:—how much better than the pleader!Socrates, Callicles.He too is another of your saviours; but you despise him, whereas you ought to esteem him highly.I want you to consider whether you can possibly become great among the people unless you become like them.
And this is the reason why the pilot, although he is our saviour, is not usually conceited, any more than the engineer, who is not at all behind either the general, or the pilot, or any one else, in his saving power, for he sometimes saves whole cities. Is there any comparison between him and the pleader? And if he were to talk, Callicles, in your grandiose style, he would bury you under a mountain of words, declaring and insisting that we ought all of us to be engine-makers, and that no other profession is worth thinking about; he would have plenty to say. Nevertheless you despise him and his art, and sneeringly call him an engine-maker, and you will not allow your daughters to marry his son, or marry your son to his daughters. And yet, on your principle, what justice or reason is there in your refusal? What right have you to despise the engine-maker, and the others whom I was just now mentioning? I know that you will say, ‘I am better, and better born.’ But if the better is not what I say, and virtue consists only in a man saving himself and his, whatever may be his character, then your censure of the engine-maker, and of the physician, and of the other arts of salvation, is ridiculous. O my friend! I want you to see that the noble and the good may possibly be something different from saving and being saved:—May not he who is truly a man cease to care about living a certain time?—he knows, as women say, that no man can escape fate, and therefore he is not fond of life; he leaves all that with God, and considers in what way he can best spend his appointed term;—whether by assimilating himself to the constitution under which he 513lives, as you at this moment have to consider how you may become as like as possible to the Athenian people, if you mean to be in their good graces, and to have power in the state; whereas I want you to think and see whether this is for the interest of either of us;—I would not have us risk that which is dearest on the acquisition of this power, like the Thessalian enchantresses, who, as they say, bring down the moon from heaven at the risk of their own perdition. But if you suppose that any man will show you the art of becoming great in the city, and yet not conforming yourself to the ways of the city, whether for better or worse, then I can only say that you are mistaken, Callicles; for he who would deserve to be the true natural friend of the Athenian Demus, aye, or of Pyrilampes’ darling who is called after them, must be by nature like them, and not an imitator only. He, then, who will make you most like them, will make you as you desire, a statesman and orator: for every man is pleased when he is spoken to in his own language and spirit, and dislikes any other. But perhaps you, sweet Callicles, may be of another mind. What do you say?
Cal.
Somehow or other your words, Socrates, always appear to me to be good words; and yet, like the rest of the world, I am not quite convinced by them1 .
Soc.
Callicles inclines for an instant to the Gospel of Socrates, but the love of the world and of popularity overcomes him.
The reason is, Callicles, that the love of Demus which abides in your soul is an adversary to me; but I dare say that if we recur to these same matters, and consider them more thoroughly, you may be convinced for all that. Please, then, to remember that there are two processes of training all things, including body and soul; in the one, as we said, we treat them with a view to pleasure, and in the other with a view to the highest good, and then we do not indulge but resist them: was not that the distinction which we drew?
Cal.
Two processes of training; one having a view to pleasure, the other to good.
Very true.
Soc.
And the one which had pleasure in view was just a vulgar flattery:—was not that another of our conclusions?
Cal.
Be it so, if you will have it.
Soc.
And the other had in view the greatest improvement of that which was ministered to, whether body or soul?
Cal.
Quite true.
Soc.
And we must train our citizens with a view to their good; and, as in other arts, we must show that we can be trusted to improve them.
And must we not have the same end in view in the treatment of our city and citizens? Must we not try and make them as good as possible? For we have already discovered that there is no use in imparting to them any other 514good, unless the mind of those who are to have the good, whether money, or office, or any other sort of power, be gentle and good. Shall we say that?
Cal.
Yes, certainly, if you like.
Soc.
Well, then, if you and I, Callicles, were intending2 to set about some public business, and were advising one another to undertake buildings, such as walls, docks or temples of the largest size, ought we not to examine ourselves, first, as to whether we know or do not know the art of building, and who taught us?—would not that be necessary, Callicles?
Cal.
True.
Soc.
In the second place, we should have to consider whether we had ever constructed any private house, either of our own or for our friends, and whether this building of ours was a success or not; and if upon consideration we found that we had had good and eminent masters, and had been successful in constructing many fine buildings, not only with their assistance, but without them, by our own unaided skill—in that case prudence would not dissuade us from proceeding to the construction of public works. But if we had no master to show, and only a number of worthless buildings or none at all, then, surely, it would be ridiculous in us to attempt public works, or to advise one another to undertake them. Is not this true?
Cal.
Certainly.
Soc.
And does not the same hold in all other cases? If you and I were physicians, and were advising one another that we were competent to practise as state-physicians, should I not ask about you, and would you not ask about me, Well, but how about Socrates himself, has he good health? and was any one else ever known to be cured by him, whether slave or freeman? And I should make the same enquiries about you. And if we arrived at the conclusion that no one, whether citizen or stranger, man or woman, had ever been any the better for the medical skill of either of us, then, by Heaven, Callicles, what an absurdity to think that we or any human being should be so silly as to set up as state-physicians and advise others like ourselves to do the same, without having first practised in private, whether successfully or not, and acquired experience of the art! Is not this, as they say, to begin with the big jar when you are learning the potter’s art; which is a foolish thing?
Cal.
515True.
Soc.
And now, Callicles, what are you who are a public character doing for the improvement of the citizens?
And now, my friend, as you are already beginning to be a public character, and are admonishing and reproaching me for not being one, suppose that we ask a few questions of one another. Tell me, then, Callicles, how about making any of the citizens better? Was there ever a man who was once vicious, or unjust, or intemperate, or foolish, and became by the help of Callicles good and noble? Was there ever such a man, whether citizen or stranger, slave or freeman? Tell me, Callicles, if a person were to ask these questions of you, what would you answer? Whom would you say that you had improved by your conversation? There may have been good deeds of this sort which were done by you as a private person, before you came forward in public. Why will you not answer?
Cal.
You are contentious, Socrates.
Soc.
Callicles makes no answer.Or how did Pericles and the great of old benefit the citizens?
Nay, I ask you, not from a love of contention, but because I really want to know in what way you think that affairs should be administered among us—whether, when you come to the administration of them, you have any other aim but the improvement of the citizens? Have we not already admitted many times over that such is the duty of a public man? Nay, we have surely said so; for if you will not answer for yourself I must answer for you. But if this is what the good man ought to effect for the benefit of his own state, allow me to recall to you the names of those whom you were just now mentioning, Pericles, and Cimon, and Miltiades, and Themistocles, and ask whether you still think that they were good citizens.
Cal.
I do.
Soc.
But if they were good, then clearly each of them must have made the citizens better instead of worse?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
And, therefore, when Pericles first began to speak in the assembly, the Athenians were not so good as when he spoke last?
Cal.
Very likely.
Soc.
Nay, my friend, ‘likely’ is not the word; for if he was a good citizen, the inference is certain.
Cal.
And what difference does that make?
Soc.
Pericles corrupted them by giving them pay.
None; only I should like further to know whether the Athenians are supposed to have been made better by Pericles, or, on the contrary, to have been corrupted by him; for I hear that he was the first who gave the people pay, and made them idle and cowardly, and encouraged them in the love of talk and of money.
Cal.
You heard that, Socrates, from the laconising set who bruise their ears.
Soc.
He made them worse instead of better, for they all but put him to death.
But what I am going to tell you now is not mere hearsay, but well known both to you and me: that at first, Pericles was glorious and his character unimpeached by any verdict of the Athenians—this was during the time when 516they were not so good—yet afterwards, when they had been made good and gentle by him, at the very end of his life they convicted him of theft, and almost put him to death, clearly under the notion that he was a malefactor.
Cal.
Well, but how does that prove Pericles’ badness?
Soc.
Why, surely, you would say that he was a bad manager of asses or horses or oxen, who had received them originally neither kicking nor butting nor biting him, and implanted in them all these savage tricks? Would he not be a bad manager of any animals who received them gentle, and made them fiercer than they were when he received them? What do you say?
Cal.
I will do you the favour of saying ‘yes.’
Soc.
And will you also do me the favour of saying whether man is an animal?
Cal.
Certainly he is.
Soc.
And was not Pericles a shepherd of men?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
And if he was a good political shepherd, ought not the animals who were his subjects, as we were just now acknowledging, to have become more just, and not more unjust?
Cal.
Quite true.
Soc.
And are not just men gentle, as Homer says?—or are you of another mind?
Cal.
I agree.
Soc.
And yet he really did make them more savage than he received them, and their savageness was shown towards himself; which he must have been very far from desiring.
Cal.
Do you want me to agree with you?
Soc.
Yes, if I seem to you to speak the truth:
Cal.
Granted then.
Soc.
And if they were more savage, must they not have been more unjust and inferior?
Cal.
Granted again.
Soc.
Then upon this view, Pericles was not a good statesman?
Cal.
That is, upon your view.
Soc.
Cimon was ostracised;Themistocles was exiled; Miltiades was nearly thrown from the rock.
Nay, the view is yours, after what you have admitted. Take the case of Cimon again. Did not the very persons whom he was serving ostracize him, in order that they might not hear his voice for ten years? and they did just the same to Themistocles, adding the penalty of exile; and they voted that Miltiades, the hero of Marathon, should be thrown into the pit of death, and he was only saved by the Prytanis. And yet, if they had been really good men, as you say, these things would never have happened to them. For the good charioteers are not those who at first keep their place, and then, when they have broken-in their horses, and themselves become better charioteers, are thrown out—that is not the way either in charioteering or in any profession.—What do you think?
Cal.
I should think not.
Soc.
The older statesmen no better than the existing ones.
Well, but if so, the truth is as I have said already, 517that in the Athenian State no one has ever shown himself to be a good statesman—you admitted that this was true of our present statesmen, but not true of former ones, and you preferred them to the others; yet they have turned out to be no better than our present ones; and therefore, if they were rhetoricians, they did not use the true art of rhetoric or of flattery, or they would not have fallen out of favour.
Cal.
But surely, Socrates, no living man ever came near any one of them in his performances.
Soc.
The older statesmen not able really to elevate the state to a higher level, but more capable of gratifying its desires.Socrates.You might as well say that the cook or the baker is a good trainer as that they were great statesmen.Socrates.The statesman like the Sophist; neither has any right to accuse their followers of wronging them; they should have taught them better.Socrates, Callicles.
O, my dear friend, I say nothing against them regarded as the serving-men of the State; and I do think that they were certainly more serviceable than those who are living now, and better able to gratify the wishes of the State; but as to transforming those desires and not allowing them to have their way, and using the powers which they had, whether of persuasion or of force, in the improvement of their fellow-citizens, which is the prime object of the truly good citizen, I do not see that in these respects they were a whit superior to our present statesmen, although I do admit that they were more clever at providing ships and walls and docks, and all that. You and I have a ridiculous way, for during the whole time that we are arguing, we are always going round and round to the same point, and constantly misunderstanding one another. If I am not mistaken, you have admitted and acknowledged more than once, that there are two kinds of operations which have to do with the body, and two which have to do with the soul: one of the two is ministerial, and if our bodies are hungry provides food for them, and if they are thirsty gives them drink, or if they are cold supplies them with garments, blankets, shoes, and all that they crave. I use the same images as before intentionally, in order that you may understand me the better. The purveyor of the articles may provide them either wholesale or retail, or he may be the maker of any of them,—the baker, or the cook, or the weaver, or the shoemaker, or the currier; and in so doing, being such as he is, he is naturally supposed by himself and every one to minister to the body. For none of them know that there is another art—an art of gymnastic and medicine which is the true minister of the body, and ought to be the mistress of all the rest, and to use their results according to the knowledge which she has and they have not, of the real good or bad effects of meats 518and drinks on the body. All other arts which have to do with the body are servile and menial and illiberal; and gymnastic and medicine are, as they ought to be, their mistresses. Now, when I say that all this is equally true of the soul, you seem at first to know and understand and assent to my words, and then a little while afterwards you come repeating, Has not the State had good and noble citizens? and when I ask you who they are, you reply, seemingly quite in earnest, as if I had asked, Who are or have been good trainers?—and you had replied, Thearion, the baker, Mithoecus, who wrote the Sicilian cookery-book, Sarambus, the vintner: these are ministers of the body, first-rate in their art; for the first makes admirable loaves, the second excellent dishes, and the third capital wine;—to me these appear to be the exact parallel of the statesmen whom you mention. Now you would not be altogether pleased if I said to you, My friend, you know nothing of gymnastics; those of whom you are speaking to me are only the ministers and purveyors of luxury, who have no good or noble notions of their art, and may very likely be filling and fattening men’s bodies and gaining their approval, although the result is that they lose their original flesh in the long run, and become thinner than they were before; and yet they, in their simplicity, will not attribute their diseases and loss of flesh to their entertainers; but when in after years the unhealthy surfeit brings the attendant penalty of disease, he who happens to be near them at the time, and offers them advice, is accused and blamed by them, and if they could they would do him some harm; while they proceed to eulogize the men who have been the real authors of the mischief. And that, Callicles, is just what you are now doing. You praise the men who feasted the citizens and satisfied their desires, and people say that they have made the city great, not seeing that the swollen and ulcerated condition of the State is to be attributed to these elder statesmen; for they have filled the city full of harbours and docks and walls and revenues and all that, and have left no room for justice and temperance. And when the crisis of the disorder comes, 519the people will blame the advisers of the hour, and applaud Themistocles and Cimon and Pericles, who are the real authors of their calamities; and if you are not careful they may assail you and my friend Alcibiades, when they are losing not only their new acquisitions, but also their original possessions; not that you are the authors of these misfortunes of theirs, although you may perhaps be accessories to them. A great piece of work is always being made, as I see and am told, now as of old, about our statesmen. When the State treats any of them as malefactors, I observe that there is a great uproar and indignation at the supposed wrong which is done to them; ‘after all their many services to the State, that they should unjustly perish,’—so the tale runs. But the cry is all a lie; for no statesman ever could be unjustly put to death by the city of which he is the head. The case of the professed statesman is, I believe, very much like that of the professed sophist; for the sophists, although they are wise men, are nevertheless guilty of a strange piece of folly; professing to be teachers of virtue, they will often accuse their disciples of wronging them, and defrauding them of their pay, and showing no gratitude for their services. Yet what can be more absurd than that men who have become just and good, and whose injustice has been taken away from them, and who have had justice implanted in them by their teachers, should act unjustly by reason of the injustice which is not in them? Can anything be more irrational, my friend, than this? You, Callicles, compel me to be a mob-orator, because you will not answer.
Cal.
And you are the man who cannot speak unless there is some one to answer?
Soc.
I suppose that I can; just now, at any rate, the speeches which I am making are long enough because you refuse to answer me. But I adjure you by the god of friendship, my good sir, do tell me whether there does not appear to you to be a great inconsistency in saying that you have made a man good, and then blaming him for being bad?
Cal.
Yes, it appears so to me.
Soc.
520Do you never hear our professors of education speaking in this inconsistent manner?
Cal.
Yes, but why talk of men who are good for nothing?
Soc.
Sophistry is much superior to rhetoric.
I would rather say, why talk of men who profess to be rulers, and declare that they are devoted to the improvement of the city, and nevertheless upon occasion declaim against the utter vileness of the city:—do you think that there is any difference between one and the other? My good friend, the sophist and the rhetorician, as I was saying to Polus, are the same, or nearly the same; but you ignorantly fancy that rhetoric is a perfect thing, and sophistry a thing to be despised; whereas the truth is, that sophistry is as much superior to rhetoric as legislation is to the practice of law, or gymnastic to medicine. The orators and sophists, as I am inclined to think, are the only class who cannot complain of the mischief ensuing to themselves from that which they teach others, without in the same breath accusing themselves of having done no good to those whom they profess to benefit. Is not this a fact?
Cal.
Certainly it is.
Soc.
He who teaches honesty ought to teach his pupils to pay him for the lesson.
If they were right in saying that they make men better, then they are the only class who can afford to leave their remuneration to those who have been benefited by them. Whereas if a man has been benefited in any other way, if, for example, he has been taught to run by a trainer, he might possibly defraud him of his pay, if the trainer left the matter to him, and made no agreement with him that he should receive money as soon as he had given him the utmost speed; for not because of any deficiency of speed do men act unjustly, but by reason of injustice.
Cal.
Very true.
Soc.
And he who removes injustice can be in no danger of being treated unjustly: he alone can safely leave the honorarium to his pupils, if he be really able to make them good—am I not right1 ?
Cal.
Yes.
Soc.
Then we have found the reason why there is no dishonour in a man receiving pay who is called in to advise about building or any other art?
Cal.
Yes, we have found the reason.
Soc.
But when the point is, how a man may become best himself, and best govern his family and state, then to say that you will give no advice gratis is held to be dishonourable?
Cal.
True.
Soc.
And why? Because only such benefits call forth a desire to requite them, and there is evidence that a benefit has been conferred when the benefactor receives a return; otherwise not. Is this true?
Cal.
It is.
Soc.
Callicles advises Socrates to be the servant of the state, and not run the risk of popular enmity.
Then to which service of the State do you invite me? determine for me. Am I to be the physician of the 521State who will strive and struggle to make the Athenians as good as possible; or am I to be the servant and flatterer of the State? Speak out, my good friend, freely and fairly as you did at first and ought to do again, and tell me your entire mind.
Cal.
I say then that you should be the servant of the State.
Soc.
The flatterer? well, sir, that is a noble invitation.
Cal.
The Mysian, Socrates, or what you please. For if you refuse, the consequences will be—
Soc.
Do not repeat the old story—that he who likes will kill me and get my money; for then I shall have to repeat the old answer, that he will be a bad man and will kill the good, and that the money will be of no use to him, but that he will wrongly use that which he wrongly took, and if wrongly, basely, and if basely, hurtfully.
Cal.
How confident you are, Socrates, that you will never come to harm! you seem to think that you are living in another country, and can never be brought into a court of justice, as you very likely may be brought by some miserable and mean person.
Soc.
Socrates has no fear of popular enmity, but is quite aware that he will incur it, because he is the only true politician of his time,
Then I must indeed be a fool, Callicles, if I do not know that in the Athenian State any man may suffer anything. And if I am brought to trial and incur the dangers of which you speak, he will be a villain who brings me to trial—of that I am very sure, for no good man would accuse the innocent. Nor shall I be surprised if I am put to death. Shall I tell you why I anticipate this?
Cal.
By all means.
Soc.
I think that I am the only or almost the only Athenian living who practises the true art of politics; I am the only politician of my time. Now, seeing that when I speak my words are not uttered with any view of gaining favour, and that I look to what is best and not to what is most pleasant, having no mind to use those arts and graces which you recommend, I shall have nothing to say in the justice court. And you might argue with me, as I was arguing with Polus:—I shall be tried just as a physician would be tried in a court of little boys at the indictment of the cook. What would he reply under such circumstances, if some one were to accuse him, saying, ‘O my boys, many evil things has this man done to you: he is the death of you, especially of the younger ones among you, cutting and 522burning and starving and suffocating you, until you know not what to do; he gives you the bitterest potions, and compels you to hunger and thirst. How unlike the variety of meats and sweets on which I feasted you!’ What do you suppose that the physician would be able to reply when he found himself in such a predicament? If he told the truth he could only say, ‘All these evil things, my boys, I did for your health,’ and then would there not just be a clamour among a jury like that? How they would cry out!
Cal.
I dare say.
Soc.
Would he not be utterly at a loss for a reply?
Cal.
He certainly would.
Soc.
and he has no defence against men such as his opponents:
And I too shall be treated in the same way, as I well know, if I am brought before the court. For I shall not be able to rehearse to the people the pleasures which I have procured for them, and which, although I am not disposed to envy either the procurers or enjoyers of them, are deemed by them to be benefits and advantages. And if any one says that I corrupt young men, and perplex their minds, or that I speak evil of old men, and use bitter words towards them, whether in private or public, it is useless for me to reply, as I truly might:—‘All this I do for the sake of justice, and with a view to your interest, my judges, and to nothing else.’ And therefore there is no saying what may happen to me.
Cal.
And do you think, socrates, that a man who is thus defenceless is in a good position?
Soc.
that is to say, he has the defence of truth, but not such a defence as men ordinarily produce.
Yes, Callicles, if he have that defence, which as you have often acknowledged he should have—if he be his own defence, and have never said or done anything wrong, either in respect of gods or men; and this has been repeatedly acknowledged by us to be the best sort of defence. And if any one could convict me of inability to defend myself or others after this sort, I should blush for shame, whether I was convicted before many, or before a few, or by myself alone; and if I died from want of ability to do so, that would indeed grieve me. But if I died because I have no powers of flattery or rhetoric, I am very sure that you would not find me repining at death. For no man who is not an utter fool and coward is afraid of death itself, but he is afraid of doing wrong. For to go to the world below having one’s soul full of injustice is the last and worst of all evils. And in proof of what I say, if you have no objection, I should like to tell you a story.
Cal.
Very well, proceed; and then we shall have done.
Soc.
The philosopher has no reason to dread death, as Socrates will prove by a relation of what happens in the world below.Socrates.Before the days of Zeus, the judgments of another world too much resembled the judgments of this.Zeus takes measures for the correction and improvement of them.
Listen, then, as story-tellers say, to a very pretty 523tale, which I dare say that you may be disposed to regard as a fable only, but which, as I believe, is a true tale, for I mean to speak the truth. Homer tells us1 , how Zeus and Poseidon and Pluto divided the empire which they inherited from their father. Now in the days of Cronos there existed a law respecting the destiny of man, which has always been, and still continues to be in Heaven,—that he who has lived all his life in justice and holiness shall go, when he is dead, to the Islands of the Blessed, and dwell there in perfect happiness out of the reach of evil; but that he who has lived unjustly and impiously shall go to the house of vengeance and punishment, which is called Tartarus. And in the time of Cronos, and even quite lately in the reign of Zeus, the judgment was given on the very day on which the men were to die; the judges were alive, and the men were alive; and the consequence was that the judgments were not well given. The Pluto and the authorities from the Islands of the Blessed came to Zeus, and said that the souls found their way to the wrong places. Zeus said: ‘I shall put a stop to this; the judgments are not well given, because the persons who are judged have their clothes on, for they are alive; and there are many who, having evil souls, are apparelled in fair bodies, or encased in wealth or rank, and, when the day of judgment arrives, numerous witnesses come forward and testify on their behalf that they have lived righteously. The judges are awed by them, and they themselves too have their clothes on when judging; their eyes and ears and their whole bodies are interposed as a veil before their own souls. All this is a hindrance to them; there are the clothes of the judges and the clothes of the judged.—What is to be done? I will tell you:—In the first place, I will deprive men of the foreknowledge of death, which they possess at present: this power which they have Prometheus has already received my orders to take from them: in the second place, they shall be entirely stripped before they are judged, for they shall be judged when they are dead; and the judge too shall be naked, that is to say, dead—he with his naked soul shall pierce into the other naked souls; and they shall die suddenly and be deprived of all their kindred, and leave their brave attire strewn upon the earth—conducted in this manner, the judgment will be just. I knew all about the matter before any of you, and therefore I have made my sons judges; two from Asia, Minos and Rhadamanthus, and one from Europe, 524Aeacus. And these, when they are dead, shall give judgment in the meadow at the parting of the ways, whence the two roads lead, one to the Islands of the Blessed, and the other to Tartarus. Rhadamanthus shall judge those who come from Asia, and Aeacus those who come from Europe. And to Minos I shall give the primacy, and he shall hold a court of appeal, in case either of the two others are in any doubt:—then the judgment respecting the last journey of men will be as just as possible.’
As the body is, so is the soul after death; they both retain the traces of what they were in life,and they are punished accordingly.
From this tale, Callicles, which I have heard and believe, I draw the following inferences:—Death, if I am right, is in the first place the separation from one another of two things, soul and body; nothing else. And after they are separated they retain their several natures, as in life; the body keeps the same habit, and the results of treatment or accident are distinctly visible in it: for example, he who by nature or training or both, was a tall man while he was alive, will remain as he was, after he is dead; and the fat man will remain fat; and so on; and the dead man, who in life had a fancy to have flowing hair, will have flowing hair. And if he was marked with the whip and had the prints of the scourge, or of wounds in him when he was alive, you might see the same in the dead body; and if his limbs were broken or misshapen when he was alive, the same appearance would be visible in the dead. And in a word, whatever was the habit of the body during life would be distinguishable after death, either perfectly, or in a great measure and for a certain time. And I should imagine that this is equally true of the soul, Callicles; when a man is stripped of the body, all the natural or acquired affections of the soul are laid open to view.—And when they come to the judge, as those from Asia come to Rhadamanthus, he places them near him and inspects them quite impartially, not knowing whose the soul is: perhaps he may lay hands on the soul of the great king, or of some other king or potentate, who has no soundness in him, but his soul is marked with the whip, and is full of the prints and scars of perjuries and crimes with which each action has stained him, and he is all crooked with falsehood and imposture, 525and has no straightness, because he has lived without truth. Him Rhadamanthus beholds, full of all deformity and disproportion, which is caused by licence and luxury and insolence and incontinence, and despatches him ignominiously to his prison, and there he undergoes the punishment which he deserves.
The proper office of punishment is either to improve or to deter.The meaner sort of men are incapable of great crimes.Great men have sometimes been good men but power is apt to corrupt them.
Now the proper office of punishment is twofold: he who is rightly punished ought either to become better and profit by it, or he ought to be made an example to his fellows, that they may see what he suffers, and fear and become better. Those who are improved when they are punished by gods and men, are those whose sins are curable; and they are improved, as in this world so also in another, by pain and suffering; for there is no other way in which they can be delivered from their evil. But they who have been guilty of the worst crimes, and are incurable by reason of their crimes, are made examples; for, as they are incurable, the time has passed at which they can receive any benefit. They get no good themselves, but others get good when they behold them enduring for ever the most terrible and painful and fearful sufferings as the penalty of their sins—there they are, hanging up as examples, in the prison-house of the world below, a spectacle and a warning to all unrighteous men who come thither. And among them, as I confidently affirm, will be found Archelaus, if Polus truly reports of him, and any other tyrant who is like him. Of these fearful examples, most, as I believe, are taken from the class of tyrants and kings and potentates and public men, for they are the authors of the greatest and most impious crimes, because they have the power. And Homer witnesses to the truth of this; for they are always kings and potentates whom he has described as suffering everlasting punishment in the world below: such were Tantalus and Sisyphus and Tityus. But no one ever described Thersites, or any private person who was a villain, as suffering everlasting punishment, or as incurable. For to commit the worst crimes, as I am inclined to think, was not in his power, and he was happier than those who had the 526power. No, Callicles, the very bad men come from the class of those who have power1 . And yet in that very class there may arise good men, and worthy of all admiration they are, for where there is great power to do wrong, to live and to die justly is a hard thing, and greatly to be praised, and few there are who attain to this. Such good and true men, however, there have been, and will be again, at Athens and in other states, who have fulfilled their trust righteously; and there is one who is quite famous all over Hellas, Aristeides, the son of Lysimachus. But, in general, great men are also bad, my friend.
The impartiality of the judges in another world.
As I was saying, Rhadamanthus, when he gets a soul of the bad kind, knows nothing about him, neither who he is, nor who his parents are; he knows only that he has got hold of a villain; and seeing this, he stamps him as curable or incurable, and sends him away to Tartarus, whither he goes and receives his proper recompense. Or, again, he looks with admiration on the soul of some just one who has lived in holiness and truth; he may have been a private man or not; and I should say, Callicles, that he is most likely to have been a philosopher who has done his own work, and not troubled himself with the doings of other men in his lifetime; him Rhadamanthus sends to the Islands of the Blessed. Aeacus does the same; and they both have sceptres, and judge; but Minos alone has a golden sceptre and is seated looking on, as Odysseus in Homer1 declares that he saw him:
- ‘Holding a sceptre of gold, and giving laws to the dead.’
Now I, Callicles, am persuaded of the truth of these things, and I consider how I shall present my soul whole and undefiled before the judge in that day. Renouncing the honours at which the world aims, I desire only to know the truth, and to live as well as I can, and, when I die, to die as well as I can. And, to the utmost of my power, I exhort all other men to do the same. And, in return for your exhortation of me, I exhort you also to take part in the great combat, which is the combat of life, and greater than every other earthly conflict. And I retort your reproach of me, and say, that you will not be able to help yourself when the day of trial and judgment, of which I was speaking, comes upon you; you will go before the judge, the son of Aegina, and, when he has got you in his grip and is carrying you off, you 527will gape and your head will swim round, just as mine would in the courts of this world, and very likely some one will shamefully box you on the ears, and put upon you any sort of insult.
Perhaps this may appear to you to be only an old wife’s tale, which you will contemn. And there might be reason in your contemning such tales, if by searching we could find out anything better or truer: but now you see that you and Polus and Gorgias, who are the three wisest of the Greeks of our day, are not able to show that we ought to live any life which does not profit in another world as well as in this. And of all that has been said, nothing remains unshaken but the saying, that to do injustice is more to be avoided than to suffer injustice, and that the reality and not the appearance of virtue is to be followed above all things, as well in public as in private life; and that when any one has been wrong in anything, he is to be chastised, and that the next best thing to a man being just is that he should become just, and be chastised and punished; also that he should avoid all flattery of himself as well as of others, of the few or of the many: and rhetoric and any other art should be used by him, and all his actions should be done always, with a view to justice.
Follow me then, and I will lead you where you will be happy in life and after death, as the argument shows. And never mind if some one despises you as a fool, and insults you, if he has a mind; let him strike you, by Zeus, and do you be of good cheer, and do not mind the insulting blow, for you will never come to any harm in the practice of virtue, if you are a really good and true man. When we have practised virtue together, we will apply ourselves to politics, if that seems desirable, or we will advise about whatever else may seem good to us, for we shall be better able to judge then. In our present condition we ought not to give ourselves airs, for even on the most important subjects we are always changing our minds; so utterly stupid are we! Let us, then, take the argument as our guide, which has revealed to us that the best way of life is to practise justice and every virtue in life and death. This way let us go; and in this exhort all men to follow, not in the way to which you trust and in which you exhort me to follow you; for that way, Callicles, is nothing worth.
APPENDIX I.
Appendix I.
It seems impossible to separate by any exact line the genuine writings of Plato from the spurious. The only external evidence to them which is of much value is that of Aristotle; for the Alexandrian catalogues of a century later include manifest forgeries. Even the value of the Aristotelian authority is a good deal impaired by the uncertainty concerning the date and authorship of the writings which are ascribed to him. And several of the citations of Aristotle omit the name of Plato, and some of them omit the name of the dialogue from which they are taken. Prior, however, to the enquiry about the writings of a particular author, general considerations which equally affect all evidence to the genuineness of ancient writings are the following: Shorter works are more likely to have been forged, or to have received an erroneous designation, than longer ones; and some kinds of composition, such as epistles or panegyrical orations, are more liable to suspicion than others; those, again, which have a taste of sophistry in them, or the ring of a later age, or the slighter character of a rhetorical exercise, or in which a motive or some affinity to spurious writings can be detected, or which seem to have originated in a name or statement really occurring in some classical author, are also of doubtful credit; while there is no instance of any ancient writing proved to be a forgery, which combines excellence with length. A really great and original writer would have no object in fathering his works on Plato; and to the forger or imitator, the ‘literary hack’ of Alexandria and Athens, the Gods did not grant originality or genius. Further, in attempting to balance the evidence for and against a Platonic dialogue, we must not forget that the form of the Platonic writing was common to several of his contemporaries. Aeschines, Euclid, Phaedo, Antisthenes, and in the next generation Aristotle, are all said to have composed dialogues; and mistakes of names are very likely to have occurred. Greek literature in the third century before Christ was almost as voluminous as our own, and without the safeguards of regular publication, or printing, or binding, or even of distinct titles. An unknown writing was naturally attributed to a known writer whose works bore the same character; and the name once appended easily obtained authority. A tendency may also be observed to blend the works and opinions of the master with those of his scholars. To a later Platonist, the difference between Plato and his imitators was not so perceptible as to ourselves. The Memorabilia of Xenophon and the Dialogues of Plato are but a part of a considerable Socratic literature which has passed away. And we must consider how we should regard the question of the genuineness of a particular writing, if this lost literature had been preserved to us.
These considerations lead us to adopt the following criteria of genuineness: (1) That is most certainly Plato’s which Aristotle attributes to him by name, which (2) is of considerable length, of (3) great excellence, and also (4) in harmony with the general spirit of the Platonic writings. But the testimony of Aristotle cannot always be distinguished from that of a later age (see above); and has various degrees of importance. Those writings which he cites without mentioning Plato, under their own names, e. g. the Hippias, the Funeral Oration, the Phaedo, etc., have an inferior degree of evidence in their favour. They may have been supposed by him to be the writings of another, although in the case of really great works, e. g. the Phaedo, this is not credible; those again which are quoted but not named, are still more defective in their external credentials. There may be also a possibility that Aristotle was mistaken, or may have confused the master and his scholars in the case of a short writing; but this is inconceivable about a more important work, e. g. the Laws, especially when we remember that he was living at Athens, and a frequenter of the groves of the Academy, during the last twenty years of Plato’s life. Nor must we forget that in all his numerous citations from the Platonic writings he never attributes any passage found in the extant dialogues to any one but Plato. And lastly, we may remark that one or two great writings, such as the Parmenides and the Politicus, which are wholly devoid of Aristotelian (1) credentials may be fairly attributed to Plato, on the ground of (2) length, (3) excellence, and (4) accordance with the general spirit of his writings. Indeed the greater part of the evidence for the genuineness of ancient Greek authors may be summed up under two heads only: (1) excellence; and (2) uniformity of tradition—a kind of evidence, which though in many cases sufficient, is of inferior value.
Proceeding upon these principles we appear to arrive at the conclusion that nineteen-twentieths of all the writings which have ever been ascribed to Plato, are undoubtedly genuine. There is another portion of them, including the Epistles, the Epinomis, the dialogues rejected by the ancients themselves, namely, the Axiochus, De justo, De virtute, Demodocus, Sisyphus, Eryxias, which on grounds, both of internal and external evidence, we are able with equal certainty to reject. But there still remains a small portion of which we are unable to affirm either that they are genuine or spurious. They may have been written in youth, or possibly like the works of some painters, may be partly or wholly the compositions of pupils; or they may have been the writings of some contemporary transferred by accident to the more celebrated name of Plato, or of some Platonist in the next generation who aspired to imitate his master. Not that on grounds either of language or philosophy we should lightly reject them. Some difference of style, or inferiority of execution, or inconsistency of thought, can hardly be considered decisive of their spurious character. For who always does justice to himself, or who writes with equal care at all times? Certainly not Plato, who exhibits the greatest differences in dramatic power, in the formation of sentences, and in the use of words, if his earlier writings are compared with his later ones, say the Protagoras or Phaedrus with the Laws. Or who can be expected to think in the same manner during a period of authoriship extending over above fifty years, in an age of great intellectual activity, as well as of political and literary transition? Certainly not Plato, whose earlier writings are separated from his later ones by as wide an interval of philosophical speculation as that which separates his later writings from Aristotle.
The dialogues which have been translated in the first Appendix, and which appear to have the next claim to genuineness among the Platonic writings, are the Lesser Hippias, the Menexenus or Funeral Oration, the First Alcibiades. Of these, the Lesser Hippias and the Funeral Oration are cited by Aristotle; the first in the Metaphysics, iv. 29, 5, the latter in the Rhetoric, iii. 14, 11. Neither of them are expressly attributed to Plato, but in his citation of both of them he seems to be referring to passages in the extant dialogues. From the mention of ‘Hippias’ in the singular by Aristotle, we may perhaps infer that he was unacquainted with a second dialogue bearing the same name. Moreover, the mere existence of a Greater and Lesser Hippias, and of a First and Second Alcibiades, does to a certain extent throw a doubt upon both of them. Though a very clever and ingenious work, the Lesser Hippias does not appear to contain anything beyond the power of an imitator, who was also a careful student of the earlier Platonic writings, to invent. The motive or leading thought of the dialogue may be detected in Xen. Mem. iv. 2, 21, and there is no similar instance of a ‘motive’ which is taken from Xenophon in an undoubted dialogue of Plato. On the other hand, the upholders of the genuineness of the dialogue will find in the Hippias a true Socratic spirit; they will compare the Ion as being akin both in subject and treatment; they will urge the authority of Aristotle; and they will detect in the treatment of the Sophist, in the satirical reasoning upon Homer, in the reductio ad absurdum of the doctrine that vice is ignorance, traces of a Platonic authorship. In reference to the last point we are doubtful, as in some of the other dialogues, whether the author is asserting or overthrowing the paradox of Socrates, or merely following the argument ‘whither the wind blows.’ That no conclusion is arrived at is also in accordance with the character of the earlier dialogues. The resemblances or imitations of the Gorgias, Protagoras, and Euthydemus, which have been observed in the Hippias, cannot with certainty be adduced on either side of the argument. On the whole, more may be said in favour of the genuineness of the Hippias than against it.
The Menexenus or Funeral Oration is cited by Aristotle, and is interesting as supplying an example of the manner in which the orators praised ‘the Athenians among the Athenians,’ falsifying persons and dates, and casting a veil over the gloomier events of Athenian history. It exhibits an acquaintance with the funeral oration of Thucydides, and was, perhaps, intended to rival that great work. If genuine, the proper place of the Menexenus would be at the end of the Phaedrus. The satirical opening and the concluding words bear a great resemblance to the earlier dialogues; the oration itself is professedly a mimetic work, like the speeches in the Phaedrus, and cannot therefore be tested by a comparison of the other writings of Plato. The funeral oration of Pericles is expressly mentioned in the Phaedrus, and this may have suggested the subject, in the same manner that the Cleitophon appears to be suggested by the slight mention of Cleitophon and his attachment to Thrasymachus in the Republic, cp. 465 A; and the Theages by the mention of Theages in the Apology and Republic; or as the Second Alcibiades seems to be founded upon the text of Xenophon, Mem. i. 3, 1. A similar taste for parody appears not only in the Phaedrus, but in the Protagoras, in the Symposium, and to a certain extent in the Parmenides.
To these two doubtful writings of Plato I have added the First Alcibiades, which, of all the disputed dialogues of Plato, has the greatest merit, and is somewhat longer than any other of them, though not verified by the testimony of Aristotle, and in many respects at variance with the Symposium in the description of the relations of Socrates and Alcibiades. Like the Lesser Hippias and the Menexenus, it is to be compared to the earlier writings of Plato. The motive of the piece may, perhaps, be found in that passage of the Symposium in which Alcibiades describes himself as self-convicted by the words of Socrates (216 B, C). For the disparaging manner in which Schleiermacher has spoken of this dialogue there seems to be no sufficient foundation. At the same time, the lesson imparted is simple, and the irony more transparent than in the undoubted dialogues of Plato. We know, too, that Alcibiades was a favourite thesis, and that at least five or six dialogues bearing this name passed current in antiquity, and are attributed to contemporaries of Socrates and Plato. (1) In the entire absence of real external evidence (for the catalogues of the Alexandrian librarians cannot be regarded as trustworthy); and (2) in the absence of the highest marks either of poetical or philosophical excellence; and (3) considering that we have express testimony to the existence of contemporary writings bearing the name of Alcibiades, we are compelled to suspend our judgment on the genuineness of the extant dialogue.
Neither at this point, nor at any other, do we propose to draw an absolute line of demarcation between genuine and spurious writings of Plato. They fade off imperceptibly from one class to another. There may have been degrees of genuineness in the dialogues themselves, as there are certainly degrees of evidence by which they are supported. The traditions of the oral discourses both of Socrates and Plato may have formed the basis of semi-Platonic writings; some of them may be of the same mixed character which is apparent in Aristotle and Hippocrates, although the form of them is different. But the writings of Plato, unlike the writings of Aristotle, seem never to have been confused with the writings of his disciples: this was probably due to their definite form, and to their inimitable excellence. The three dialogues which we have offered in the Appendix to the criticism of the reader may be partly spurious and partly genuine; they may be altogether spurious;—that is an alternative which must be frankly admitted. Nor can we maintain of some other dialogues, such as the Parmenides, and the Sophist, and Politicus, that no considerable objection can be urged against them, though greatly overbalanced by the weight (chiefly) of internal evidence in their favour. Nor, on the other hand, can we exclude a bare possibility that some dialogues which are usually rejected, such as the Greater Hippias and the Cleitophon, may be genuine. The nature and object of these semi-Platonic writings require more careful study and more comparison of them with one another, and with forged writings in general, than they have yet received, before we can finally decide on their character. We do not consider them all as genuine until they can be proved to be spurious, as is often maintained and still more often implied in this and similar discussions; but should say of some of them, that their genuineness is neither proven nor disproven until further evidence about them can be adduced. And we are as confident that the Epistles are spurious, as that the Republic, the Timaeus, and the Laws are genuine.
On the whole, not a twentieth part of the writings which pass under the name of Plato, if we exclude the works rejected by the ancients themselves and two or three other plausible inventions, can be fairly doubted by those who are willing to allow that a considerable change and growth may have taken place in his philosophy (see above). That twentieth debatable portion scarcely in any degree affects our judgment of Plato, either as a thinker or a writer, and though suggesting some interesting questions to the scholar and critic, is of little importance to the general reader.
LESSER HIPPIAS.
INTRODUCTION.
Lesser Hippias.Introduction.
The Lesser Hippias may be compared with the earlier dialogues of Plato, in which the contrast of Socrates and the Sophists is most strongly exhibited. Hippias, like Protagoras and Gorgias, though civil, is vain and boastful: he knows all things; he can make anything, including his own clothes; he is a manufacturer of poems and declamations, and also of seal-rings, shoes, strigils; his girdle, which he has woven himself, is of a finer than Persian quality. He is a vainer, lighter nature than the two great Sophists (cp. Protag. 314, 337), but of the same character with them, and equally impatient of the short cut-and-thrust method of Socrates, whom he endeavours to draw into a long oration. At last, he gets tired of being defeated at every point by Socrates, and is with difficulty induced to proceed (compare Thrasymachus, Protagoras, Callicles, and others, to whom the same reluctance is ascribed).
Analysis.
363Hippias like Protagoras has common sense on his side, when he argues, citing passages of the Iliad in support of his view, that Homer intended Achilles to be the bravest, Odysseus the wisest of the Greeks. But he is easily overthrown by the superior dialectics of Socrates, who pretends to show that Achilles is not -369true to his word, and that no similar inconsistency is to be found in Odysseus. Hippias replies that Achilles unintentionally, but 370Odysseus intentionally, speaks falsehood. But is it better to do wrong intentionally or unintentionally? Socrates, relying on the analogy of the arts, maintains the former, Hippias the latter of the -372two alternatives. . . . All this is quite conceived in the spirit of Plato, who is very far from making Socrates always argue on the side of truth. The over-reasoning on Homer, which is of course satirical, is also in the spirit of Plato. Poetry turned logic is even more ridiculous than ‘rhetoric turned logic,’ and equally fallacious. There were reasoners in ancient as well as in modern times, who could never receive the natural impression of Homer, or of any other book which they read. The argument of Socrates, in which he picks out the apparent inconsistencies and discrepancies in the speech and actions of Achilles, and the final paradox, ‘that he who is true is also false,’ remind us of the interpretation by Socrates of Simonides in the Protagoras, and of similar reasonings in the first book of the Republic. The discrepancies which Socrates discovers in the words of Achilles are perhaps as great as those discovered by some of the modern separatists of the Homeric poems. . . .
At last, Socrates having caught Hippias in the toils of the 376voluntary and involuntary, is obliged to confess that he is wandering about in the same labyrinth; he makes the reflection on himself which others would make upon him (cp. Protagoras, sub fin.). He does not wonder that he should be in a difficulty, but he wonders at Hippias, and he becomes sensible of the gravity of the situation, when ordinary men like himself can no longer go to the wise and be taught by them.
Introduction.
It may be remarked as bearing on the genuineness of this dialogue: (1) that the manners of the speakers are less subtle and refined than in the other dialogues of Plato; (2) that the sophistry of Socrates is more palpable and unblushing, and also more unmeaning; (3) that many turns of thought and style are found in it which appear also in the other dialogues:—whether resemblances of this kind tell in favour of or against the genuineness of an ancient writing, is an important question which will have to be answered differently in different cases. For that a writer may repeat himself is as true as that a forger may imitate; and Plato elsewhere, either of set purpose or from forgetfulness, is full of repetitions. The parallelisms of the Lesser Hippias, as already remarked, are not of the kind which necessarily imply that the dialogue is the work of a forger. The parallelisms of the Greater Hippias with the other dialogues, and the allusion to the Lesser 285, 286 A, B (where Hippias sketches the programme of his next lecture, and invites Socrates to attend and bring any friends with him who may be competent judges), are more than suspicious:—they are of a very poor sort, such as we cannot suppose to have been due to Plato himself. The Greater Hippias more resembles the Euthydemus than any other dialogue; but is immeasurably inferior to it. The Lesser Hippias seems to have more merit than the Greater, and to be more Platonic in spirit. The character of Hippias is the same in both dialogues, but his vanity and boasting are even more exaggerated in the Greater Hippias. His art of memory is specially mentioned in both. He is an inferior type of the same species as Hippodamus of Miletus (Arist. Pol. II. 8, § 1). Some passages in which the Lesser Hippias may be advantageously compared with the undoubtedly genuine dialogues of Plato are the following:—Less. Hipp. 369 B: cp. Rep. vi. 487 (Socrates’ cunning in argument): ∥ ib. D, E: cp. Laches 188 (Socrates’ feeling about arguments): ∥ 372 B, C: cp. Rep. i. 338 B (Socrates not unthankful): ∥ 373 B: cp. Rep. i. 340 D (Socrates dishonest in argument).
The Lesser Hippias, though inferior to the other dialogues, may be reasonably believed to have been written by Plato, on the ground (1) of considerable excellence; (2) of uniform tradition beginning with Aristotle and his school. That the dialogue falls below the standard of Plato’s other works, or that he has attributed to Socrates an unmeaning paradox (perhaps with the view of showing that he could beat the Sophists at their own weapons; or that he could ‘make the worse appear the better cause’; or merely as a dialectical experiment)—are not sufficient reasons for doubting the genuineness of the work.
LESSER HIPPIAS.
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE.
Eudicus, Socrates, Hippias.
Eudicus.
Socrates, Eudicus, Hippias.
363Why are you silent, Socrates, after the magnificent display which Hippias has been making? Why do you not either refute his words, if he seems to you to have been wrong in any point, or join with us in commending him? There is the more reason why you should speak, because we are now alone, and the audience is confined to those who may fairly claim to take part in a philosophical discussion.
Socrates.
The Iliad of Homer a finer work than the Odyssey, because Achilles, the hero of the poem, is greater than Odysseus.
I should greatly like, Eudicus, to ask Hippias the meaning of what he was saying just now about Homer. I have heard your father, Apemantus, declare that the Iliad of Homer is a finer poem than the Odyssey in the same degree that Achilles was a better man than Odysseus; Odysseus, he would say, is the central figure of the one poem and Achilles of the other. Now, I should like to know, if Hippias has no objection to tell me, what he thinks about these two heroes, and which of them he maintains to be the better; he has already told us in the course of his exhibition many things of various kinds about Homer and divers other poets.
Eud.
I am sure that Hippias will be delighted to answer anything which you would like to ask; tell me, Hippias, if Socrates asks you a question, will you answer him?
Hippias.
Socrates, Hippias.
Indeed, Eudicus, I should be strangely inconsistent if I refused to answer Socrates, when at each Olympic festival, as I went up from my house at Elis to the temple of Olympia, where all the Hellenes were assembled, I continually professed my willingness to perform any of the exhibitions which I had prepared, and to answer any questions which any one had to ask.
Soc.
Truly, Hippias, you are to be congratulated, if at 364every Olympic festival you have such an encouraging opinion of your own wisdom when you go up to the temple. I doubt whether any muscular hero would be so fearless and confident in offering his body to the combat at Olympia, as you are in offering your mind.
Hip.
And with good reason, Socrates; for since the day when I first entered the lists at Olympia I have never found any man who was my superior in anything1 .
Soc.
What an ornament, Hippias, will the reputation of your wisdom be to the city of Elis and to your parents! But to return: what say you of Odysseus and Achilles? Which is the better of the two? and in what particular does either surpass the other? For when you were exhibiting and there was company in the room, though I could not follow you, I did not like to ask what you meant, because a crowd of people were present, and I was afraid that the question might interrupt your exhibition. But now that there are not so many of us, and my friend Eudicus bids me ask, I wish you would tell me what you were saying about these two heroes, so that I may clearly understand; how did you distinguish them?
Hip.
Achilles the bravest, Nestor the wisest, and Odysseus the wiliest of the Greeks at Troy.
I shall have much pleasure, Socrates, in explaining to you more clearly than I could in public my views about these and also about other heroes. I say that Homer intended Achilles to be the bravest of the men who went to Troy, Nestor the wisest, and Odysseus the wiliest.
Soc.
O rare Hippias, will you be so good as not to laugh, if I find a difficulty in following you, and repeat my questions several times over? Please to answer me kindly and gently.
Hip.
I should be greatly ashamed of myself, Socrates, if I, who teach others and take money of them, could not, when I was asked by you, answer in a civil and agreeable manner.
Soc.
Thank you: the fact is, that I seemed to understand what you meant when you said that the poet intended Achilles to be the bravest of men, and also that he intended Nestor to be the wisest; but when you said that he meant Odysseus to be the wiliest, I must confess that I could not understand what you were saying. Will you tell me, and then I shall perhaps understand you better; has not Homer made Achilles wily?
Hip.
Certainly not, Socrates; he is the most straightforward of mankind, and when Homer introduces them talking with one another in the passage called the Prayers, Achilles is supposed by the poet to say to Odysseus:—
365‘Son of Laertes, sprung from heaven, crafty Odysseus, I will speak out plainly the word which I intend to carry out in act, and which will, I believe, be accomplished. For I hate him like the gates of death who thinks one thing and says another. But I will speak that which shall be accomplished.’
Now, in these verses he clearly indicates the character of the two men; he shows Achilles to be true and simple, and Odysseus to be wily and false; for he supposes Achilles to be addressing Odysseus in these lines.
Soc.
Wily means false:
Now, Hippias, I think that I understand your meaning; when you say that Odysseus is wily, you clearly mean that he is false?
Hip.
Exactly so, Socrates; it is the character of Odysseus, as he is represented by Homer in many passages both of the Iliad and Odyssey.
Soc.
And Homer must be presumed to have meant that the true man is not the same as the false?
Hip.
Of course, Socrates.
Soc.
And is that your own opinion, Hippias?
Hip.
Certainly; how can I have any other?
Soc.
Well, then, as there is no possibility of asking Homer what he meant in these verses of his, let us leave him; but as you show a willingness to take up his cause, and your opinion agrees with what you declare to be his, will you answer on behalf of yourself and him?
Hip.
I will; ask shortly anything which you like.
Soc.
Do you say that the false, like the sick, have no power to do things, or that they have the power to do things?
Hip.
I should say that they have power to do many things, and in particular to deceive mankind.
Soc.
Then, according to you, they are both powerful and wily, are they not?
Hip.
And the false have the power of deceiving mankind; they are prudent and knowing and wise, and have the ability to speak falsely.
Yes.
Soc.
And are they wily, and do they deceive by reason of their simplicity and folly, or by reason of their cunning and a certain sort of prudence?
Hip.
By reason of their cunning and prudence, most certainly.
Soc.
Then they are prudent, I suppose?
Hip.
So they are—very.
Soc.
And if they are prudent, do they know or do they not know what they do?
Hip.
Of course, they know very well; and that is why they do mischief to others.
Soc.
And having this knowledge, are they ignorant, or are they wise?
Hip.
Wise, certainly; at least, in so far as they can deceive.
Soc.
Stop, and let us recall to mind what you are saying; 366are you not saying that the false are powerful and prudent and knowing and wise in those things about which they are false?
Hip.
To be sure.
Soc.
And the true differ from the false—the true and the false are the very opposite of each other?
Hip.
That is my view.
Soc.
Then, according to your view, it would seem that the false are to be ranked in the class of the powerful and wise?
Hip.
Assuredly.
Soc.
And when you say that the false are powerful and wise in so far as they are false, do you mean that they have or have not the power of uttering their falsehoods if they like?
Hip.
I mean to say that they have the power.
Soc.
In a word, then, the false are they who are wise and have the power to speak falsely?
Hip.
Yes.
Soc.
Then a man who has not the power of speaking falsely and is ignorant cannot be false?
Hip.
You are right.
Soc.
And every man has power who does that which he wishes at the time when he wishes. I am not speaking of any special case in which he is prevented by disease or something of that sort, but I am speaking generally, as I might say of you, that you are able to write my name when you like. Would you not call a man able who could do that?
Hip.
Yes.
Soc.
And tell me, Hippias, are you not a skilful calculator and arithmetician?
Hip.
Yes, Socrates, assuredly I am.
Soc.
And if some one were to ask you what is the sum of 3 multiplied by 700, you would tell him the true answer in a moment, if you pleased?
Hip.
Certainly I should.
Soc.
Is not that because you are the wisest and ablest of men in these matters?
Hip.
Yes.
Soc.
And being as you are the wisest and ablest of men in these matters of calculation, are you not also the best?
Hip.
To be sure, Socrates, I am the best.
Soc.
And therefore you would be the most able to tell the truth about these matters, would you not?
Hip.
Yes, I should.
Soc.
They must truly know that about which they falsely speak or they will fall into the error of speaking the truth by mistake.
And could you speak falsehoods about them equally well? I must beg, Hippias, that you will answer me with the same frankness and magnanimity which has hitherto characterized you. If a person were to ask you what is the sum of 3 multiplied by 700, would not you be the best and most consistent teller of a falsehood, having always the power of speaking falsely as you have of speaking truly, about these same matters, if you wanted to tell a falsehood, 367and not to answer truly? Would the ignorant man be better able to tell a falsehood in matters of calculation than you would be, if you chose? Might he not sometimes stumble upon the truth, when he wanted to tell a lie, because he did not know, whereas you who are the wise man, if you wanted to tell a lie would always and consistently lie?
Hip.
Yes; there you are quite right.
Soc.
Does the false man tell lies about other things, but not about number, or when he is making a calculation?
Hip.
To be sure; he would tell as many lies about number as about other things.
Soc.
Then may we further assume, Hippias, that there are men who are false about calculation and number?
Hip.
Yes.
Soc.
Who can they be? For you have already admitted that he who is false must have the ability to be false: you said, as you will remember, that he who is unable to be false will not be false?
Hip.
Yes, I remember; it was so said.
Soc.
And were you not yourself just now shown to be best able to speak falsely about calculation?
Hip.
Yes; that was another thing which was said.
Soc.
And are you not likewise said to speak truly about calculation?
Hip.
Certainly.
Soc.
Then the same person is able to speak both falsely and truly about calculation? And that person is he who is good at calculation—the arithmetician?
Hip.
Yes.
Soc.
Who, then, Hippias, is discovered to be false at calculation? Is he not the good man? For the good man is the able man, and he is the true man.
Hip.
That is evident.
Soc.
Therefore the same man must be true if he is to be truly false, in astronomy, in geometry, and in all the sciences.
Do you not see, then, that the same man is false and also true about the same matters? And the true man is not a whit better than the false; for indeed he is the same with him and not the very opposite, as you were just now imagining.
Hip.
Not in that instance, clearly.
Soc.
Shall we examine other instances?
Hip.
Certainly, if you are disposed.
Soc.
Are you not also skilled in geometry?
Hip.
I am.
Soc.
Well, and does not the same hold in that science also? Is not the same person best able to speak falsely or to speak truly about diagrams; and he is—the geometrician?
Hip.
Yes.
Soc.
He and no one else is good at it?
Hip.
Yes, he and no one else.
Soc.
Then the good and wise geometer has this double power in the highest degree; and if there be a man who is false about diagrams the good man will be he, for he is able to be false; whereas the bad is unable, and for this reason is not false, as has been admitted.
Hip.
True.
Soc.
Once more—let us examine a third case; that of the astronomer, in whose art, again, you, Hippias, profess to be a still greater proficient than in the preceding—do you not?
Hip.
368Yes, I am.
Soc.
And does not the same hold of astronomy?
Hip.
True, Socrates.
Soc.
And in astronomy, too, if any man be able to speak falsely he will be the good astronomer, but he who is not able will not speak falsely, for he has no knowledge.
Hip.
Clearly not.
Soc.
Then in astronomy also, the same man will be true and false?
Hip.
It would seem so.
Soc.
Socrates compliments Hippias on his skill in engraving gems, in making clothes and shoes and the finest fabrics, in writing poetry and prose of the most varied kind, and on the art of memory which he has invented.
And now, Hippias, consider the question at large about all the sciences, and see whether the same principle does not always hold. I know that in most arts you are the wisest of men, as I have heard you boasting in the agora at the tables of the money-changers, when you were setting forth the great and enviable stores of your wisdom; and you said that upon one occasion, when you went to the Olympic games, all that you had on your person was made by yourself. You began with your ring, which was of your own workmanship, and you said that you could engrave rings; and you had another seal which was also of your own workmanship, and a strigil and an oil flask, which you had made yourself; you said also that you had made the shoes which you had on your feet, and the cloak and the short tunic; but what appeared to us all most extraordinary and a proof of singular art, was the girdle of your tunic, which, you said, was as fine as the most costly Persian fabric, and of your own weaving; moreover, you told us that you had brought with you poems, epic, tragic, and dithyrambic, as well as prose writings of the most various kinds; and you said that your skill was also pre-eminent in the arts which I was just now mentioning, and in the true principles of rhythm and harmony and of orthography; and if I remember rightly, there were a great many other accomplishments in which you excelled. I have forgotten to mention your art of memory, which you regard as your special glory, and I dare say that I have forgotten many other things; but, as I was saying, only look to your own arts—and there are plenty of them—and to those of others; and tell me, having regard to the admissions which you and I have made, whether you discover any department of art or any description of wisdom or cunning, whichever name you use, in which the true and false are different and not the same: tell me, if you can, of any. But 369you cannot.
Hip.
Not without consideration, Socrates.
Soc.
Nor will consideration help you, Hippias, as I believe; but then if I am right, remember what the consequence will be.
Hip.
Yet he who knows and remembers all things can call to mind no instance in which the false is not also true, although he was saying just now that Achilles is true and Odysseus false.
I do not know what you mean, Socrates.
Soc.
I suppose that you are not using your art of memory, doubtless because you think that such an accomplishment is not needed on the present occasion. I will therefore remind you of what you were saying: were you not saying that Achilles was a true man, and Odysseus false and wily?
Hip.
I was.
Soc.
And now do you perceive that the same person has turned out to be false as well as true? If Odysseus is false he is also true, and if Achilles is true he is also false, and so the two men are not opposed to one another, but they are alike.
Hip.
O Socrates, you are always weaving the meshes of an argument, selecting the most difficult point, and fastening upon details instead of grappling with the matter in hand as a whole. Come now, and I will demonstrate to you, if you will allow me, by many satisfactory proofs, that Homer has made Achilles a better man than Odysseus, and a truthful man too; and that he has made the other crafty, and a teller of many untruths, and inferior to Achilles. And then, if you please, you shall make a speech on the other side, in order to prove that Odysseus is the better man; and this may be compared to mine, and then the company will know which of us is the better speaker.
Soc.
Socrates pays Hippias the compliment which he always pays to a wise man, of attending to him. He proves by example that Achilles, the true man, is always uttering falsehoods, Odysseus, the false man, never.
O Hippias, I do not doubt that you are wiser than I am. But I have a way, when anybody else says anything, of giving close attention to him, especially if the speaker appears to me to be a wise man. Having a desire to understand, I question him, and I examine and analyse and put together what he says, in order that I may understand; but if the speaker appears to me to be a poor hand, I do not interrogate him, or trouble myself about him, and you may know by this who they are whom I deem to be wise men, for you will see that when I am talking with a wise man, I am very attentive to what he says; and I ask questions of him, in order that I may learn, and be improved by him. And I could not help remarking while you were speaking, that when you recited the verses in which Achilles, as you argued, attacks Odysseus as a deceiver, that you must be strangely mistaken, because Odysseus, the man of wiles, is never found to tell a lie; but 370Achilles is found to be wily on your own showing. At any rate he speaks falsely; for first he utters these words, which you just now repeated,—
‘He is hateful to me even as the gates of death who thinks one thing and says another:’—
And then he says, a little while afterwards, he will not be persuaded by Odysseus and Agamemnon, neither will he remain at Troy; but, says he,—
‘To-morrow, when I have offered sacrifices to Zeus and all the Gods, having loaded my ships well, I will drag them down into the deep; and then you shall see, if you have a mind, and if such things are a care to you, early in the morning my ships sailing over the fishy Hellespont, and my men eagerly plying the oar; and, if the illustrious shaker of the earth gives me a good voyage, on the third day I shall reach the fertile Phthia.
And before that, when he was reviling Agamemnon, he said,—
‘And now to Phthia I will go, since to return home in the beaked ships is far better, nor am I inclined to stay here in dishonour and amass wealth and riches for you.’
But although on that occasion, in the presence of the whole army, he spoke after this fashion, and on the other occasion to his companions, he appears never to have made any preparation or attempt to draw down the ships, as if he had the least intention of sailing home; so nobly regardless was he of the truth. Now I, Hippias, originally asked you the question, because I was in doubt as to which of the two heroes was intended by the poet to be the best, and because I thought that both of them were the best, and that it would be difficult to decide which was the better of them, not only in respect of truth and falsehood, but of virtue generally, for even in this matter of speaking the truth they are much upon a par.
Hip.
Aye, but the falsehood of Achilles is accidental; that of Odysseus intentional.
There you are wrong, Socrates; for in so far as Achilles speaks falsely, the falsehood is obviously unintentional. He is compelled against his will to remain and rescue the army in their misfortune. But when Odysseus speaks falsely he is voluntarily and intentionally false.
Soc.
You, sweet Hippias, like Odysseus, are a deceiver yourself.
Hip.
Certainly not, Socrates; what makes you say so? 371
Soc.
Because you say that Achilles does not speak falsely from design, when he is not only a deceiver, but besides being a braggart, in Homer’s description of him is so cunning, and so far superior to Odysseus in lying and pretending, that he dares to contradict himself, and Odysseus does not find him out; at any rate he does not appear to say anything to him which would imply that he perceived his falsehood.
Hip.
What do you mean, Socrates?
Soc.
Did you not observe that afterwards, when he is speaking to Odysseus, he says that he will sail away with the early dawn; but to Ajax he tells quite a different story?
Hip.
Where is that?
Soc.
Where he says,—
‘I will not think about bloody war until the son of warlike Priam, illustrious Hector, comes to the tents and ships of the Myrmidons, slaughtering the Argives, and burning the ships with fire; and about my tent and dark ship, I suspect that Hector, although eager for the battle, will nevertheless stay his hand.’
Now, do you really think, Hippias, that the son of Thetis, who had been the pupil of the sage Cheiron, had such a bad memory, or would have carried the art of lying to such an extent (when he had been assailing liars in the most violent terms only the instant before) as to say to Odysseus that he would sail away, and to Ajax that he would remain, and that he was not rather practising upon the simplicity of Odysseus, whom he regarded as an ancient, and thinking that he would get the better of him by his own cunning and falsehood?
Hip.
No, I do not agree with you, Socrates; but I believe that Achilles is induced to say one thing to Ajax, and another to Odysseus in the innocence of his heart, whereas Odysseus, whether he speaks falsely or truly, speaks always with a purpose.
Soc.
That proves Odysseus to be better than Achilles.
Then Odysseus would appear after all to be better than Achilles?
Hip.
Certainly not, Socrates.
Soc.
Why, were not the voluntary liars only just now shown to be better than the involuntary?
Hip.
And how, Socrates, can those who intentionally err, and voluntarily and designedly commit iniquities, be better 372than those who err and do wrong involuntarily? Surely there is a great excuse to be made for a man telling a falsehood, or doing an injury or any sort of harm to another in ignorance. And the laws are obviously far more severe on those who lie or do evil, voluntarily, than on those who do evil involuntarily.
Soc.
Socrates is convinced of his own ignorance because he never agrees with wise men. But he is willing to learn,Socrates, Hippias, Eudicus.and he desires to be cured by Hippias of his ignorance in as few words as possible.
You see, Hippias, as I have already told you, how pertinacious I am in asking questions of wise men. And I think that this is the only good point about me, for I am full of defects, and always getting wrong in some way or other. My deficiency is proved to me by the fact that when I meet one of you who are famous for wisdom, and to whose wisdom all the Hellenes are witnesses, I am found out to know nothing. For speaking generally, I hardly ever have the same opinion about anything which you have, and what proof of ignorance can be greater than to differ from wise men? But I have one singular good quality, which is my salvation; I am not ashamed to learn, and I ask and enquire, and am very grateful to those who answer me, and never fail to give them my grateful thanks; and when I learn a thing I never deny my teacher, or pretend that the lesson is a discovery of my own; but I praise his wisdom, and proclaim what I have learned from him. And now I cannot agree in what you are saying, but I strongly disagree. Well, I know that this is my own fault, and is a defect in my character, but I will not pretend to be more than I am; and my opinion, Hippias, is the very contrary of what you are saying. For I maintain that those who hurt or injure mankind, and speak falsely and deceive, and err voluntarily, are better far than those who do wrong involuntarily. Sometimes, however, I am of the opposite opinion; for I am all abroad in my ideas about this matter, a condition obviously occasioned by ignorance. And just now I happen to be in a crisis of my disorder at which those who err voluntarily appear to me better than those who err involuntarily. My present state of mind is due to our previous argument, which inclines me to believe that in general those who do wrong involuntarily are worse than those who do wrong voluntarily, and therefore I hope that you will be good to me, and not refuse to heal me; for you will do me a much greater benefit if you cure my soul of ignorance, than you would if you were to cure my body of disease. I must, however, tell you beforehand, that if you 373make a long oration to me you will not cure me, for I shall not be able to follow you; but if you will answer me, as you did just now, you will do me a great deal of good, and I do not think that you will be any the worse yourself. And I have some claim upon you also, O son of Apemantus, for you incited me to converse with Hippias; and now, if Hippias will not answer me, you must entreat him on my behalf.
Eud.
But I do not think, Socrates, that Hippias will require any entreaty of mine; for he has already said that he will refuse to answer no man.—Did you not say so, Hippias?
Hip.
Yes, I did; but then, Eudicus, Socrates is always troublesome in an argument, and appears to be dishonest1 .
Soc.
Excellent Hippias, I do not do so intentionally (if I did, it would show me to be a wise man and a master of wiles, as you would argue), but unintentionally, and therefore you must pardon me; for, as you say, he who is unintentionally dishonest should be pardoned.
Eud.
Yes, Hippias, do as he says; and for our sake, and also that you may not belie your profession, answer whatever Socrates asks you.
Hip.
I will answer, as you request me; and do you ask whatever you like.
Soc.
I am very desirous, Hippias, of examining this question, as to which are the better—those who err voluntarily or involuntarily? And if you will answer me, I think that I can put you in the way of approaching the subject: You would admit, would you not, that there are good runners?
Hip.
Socrates by citation of instances not ‘in pari materia’ proves that it is better to do evil intentionally;
Yes.
Soc.
And there are bad runners?
Hip.
Yes.
Soc.
And he who runs well is a good runner, and he who runs ill is a bad runner?
Hip.
Very true.
Soc.
And he who runs slowly runs ill, and he who runs quickly runs well?
Hip.
Yes.
Soc.
e. g. in running,
Then in a race, and in running, swiftness is a good, and slowness is an evil quality?
Hip.
To be sure.
Soc.
Which of the two then is a better runner? He who runs slowly voluntarily, or he who runs slowly involuntarily?
Hip.
He who runs slowly voluntarily.
Soc.
And is not running a species of doing?
Hip.
Certainly.
Soc.
And if a species of doing, a species of action?
Hip.
Yes.
Soc.
Then he who runs badly does a bad and dishonourable action in a race?
Hip.
Yes; a bad action, certainly.
Soc.
And he who runs slowly runs badly?
Hip.
Yes.
Soc.
Then the good runner does this bad and disgraceful action voluntarily, and the bad involuntarily?
Hip.
That is to be inferred.
Soc.
Then he who involuntarily does evil actions, is worse in a race than he who does them voluntarily?
Hip.
Yes, in a race.
Soc.
Well; but at a wrestling match—which is the better 374wrestler, he who falls voluntarily or involuntarily?
Hip.
Socrates, Hippias.
He who falls voluntarily, doubtless.
Soc.
in wrestling,
And is it worse or more dishonourable at a wrestling match, to fall, or to throw another?
Hip.
To fall.
Soc.
Then, at a wrestling match, he who voluntarily does base and dishonourable actions is a better wrestler than he who does them involuntarily?
Hip.
That appears to be the truth.
Soc.
And what would you say of any other bodily exercise—is not he who is better made able to do both that which is strong and that which is weak—that which is fair and that which is foul?—so that when he does bad actions with the body, he who is better made does them voluntarily, and he who is worse made does them involuntarily.
Hip.
Yes, that appears to be true about strength.
Soc.
in the action of the body,
And what do you say about grace, Hippias? Is not he who is better made able to assume evil and disgraceful figures and postures voluntarily, as he who is worse made assumes them involuntarily?
Hip.
True.
Soc.
Then voluntary ungracefulness comes from excellence of the bodily frame, and involuntary from the defect of the bodily frame?
Hip.
True.
Soc.
in singing,
And what would you say of an unmusical voice; would you prefer the voice which is voluntarily or involuntarily out of tune?
Hip.
That which is voluntarily out of tune.
Soc.
The involuntary is the worse of the two?
Hip.
Yes.
Soc.
And would you choose to possess goods or evils?
Hip.
Goods.
Soc.
in the use of the feet,
And would you rather have feet which are voluntarily or involuntarily lame?
Hip.
Feet which are voluntarily lame.
Soc.
But is not lameness a defect or deformity?
Hip.
Yes.
Soc.
And is not blinking a defect in the eyes?
Hip.
Yes.
Soc.
And would you rather always have eyes with which you might voluntarily blink and not see, or with which you might involuntarily blink?
Hip.
eyes,
I would rather have eyes which voluntarily blink.
Soc.
Then in your own case you deem that which voluntarily acts ill, better than that which involuntarily acts ill?
Hip.
Yes, certainly, in cases such as you mention.
Soc.
ears,
And does not the same hold of ears, nostrils, mouth, and of all the senses—those which involuntarily act ill are not to be desired, as being defective; and those which voluntarily act ill are to be desired as being good?
Hip.
I agree.
Soc.
of instruments.
And what would you say of instruments;—which are the better sort of instruments to have to do with?—those with which a man acts ill voluntarily or involuntarily? For example, had a man better have a rudder with which he will steer ill, voluntarily or involuntarily?
Hip.
He had better have a rudder with which he will steer ill voluntarily.
Soc.
And does not the same hold of the bow and the lyre, the flute and all other things?
Hip.
Very true.
Soc.
And would you rather have a horse of such a temper that you may ride him ill voluntarily or involuntarily?
Hip.
It is true also of animals,
375I would rather have a horse which I could ride ill voluntarily.
Soc.
That would be the better horse?
Hip.
Yes.
Soc.
Then with a horse of better temper, vicious actions would be produced voluntarily; and with a horse of bad temper involuntarily?
Hip.
Certainly.
Soc.
And that would be true of a dog, or of any other animal?
Hip.
Yes.
Soc.
in the practice of archery,
And is it better to possess the mind of an archer who voluntarily or involuntarily misses the mark?
Hip.
Of him who voluntarily misses.
Soc.
This would be the better mind for the purposes of archery?
Hip.
Yes.
Soc.
Then the mind which involuntarily errs is worse than the mind which errs voluntarily?
Hip.
Yes, certainly, in the use of the bow.
Soc.
of medicine,
And what would you say of the art of medicine;—has not the mind which voluntarily works harm to the body, more of the healing art?
Hip.
Yes.
Soc.
Then in the art of medicine the voluntary is better than the involuntary?
Hip.
Yes.
Soc.
Well, and in lute-playing and in flute-playing, and in all arts and sciences, is not that mind the better which voluntarily does what is evil and dishonourable, and goes wrong, and is not the worse that which does so involuntarily?
Hip.
That is evident.
Soc.
in the characters of slaves.
And what would you say of the characters of slaves? Should we not prefer to have those who voluntarily do wrong and make mistakes, and are they not better in their mistakes than those who commit them involuntarily?
Hip.
Yes.
Soc.
And should we not desire to have our own minds in the best state possible?
Hip.
Yes.
Soc.
And will our minds be better if they do wrong and make mistakes voluntarily or involuntarily?
Hip.
Hippias revolts at the conclusion.
O, Socrates, it would be a monstrous thing to say that those who do wrong voluntarily are better than those who do wrong involuntarily!
Soc.
And yet that appears to be the only inference.
Hip.
I do not think so.
Soc.
Socrates recapitulates the argument.
But I imagined, Hippias, that you did. Please to answer once more: Is not justice a power, or knowledge, or both? Must not justice, at all events, be one of these?
Hip.
Yes.
Soc.
But if justice is a power of the soul, then the soul which has the greater power is also the more just; for that which has the greater power, my good friend, has been proved by us to be the better.
Hip.
Yes, that has been proved.
Soc.
And if justice is knowledge, then the wiser will be the juster soul, and the more ignorant the more unjust?
Hip.
Yes.
Soc.
But if justice be power as well as knowledge—then will not the soul which has both knowledge and power be the more just, and that which is the more ignorant be the more unjust? Must it not be so?
Hip.
Clearly.
Soc.
And is not the soul which has the greater power and wisdom also better, and better able to do both good and evil in every action?
Hip.
Certainly.
Soc.
376The soul, then, which acts ill, acts voluntarily by power and art—and these either one or both of them are elements of justice?
Hip.
That seems to be true.
Soc.
And to do injustice is to do ill, and not to do injustice is to do well?
Hip.
Yes.
Soc.
And will not the better and abler soul when it does wrong, do wrong voluntarily, and the bad soul involuntarily?
Hip.
Clearly.
Soc.
And the good man is he who has the good soul, and the bad man is he who has the bad?
Hip.
Yes.
Soc.
Hippias, who has admitted the previous deductions, rebels at the final one. Socrates is himself dissatisfied. What remains if Socrates and a wiser than Socrates are alike in doubt?Socrates,
Then the good man will voluntarily do wrong, and the bad man involuntarily, if the good man is he who has the good soul?
Hip.
Which he certainly has.
Soc.
Then, Hippias, he who voluntarily does wrong and disgraceful things, if there be such a man, will be the good man?
Hip.
There I cannot agree with you.
Soc.
Nor can I agree with myself, Hippias; and yet that seems to be the conclusion which, as far as we can see at present, must follow from our argument. As I was saying before, I am all abroad, and being in perplexity am always changing my opinion. Now, that I or any ordinary man should wander in perplexity is not surprising; but if you wise men also wander, and we cannot come to you and rest from our wandering, the matter begins to be serious both to us and to you.
ALCIBIADES I.
INTRODUCTION.
Alcibiades I.Introduction.
The First Alcibiades is a conversation between Socrates and Alcibiades. Socrates is represented in the character which he attributes to himself in the Apology of a know-nothing who detects the conceit of knowledge in others. The two have met already in the Protagoras and in the Symposium; in the latter dialogue, as in this, the relation between them is that of a lover and his beloved. But the narrative of their loves is told differently in different places; for in the Symposium Alcibiades is depicted as the impassioned but rejected lover; here, as coldly receiving the advances of Socrates, who, for the best of purposes, lies in wait for the aspiring and ambitious youth.
Analysis.
103Alcibiades, who is described as a very young man, is about to enter on public life, having an inordinate opinion of himself, and an extravagant ambition. Socrates, ‘who knows what is in man,’ -106astonishes him by a revelation of his designs. But has he the knowledge which is necessary for carrying them out? He is 107going to persuade the Athenians—about what? Not about any particular art, but about politics—when to fight and when to make peace. Now, men should fight and make peace on just grounds, and therefore the question of justice and injustice must enter into -109peace and war; and he who advises the Athenians must know the difference between them. Does Alcibiades know? If he does, he must either have been taught by some master, or he must have discovered the nature of them himself. If he has had a master, Socrates would like to be informed who he is, that he 110may go and learn of him also. Alcibiades admits that he has never learned. Then has he enquired for himself? He may have, if he was ever aware of a time when he was ignorant. But he never was ignorant; for when he played with other boys at dice, he charged them with cheating, and this implied a knowledge of just and unjust. According to his own explanation, he had learned of the multitude. Why, he asks, should he not learn of them the nature of justice, as he has learned the Greek language of them? To this Socrates answers, that they can teach Greek, but they 111cannot teach justice; for they are agreed about the one, but they are not agreed about the other: and therefore Alcibiades, who 112has admitted that if he knows he must either have learned from a master or have discovered for himself the nature of justice, is convicted out of his own mouth. 113
Alcibiades rejoins, that the Athenians debate not about what is just, but about what is expedient; and he asserts that the two principles of justice and expediency are opposed. Socrates, by a 114series of questions, compels him to admit that the just and the expedient coincide. Alcibiades is thus reduced to the humiliating -117conclusion that he knows nothing of politics, even if, as he says, they are concerned with the expedient.
However, he is no worse than other Athenian statesmen; and he will not need training, for others are as ignorant as he is. He is reminded that he has to contend, not only with his own countrymen, but with their enemies—with the Spartan kings and -120with the great king of Persia; and he can only attain this higher aim of ambition by the assistance of Socrates. Not that Socrates himself professes to have attained the truth, but the questions which he asks bring others to a knowledge of themselves, and this is the first step in the practice of virtue.
The dialogue continues:—We wish to become as good as -124possible. But to be good in what? Alcibiades replies—‘Good in transacting business.’ But what business? ‘The business of the 125most intelligent men at Athens.’ The cobbler is intelligent in shoemaking, and is therefore good in that; he is not intelligent, and therefore not good, in weaving. Is he good in the sense which Alcibiades means, who is also bad? ‘I mean,’ replies Alcibiades, ‘the man who is able to command in the city.’ But to command what—horses or men? and if men, under what circumstances? ‘I mean to say, that he is able to command men living in social and political relations.’ And what is their aim? ‘The better preservation of the city.’ But when is a city better? 126‘When there is unanimity, such as exists between husband and 127wife.’ Then, when husbands and wives perform their own special duties, there can be no unanimity between them; nor can a city be well ordered when each citizen does his own work only. Alcibiades, having stated first that goodness consists in the unanimity of the citizens, and then in each of them doing his own separate work, is brought to the required point of self-contradiction, 128leading him to confess his own ignorance.
But he is not too old to learn, and may still arrive at the truth, 129if he is willing to be cross-examined by Socrates. He must know himself; that is to say, not his body, or the things of the body, but his mind, or truer self. The physician knows the body, and the tradesman knows his own business, but they do not necessarily know themselves. Self-knowledge can be obtained only -132by looking into the mind and virtue of the soul, which is the diviner part of a man, as we see our own image in another’s eye. And if we do not know ourselves, we cannot know what belongs to ourselves or belongs to others, and are unfit to take a part in -134political affairs. Both for the sake of the individual and of the state, we ought to aim at justice and temperance, not at wealth or power. The evil and unjust should have no power,—they should 135be the slaves of better men than themselves. None but the virtuous are deserving of freedom.
And are you, Alcibiades, a freeman? ‘I feel that I am not; but I hope, Socrates, that by your aid I may become free, and from this day forward I will never leave you.’
Introduction.
The Alcibiades has several points of resemblance to the undoubted dialogues of Plato. The process of interrogation is of the same kind with that which Socrates practises upon the youthful Cleinias in the Euthydemus; and he characteristically attributes to Alcibiades the answers which he has elicited from him. The definition of good is narrowed by successive questions, and virtue is shown to be identical with knowledge. Here, as elsewhere, Socrates awakens the consciousness not of sin but of ignorance. Self-humiliation is the first step to knowledge, even of the commonest things. No man knows how ignorant he is, and no man can arrive at virtue and wisdom who has not once in his life, at least, been convicted of error. The process by which the soul is elevated is not unlike that which religious writers describe under the name of ‘conversion,’ if we substitute the sense of ignorance for the consciousness of sin.
In some respects the dialogue differs from any other Platonic composition. The aim is more directly ethical and hortatory; the process by which the antagonist is undermined is simpler than in other Platonic writings, and the conclusion more decided. There is a good deal of humour in the manner in which the pride of Alcibiades, and of the Greeks generally, is supposed to be taken down by the Spartan and Persian queens; and the dialogue has considerable dialectical merit. But we have a difficulty in supposing that the same writer, who has given so profound and complex a notion of the characters both of Alcibiades and Socrates in the Symposium, should have treated them in so thin and superficial a manner in the Alcibiades, or that he would have ascribed to the ironical Socrates the rather unmeaning boast that Alcibiades could not attain the objects of his ambition without his help (105 D foll.); or that he should have imagined that a mighty nature like his could have been reformed by a few not very conclusive words of Socrates. For the arguments by which Alcibiades is reformed are not convincing; the writer of the dialogue, whoever he was, arrives at his idealism by crooked and tortuous paths, in which many pitfalls are concealed. The anachronism of making Alcibiades about twenty years old during the life of his uncle, Pericles, may be noted; and the repetition of the favourite observation, which occurs also in the Laches and Protagoras, that great Athenian statesmen, like Pericles, failed in the education of their sons. There is none of the undoubted dialogues of Plato in which there is so little dramatic verisimilitude.
ALCIBIADES I.
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE.
Alcibiades, Socrates.
Socrates.
Alcibiades I.Socrates, Alcibiades.The pride of Alcibiades has been too much for his lovers.
103I dare say that you may be surprised to find, O son of Cleinias, that I, who am your first lover, not having spoken to you for many years, when the rest of the world were wearying you with their attentions, am the last of your lovers who still speaks to you. The cause of my silence has been that I was hindered by a power more than human, of which I will some day explain to you the nature; this impediment has now been removed; I therefore here present myself before you, and I greatly hope that no similar hindrance will again occur. Meanwhile, I have observed that your pride has been too much for the pride of your admirers; they were numerous and high-spirited, but they have all run away, overpowered by your superior force of 104character; not one of them remains. And I want you to understand the reason why you have been too much for them. You think that you have no need of them or of any other man, for you have great possessions and lack nothing, beginning with the body, and ending with the soul. In the first place, you say to yourself that you are the fairest and tallest of the citizens, and this every one who has eyes may see to be true; in the second place, that you are among the noblest of them, highly connected both on the father’s and the mother’s side, and sprung from one of the most distinguished families in your own state, which is the greatest in Hellas, and having many friends and kinsmen of the best sort, who can assist you when in need; and there is one potent relative, who is more to you than all the rest, Pericles the son of Xanthippus, whom your father left guardian of you, and of your brother, and who can do as he pleases not only in this city, but in all Hellas, and among many and mighty barbarous nations. Moreover, you are rich; but I must say that you value yourself least of all upon your possessions. And all these things have lifted you up; you have overcome your lovers, and they have acknowledged that you were too much for them. Have you not remarked their absence? And now I know that you wonder why I, unlike the rest of them, have not gone away, and what can be my motive in remaining.
Alcibiades.
Perhaps, Socrates, you are not aware that I was just going to ask you the very same question—What do you want? And what is your motive in annoying me, and always, wherever I am, making a point of coming1 ? I do really wonder what you mean, and should greatly like to know.
Soc.
Then if, as you say, you desire to know, I suppose that you will be willing to hear, and I may consider myself to be speaking to an auditor who will remain, and will not run away?
Al.
Certainly, let me hear.
Soc.
You had better be careful, for I may very likely be as unwilling to end as I have hitherto been to begin.
Al.
Proceed, my good man, and I will listen.
Soc.
Alcibiades a lover, not of pleasure, but of ambition; and he requires the help of Socrates for the accomplishment of his designs.And this is the reason why Socrates has clung to him; he is hoping when Alcibiades has become the ruler of Athens to rule over him.
I will proceed; and, although no lover likes to speak with one who has no feeling of love in him2 , I will make an effort, and tell you what I meant: My love, Alcibiades, which 105I hardly like to confess, would long ago have passed away, as I flatter myself, if I saw you loving your good things, or thinking that you ought to pass life in the enjoyment of them. But I shall reveal other thoughts of yours, which you keep to yourself; whereby you will know that I have always had my eye on you. Suppose that at this moment some God came to you and said: Alcibiades, will you live as you are, or die in an instant if you are forbidden to make any further acquisition?—I verily believe that you would choose death. And I will tell you the hope in which you are at present living: Before many days have elapsed, you think that you will come before the Athenian assembly, and will prove to them that you are more worthy of honour than Pericles, or any other man that ever lived, and having proved this, you will have the greatest power in the state. When you have gained the greatest power among us, you will go on to other Hellenic states, and not only to Hellenes, but to all the barbarians who inhabit the same continent with us. And if the God were then to say to you again: Here in Europe is to be your seat of empire, and you must not cross over into Asia or meddle with Asiatic affairs, I do not believe that you would choose to live upon these terms; but the world, as I may say, must be filled with your power and name—no man less than Cyrus and Xerxes is of any account with you. Such I know to be your hopes—I am not guessing only—and very likely you, who know that I am speaking the truth, will reply, Well, Socrates, but what have my hopes to do with the explanation which you promised of your unwillingness to leave me? And that is what I am now going to tell you, sweet son of Cleinias and Dinomachè. The explanation is, that all these designs of yours cannot be accomplished by you without my help; so great is the power which I believe myself to have over you and your concerns; and this I conceive to be the reason why the God has hitherto forbidden me to converse with you, and I have been long expecting his permission. For, as you hope to prove your own great value to the state, and having proved it, to attain at once to absolute power, so do I indulge a hope that I shall have the supreme power over you, if I am able to prove my own great value to you, and to show you that neither guardian, nor kinsman, nor any one is able to deliver into your hands the power which you desire, but I only, God being my helper. When you were young1 and your hopes were not yet matured, I should have wasted my time, and 106therefore, as I conceive, the God forbade me to converse with you; but now, having his permission, I will speak, for now you will listen to me.
Al.
Alcibiades does not deny the impeachment.
Your silence, Socrates, was always a surprise to me. I never could understand why you followed me about, and now that you have begun to speak again, I am still more amazed. Whether I think all this or not, is a matter about which you seem to have already made up your mind, and therefore my denial will have no effect upon you. But granting, if I must, that you have perfectly divined my purposes, why is your assistance necessary to the attainment of them? Can you tell me why?
Soc.
You want to know whether I can make a long speech, such as you are in the habit of hearing; but that is not my way. I think, however, that I can prove to you the truth of what I am saying, if you will grant me one little favour.
Al.
Yes, if the favour which you mean be not a troublesome one.
Soc.
Will you be troubled at having questions to answer?
Al.
Alcibiades is willing to answer questions.
Not at all.
Soc.
Then please to answer.
Al.
Ask me.
Soc.
Have you not the intention which I attribute to you?
Al.
I will grant anything you like, in the hope of hearing what more you have to say.
Soc.
You do, then, mean, as I was saying, to come forward in a little while in the character of an adviser of the Athenians? And suppose that when you are ascending the bema, I pull you by the sleeve and say, Alcibiades, you are getting up to advise the Athenians—do you know the matter about which they are going to deliberate, better than they?—How would you answer?
Al.
He is going to advise the Athenians about matters which he knows better than they.
I should reply, that I was going to advise them about a matter which I do know better than they.
Soc.
Then you are a good adviser about the things which you know?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
And do you know anything but what you have learned of others, or found out yourself?
Al.
That is all.
Soc.
And would you have ever learned or discovered anything, if you had not been willing either to learn of others or to examine yourself?
Al.
I should not.
Soc.
And would you have been willing to learn or to examine what you supposed that you knew?
Al.
Certainly not.
Soc.
Then there was a time when you thought that you did not know what you are now supposed to know?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
But when did he ever learn about these matters?
I think that I know tolerably well the extent of your acquirements; and you must tell me if I forget any of them: according to my recollection, you learned the arts of writing, of playing on the lyre, and of wrestling; the flute you never would learn; this is the sum of your accomplishments, unless there were some which you acquired in secret; and I think that secrecy was hardly possible, as you could not have come out of your door, either by day or night, without my seeing you.
Al.
Yes, that was the whole of my schooling.
Soc.
107And are you going to get up in the Athenian assembly, and give them advice about writing?
Al.
No, indeed.
Soc.
Or about the touch of the lyre?
Al.
Certainly not.
Soc.
And they are not in the habit of deliberating about wrestling, in the assembly?
Al.
Hardly.
Soc.
Then what are the deliberations in which you propose to advise them? Surely not about building?
Al.
No.
Soc.
For the builder will advise better than you will about that?
Al.
He will.
Soc.
Nor about divination?
Al.
No.
Soc.
About that again the diviner will advise better than you will?
Al.
True.
Soc.
Whether he be little or great, good or ill-looking, noble or ignoble—makes no difference.
Al.
Certainly not.
Soc.
A man is a good adviser about anything, not because he has riches, but because he has knowledge?
Al.
Assuredly.
Soc.
Whether their counsellor is rich or poor, is not a matter which will make any difference to the Athenians when they are deliberating about the health of the citizens; they only require that he should be a physician.
Al.
Of course.
Soc.
Then what will be the subject of deliberation about which you will be justified in getting up and advising them?
Al.
About their own concerns, Socrates.
Soc.
You mean about shipbuilding, for example, when the question is what sort of ships they ought to build?
Al.
No, I should not advise them about that.
Soc.
I suppose, because you do not understand shipbuilding:—is that the reason?
Al.
It is.
Soc.
Then about that concerns of theirs will you advise them?
Al.
He will advise them about war and peace, and with whom they had better go to war, and when and how long.
About war, Socrates, or about peace, or about any other concerns of the state.
Soc.
You mean, when they deliberate with whom they ought to make peace, and with whom they ought to go to war, and in what manner?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And they ought to go to war with those against whom it is better to go to war?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And when it is better?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
And for as long a time as is better?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
But suppose the Athenians to deliberate with whom they ought to close in wrestling, and whom they should grasp by the hand, would you, or the master of gymnastics, be a better adviser of them?
Al.
Clearly, the master of gymnastics.
Soc.
And can you tell me on what grounds the master of gymnastics would decide, with whom they ought or ought not to close, and when and how? To take an instance: Would he not say that they should wrestle with those against whom it is best to wrestle?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
108And as much as is best?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
And at such times as are best?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
Again; you sometimes accompany the lyre with the song and dance?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
When it is well to do so?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And as much as is well?
Al.
Just so.
Soc.
And as you speak of an excellence or art of the best in wrestling, and of an excellence in playing the lyre, I wish you would tell me what this latter is;—the excellence of wrestling I call gymnastic, and I want to know what you call the other.
Al.
I do not understand you.
Soc.
Then try to do as I do; for the answer which I gave is universally right, and when I say right, I mean according to rule.
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And was not the art of which I spoke gymnastic?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
And I called the excellence in wrestling gymnastic?
Al.
You did.
Soc.
And I was right?
Al.
I think that you were.
Soc.
Alcibiades should learn to argue nicely.
Well, now,—for you should learn to argue prettily—let me ask you in return to tell me, first, what is that art of which playing and singing, and stepping properly in the dance, are parts,—what is the name of the whole? I think that by this time you must be able to tell.
Al.
Indeed I cannot.
Soc.
Then let me put the matter in another way: what do you call the Goddesses who are the patronesses of art?
Al.
The Muses do you mean, Socrates?
Soc.
Yes, I do; and what is the name of the art which is called after them?
Al.
I suppose that you mean music.
Soc.
What is the meaning of ‘the better,’ ‘the more excellent.’
Yes, that is my meaning; and what is the excellence of the art of music, as I told you truly that the excellence of wrestling was gymnastic—what is the excellence of music—to be what?
Al.
To be musical, I suppose.
Soc.
Very good; and now please to tell me what is the excellence of war and peace; as the more musical was the more excellent, or the more gymnastical was the more excellent, tell me, what name do you give to the more excellent in war and peace?
Al.
But I really cannot tell you.
Soc.
The term better, when applied to food, means more wholesome.
But if you were offering advice to another and said to him—This food is better than that, at this time and in this quantity, and he said to you—What do you mean, Alcibiades, by the word ‘better’? you would have no difficulty in replying that you meant ‘more wholesome,’ although you do not profess to be a physician: and when the subject is one of which you profess to have knowledge, and about which you are ready to get up and advise as if you knew, are you not ashamed, when you are asked, not to be able to answer the question? Is it not disgraceful? 109
Al.
Very.
Soc.
Well, then, consider and try to explain what is the meaning of ‘better,’ in the matter of making peace and going to war with those against whom you ought to go to war? To what does the word refer?
Al.
I am thinking, and I cannot tell.
Soc.
But you surely know what are the charges which we bring against one another, when we arrive at the point of making war, and what name we give them?
Al.
Yes, certainly; we say that deceit or violence has been employed, or that we have been defrauded.
Soc.
And how does this happen? Will you tell me how? For there may be a difference in the manner.
Al.
Do you mean by ‘how,’ Socrates, whether we suffered these things justly or unjustly?
Soc.
Exactly.
Al.
There can be no greater difference than between just and unjust.
Soc.
And would you advise the Athenians to go to war with the just or with the unjust?
Al.
That is an awkward question; for certainly, even if a person did intend to go to war with the just, he would not admit that they were just.
Soc.
He would not go to war, because it would be unlawful?
Al.
Neither lawful nor honourable.
Soc.
Then you, too, would address them on principles of justice?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
In going to war or not going to war, the better is the more just.
What, then, is justice but that better, of which I spoke, in going to war or not going to war with those against whom we ought or ought not, and when we ought or ought not to go to war?
Al.
Clearly.
Soc.
But how is this, friend Alcibiades? Have you forgotten that you do not know this, or have you been to the schoolmaster without my knowledge, and has he taught you to discern the just from the unjust? Who is he? I wish you would tell me, that I may go and learn of him—you shall introduce me.
Al.
You are mocking, Socrates.
Soc.
But where did Alcibiades acquire this notion of just and unjust?
No, indeed; I most solemnly declare to you by Zeus, who is the God of our common friendship, and whom I never will forswear, that I am not; tell me, then, who this instructor is, if he exists.
Al.
But, perhaps, he does not exist; may I not have acquired the knowledge of just and unjust in some other way?
Soc.
Yes; if you have discovered them.
Al.
But do you not think that I could discover them?
Soc.
I am sure that you might, if you enquired about them.
Al.
And do you not think that I would enquire?
Soc.
Yes; if you thought that you did not know them.
Al.
And was there not a time when I did so think?
Soc.
Very good; and can you tell me how long it is 110since you thought that you did not know the nature of the just and the unjust? What do you say to a year ago? Were you then in a state of conscious ignorance and enquiry? or did you think that you knew? And please to answer truly, that our discussion may not be in vain.
Al.
Well, I thought that I knew.
Soc.
And two years ago, and three years ago, and four years ago, you knew all the same?
Al.
I did.
Soc.
And more than four years ago you were a child—were you not?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And then I am quite sure that you thought you knew.
Al.
Why are you so sure?
Soc.
He always had them.
Because I often heard you when a child, in your teacher’s house, or elsewhere, playing at dice or some other game with the boys, not hesitating at all about the nature of the just and unjust; but very confident—crying and shouting that one of the boys was a rogue and a cheat, and had been cheating. Is it not true?
Al.
But what was I to do, Socrates, when anybody cheated me?
Soc.
And how can you say, ‘What was I to do’? if at the time you did not know whether you were wronged or not?
Al.
To be sure I knew; I was quite aware that I was being cheated.
Soc.
Then you suppose yourself even when a child to have known the nature of just and unjust?
Al.
Certainly; and I did know then.
Soc.
And when did you discover them—not, surely, at the time when you thought that you knew them?
Al.
Certainly not.
Soc.
And when did you think that you were ignorant—if you consider, you will find that there never was such a time?
Al.
Really, Socrates, I cannot say.
Soc.
Then you did not learn them by discovering them?
Al.
Clearly not.
Soc.
But just before you said that you did not know them by learning; now, if you have neither discovered nor learned them, how and whence do you come to know them?
Al.
I suppose that I was mistaken in saying that I knew them through my own discovery of them; whereas, in truth, I learned them in the same way that other people learn.
Soc.
So you said before, and I must again ask, of whom? Do tell me.
Al.
Of the many.
Soc.
He learned them of the many.
Do you take refuge in them? I cannot say much for your teachers.
Al.
Why, are they not able to teach?
Soc.
They could not teach you how to play at draughts, which you would acknowledge (would you not) to be a much smaller matter than justice?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And can they teach the better who are unable to teach the worse?
Al.
I think that they can; at any rate, they can teach many far better things than to play at draughts.
Soc.
111What things?
Al.
as he learned Greek;—of those who knew it.
Why, for example, I learned to speak Greek of them, and I cannot say who was my teacher, or to whom I am to attribute my knowledge of Greek, if not to those good-for-nothing teachers, as you call them.
Soc.
Why, yes, my friend; and the many are good enough teachers of Greek, and some of their instructions in that line may be justly praised.
Al.
Why is that?
Soc.
Why, because they have the qualities which good teachers ought to have.
Al.
What qualities?
Soc.
Why, you know that knowledge is the first qualification of any teacher?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
And if they know, they must agree together and not differ?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And would you say that they knew the things about which they differ?
Al.
No.
Soc.
Then how can they teach them?
Al.
They cannot.
Soc.
Yes: the many can teach things about which they are agreed.
Well, but do you imagine that the many would differ about the nature of wood and stone? are they not agreed if you ask them what they are? and do they not run to fetch the same thing, when they want a piece of wood or a stone? And so in similar cases, which I suspect to be pretty nearly all that you mean by speaking Greek.
Al.
True.
Soc.
These, as we were saying, are matters about which they are agreed with one another and with themselves; both individuals and states use the same words about them; they do not use some one word and some another.
Al.
They do not.
Soc.
Then they may be expected to be good teachers of these things?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And if we want to instruct any one in them, we shall be right in sending him to be taught by our friends the many?
Al.
Very true.
Soc.
But if we wanted further to know not only which are men and which are horses, but which men or horses have powers of running, would the many still be able to inform us?
Al.
Certainly not.
Soc.
And you have a sufficient proof that they do not know these things and are not the best teachers of them, inasmuch as they are never agreed about them?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
But could the many teach things about which they are disagreed?
And suppose that we wanted to know not only what men are like, but what healthy or diseased men are like—would the many be able to teach us?
Al.
They would not.
Soc.
And you would have a proof that they were bad teachers of these matters, if you saw them at variance?
Al.
I should.
Soc.
And one of these things is justice.
Well, but are the many agreed with themselves, or with one another, about the justice or injustice of men and 112things?
Al.
Assuredly not, Socrates.
Soc.
There is no subject about which they are more at variance?
Al.
None.
Soc.
I do not suppose that you ever saw or heard of men quarrelling over the principles of health and disease to such an extent as to go to war and kill one another for the sake of them?
Al.
No, indeed.
Soc.
Did not a question of justice cause the war between the Trojans and Achaeans, and between the Athenians and Lacedaemonians?
But of the quarrels about justice and injustice, even if you have never seen them, you have certainly heard from many people, including Homer; for you have heard of the Iliad and Odyssey?
Al.
To be sure, Socrates.
Soc.
A difference of just and unjust is the argument of those poems?
Al.
True.
Soc.
Which difference caused all the wars and deaths of Trojans and Achaeans, and the deaths of the suitors of Penelope in their quarrel with Odysseus.
Al.
Very true.
Soc.
And when the Athenians and Lacedaemonians and Boeotians fell at Tanagra, and afterwards in the battle of Coronea, at which your father Cleinias met his end, the question was one of justice—this was the sole cause of the battles, and of their deaths.
Al.
Very true.
Soc.
And yet they did not know what they were fighting about?
But can they be said to understand that about which they are quarrelling to the death?
Al.
Clearly not.
Soc.
And yet those whom you thus allow to be ignorant are the teachers to whom you are appealing.
Al.
Very true.
Soc.
But how are you ever likely to know the nature of justice and injustice, about which you are so perplexed, if you have neither learned them of others nor discovered them yourself?
Al.
From what you say, I suppose not.
Soc.
See, again, how inaccurately you speak, Alcibiades!
Al.
In what respect?
Soc.
In saying that I say so.
Al.
Why, did you not say that I know nothing of the just and unjust?
Soc.
No; I did not.
Al.
Did I, then?
Soc.
Yes.
Al.
How was that?
Soc.
Let me explain. Suppose I were to ask you which is the greater number, two or one; you would reply ‘two’?
Al.
I should.
Soc.
And by how much greater?
Al.
By one.
Soc.
Which of us now says that two is more than one?
Al.
I do.
Soc.
Did not I ask, and you answer the question?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
Then who is speaking? I who put the question, or 113you who answer me?
Al.
I am.
Soc.
The answerer, not the questioner, has been drawing these inferences.
Or suppose that I ask and you tell me the letters which make up the name Socrates, which of us is the speaker?
Al.
I am.
Soc.
Now let us put the case generally: whenever there is a question and answer, who is the speaker,—the questioner or the answerer?
Al.
I should say, Socrates, that the answerer was the speaker.
Soc.
And have I not been the questioner all through?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And you the answerer?
Al.
Just so.
Soc.
Which of us, then, was the speaker?
Al.
The inference is, Socrates, that I was the speaker.
Soc.
Did not some one say that Alcibiades, the fair son of Cleinias, not understanding about just and unjust, but thinking that he did understand, was going to the assembly to advise the Athenians about what he did not know? Was not that said?
Al.
Very true.
Soc.
How can you teach what you do not know?
Then, Alcibiades, the result may be expressed in the language of Euripides. I think that you have heard all this ‘from yourself, and not from me’; nor did I say this, which you erroneously attribute to me, but you yourself, and what you said was very true. For indeed, my dear fellow, the design which you meditate of teaching what you do not know, and have not taken any pains to learn, is downright insanity.
Al.
But the expedient, not the just, is the subject about which men commonly debate.
But, Socrates, I think that the Athenians and the rest of the Hellenes do not often advise as to the more just or unjust; for they see no difficulty in them, and therefore they leave them, and consider which course of action will be most expedient; for there is a difference between justice and expediency. Many persons have done great wrong and profited by their injustice; others have done rightly and come to no good.
Soc.
Well, but granting that the just and the expedient are ever so much opposed, you surely do not imagine that you know what is expedient for mankind, or why a thing is expedient?
Al.
Alcibiades insists that he will not have the old argument over again.
Why not, Socrates?—But I am not going to be asked again from whom I learned, or when I made the discovery.
Soc.
What a way you have! When you make a mistake which might be refuted by a previous argument, you insist on having a new and different refutation; the old argument is a worn out garment which you will no longer put on, but some 114one must produce another which is clean and new. Now I shall disregard this move of yours, and shall ask over again,—Where did you learn and how do you know the nature of the expedient, and who is your teacher? All this I comprehend in a single question, and now you will manifestly be in the old difficulty, and will not be able to show that you know the expedient, either because you learned or because you discovered it yourself. But, as I perceive that you are dainty, and dislike the taste of a stale argument, I will enquire no further into your knowledge of what is expedient or what is not expedient for the Athenian people, and simply request you to say why you do not explain whether justice and expediency are the same or different? And if you like you may examine me as I have examined you, or, if you would rather, you may carry on the discussion by yourself.
Al.
But I am not certain, Socrates, whether I shall be able to discuss the matter with you.
Soc.
Then imagine, my dear fellow, that I am the demus and the ecclesia; for in the ecclesia, too, you will have to persuade men individually.
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And is not the same person able to persuade one individual singly and many individuals of the things which he knows? The grammarian, for example, can persuade one and he can persuade many about letters.
Al.
True.
Soc.
And about number, will not the same person persuade one and persuade many?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And this will be he who knows number, or the arithmetician?
Al.
Quite true.
Soc.
He who can persuade many can persuade one. Alcibiades should therefore be able to persuade Socrates.
And cannot you persuade one man about that of which you can persuade many?
Al.
I suppose so.
Soc.
And that of which you can persuade either is clearly what you know?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And the only difference between one who argues as we are doing, and the orator who is addressing an assembly, is that the one seeks to persuade a number, and the other an individual, of the same things.
Al.
I suppose so.
Soc.
Well, then, since the same person who can persuade a multitude can persuade individuals, try conclusions upon me, and prove to me that the just is not always expedient.
Al.
You take liberties, Socrates.
Soc.
I shall take the liberty of proving to you the opposite of that which you will not prove to me.
Al.
Proceed.
Soc.
Answer my questions—that is all.
Al.
Nay, I should like you to be the speaker.
Soc.
What, do you not wish to be persuaded?
Al.
Certainly I do.
Soc.
And can you be persuaded better than out of your own mouth?
Al.
I think not.
Soc.
Then you shall answer; and if you do not hear the words, that the just is the expedient, coming from your own lips, never believe another man again.
Al.
I won’t; but answer I will, for I do not see how I can come to any harm.
Soc.
A man may do what is expedient and not just, but he cannot do what is honourable and not just and good.
115A true prophecy! Let me begin then by enquiring of you whether you allow that the just is sometimes expedient and sometimes not?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And sometimes honourable and sometimes not?
Al.
What do you mean?
Soc.
I am asking if you ever knew any one who did what was dishonourable and yet just?
Al.
Never.
Soc.
All just things are honourable?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And are honourable things sometimes good and sometimes not good, or are they always good?
Al.
I rather think, Socrates, that some honourable things are evil.
Soc.
And are some dishonourable things good?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
You mean in such a case as the following:—In time of war, men have been wounded or have died in rescuing a companion or kinsman, when others who have neglected the duty of rescuing them have escaped in safety?
Al.
True.
Soc.
And to rescue another under such circumstances is honourable, in respect of the attempt to save those whom we ought to save; and this is courage?
Al.
True.
Soc.
But evil in respect of death and wounds?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And the courage which is shown in the rescue is one thing, and the death another?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
Then the rescue of one’s friends is honourable in one point of view, but evil in another?
Al.
True.
Soc.
And if honourable, then also good: Will you consider now whether I may not be right, for you were acknowledging that the courage which is shown in the rescue is honourable? Now is this courage good or evil? Look at the matter thus: which would you rather choose, good or evil?
Al.
Good.
Soc.
And the greatest goods you would be most ready to choose, and would least like to be deprived of them?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
What would you say of courage? At what price would you be willing to be deprived of courage?
Al.
I would rather die than be a coward.
Soc.
Then you think that cowardice is the worst of evils?
Al.
I do.
Soc.
As bad as death, I suppose?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And life and courage are the extreme opposites of death and cowardice?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And they are what you would most desire to have, and their opposites you would least desire?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
Is this because you think life and courage the best, and death and cowardice the worst?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And you would term the rescue of a friend in battle honourable, in as much as courage does a good work?
Al.
I should.
Soc.
But good may contain an element of evil. Good and evil are to be judged of by their consequences.
But evil because of the death which ensues?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
Might we not describe their different effects as follows:—You may call either of them evil in respect of the evil which is the result, and good in respect of the good which is the result of either of them? 116
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And they are honourable in so far as they are good, and dishonourable in so far as they are evil?
Al.
True.
Soc.
Then when you say that the rescue of a friend in battle is honourable and yet evil, that is equivalent to saying that the rescue is good and yet evil?
Al.
I believe that you are right, Socrates.
Soc.
Nothing honourable, regarded as honourable, is evil; nor anything base, regarded as base, good.
Al.
Clearly not.
Soc.
The honourable is identified with the good, and the good is the expedient,
Look at the matter yet once more in a further light: he who acts honourably acts well?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And he who acts well is happy?
Al.
Of course.
Soc.
And the happy are those who obtain good?
Al.
True.
Soc.
And they obtain good by acting well and honourably?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
Then acting well is a good?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
And happiness is a good?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
Then the good and the honourable are again identified.
Al.
Manifestly.
Soc.
Then, if the argument holds, what we find to be honourable we shall also find to be good?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
And is the good expedient or not?
Al.
Expedient.
Soc.
Do you remember our admissions about the just?
Al.
Yes; if I am not mistaken, we said that those who acted justly must also act honourably.
Soc.
And the honourable is the good?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And the good is expedient?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
and therefore the just which is the honourable is also the expedient. All this has been proved by Alcibiades himself.
Then, Alcibiades, the just is expedient?
Al.
I should infer so.
Soc.
And all this I prove out of your own mouth, for I ask and you answer?
Al.
I must acknowledge it to be true.
Soc.
And having acknowledged that the just is the same as the expedient, are you not (let me ask) prepared to ridicule any one who, pretending to understand the principles of justice and injustice, gets up to advise the noble Athenians or the ignoble Peparethians, that the just may be the evil?
Al.
Yet he still finds himself in a perplexity,
I solemnly declare, Socrates, that I do not know what I am saying. Verily, I am in a strange state, for when you put questions to me I am of different minds in successive instants.
Soc.
And are you not aware of the nature of this perplexity, my friend?
Al.
Indeed I am not.
Soc.
Do you suppose that if some one were to ask you whether you have two eyes or three, or two hands or four, or anything of that sort, you would then be of different minds in successive instants?
Al.
I begin to distrust myself, but still I do not suppose 117that I should.
Soc.
You would feel no doubt; and for this reason—because you would know?
Al.
I suppose so.
Soc.
And the reason why you involuntarily contradict yourself is clearly that you are ignorant?
Al.
Very likely.
Soc.
and this is because he thinks that he knows, but if he knew that he were ignorant he would be in no perplexity.
And if you are perplexed in answering about just and unjust, honourable and dishonourable, good and evil, expedient and inexpedient, the reason is that you are ignorant of them, and therefore in perplexity. Is not that clear?
Al.
I agree.
Soc.
But is this always the case, and is a man necessarily perplexed about that of which he has no knowledge?
Al.
Certainly he is.
Soc.
And do you know how to ascend into heaven?
Al.
Certainly not.
Soc.
And in this case, too, is your judgment perplexed?
Al.
No.
Soc.
Do you see the reason why, or shall I tell you?
Al.
Tell me.
Soc.
The reason is, that you not only do not know, my friend, but you do not think that you know.
Al.
There again; what do you mean?
Soc.
Ask yourself; are you in any perplexity about things of which you are ignorant? You know, for example, that you know nothing about the preparation of food.
Al.
Very true.
Soc.
And do you think and perplex yourself about the preparation of food: or do you leave that to some one who understands the art?
Al.
The latter.
Soc.
Or if you were on a voyage, would you bewilder yourself by considering whether the rudder is to be drawn inwards or outwards, or do you leave that to the pilot, and do nothing?
Al.
It would be the concern of the pilot.
Soc.
Then you are not perplexed about what you do not know, if you know that you do not know it?
Al.
I imagine not.
Soc.
The people who make mistakes are neither those who know, nor those who do not know, but those who think that they know and do not know.
Do you not see, then, that mistakes in life and practice are likewise to be attributed to the ignorance which has conceit of knowledge?
Al.
Once more, what do you mean?
Soc.
I suppose that we begin to act when we think that we know what we are doing?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
But when people think that they do not know, they entrust their business to others?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And so there is a class of ignorant persons who do not make mistakes in life, because they trust others about things of which they are ignorant?
Al.
True.
Soc.
Who, then, are the persons who make mistakes? They cannot, of course, be those who know?
Al.
Certainly not.
Soc.
But if neither those who know, nor those who know 118that they do not know, make mistakes, there remain those only who do not know and think that they know.
Al.
Yes, only those.
Soc.
Then this is ignorance of the disgraceful sort which is mischievous?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And most mischievous and most disgraceful when having to do with the greatest matters?
Al.
By far.
Soc.
And can there be any matters greater than the just, the honourable, the good, and the expedient?
Al.
There cannot be.
Soc.
And these, as you were saying, are what perplex you?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
But if you are perplexed, then, as the previous argument has shown, you are not only ignorant of the greatest matters, but being ignorant you fancy that you know them?
Al.
I fear that you are right.
Soc.
And you, like other statesmen, rush into politics without being trained. Pericles, alone of them all, associated with the philosophers.
And now see what has happened to you, Alcibiades! I hardly like to speak of your evil case, but as we are alone I will: My good friend, you are wedded to ignorance of the most disgraceful kind, and of this you are convicted, not by me, but out of your own mouth and by your own argument; wherefore also you rush into politics before you are educated. Neither is your case to be deemed singular. For I might say the same of almost all our statesmen, with the exception, perhaps, of your guardian, Pericles.
Al.
Yes, Socrates; and Pericles is said not to have got his wisdom by the light of nature, but to have associated with several of the philosophers; with Pythocleides, for example, and with Anaxagoras, and now in advanced life with Damon, in the hope of gaining wisdom.
Soc.
Very good; but did you ever know a man wise in anything who was unable to impart his particular wisdom? For example, he who taught you letters was not only wise, but he made you and any others whom he liked wise.
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And you, whom he taught, can do the same?
Al.
True.
Soc.
And in like manner the harper and gymnastic-master?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
When a person is enabled to impart knowledge to another, he thereby gives an excellent proof of his own understanding of any matter.
Al.
I agree.
Soc.
Well, and did Pericles make any one wise; did he begin by making his sons wise?
Al.
But, Socrates, if the two sons of Pericles were simpletons, what has that to do with the matter?
Soc.
And even he could not teach his own sons, or your brother Cleinias, nor did any one ever grow wiser in his society.
Well, but did he make your brother, Cleinias, wise?
Al.
Cleinias is a madman; there is no use in talking of him.
Soc.
But if Cleinias is a madman and the two sons of Pericles were simpletons, what reason can be given why he neglects you, and lets you be as you are?
Al.
I believe that I am to blame for not listening to him.
Soc.
But did you ever hear of any other Athenian or foreigner, bond or free, who was deemed to have grown 119wiser in the society of Pericles,—as I might cite Pythodorus, the son of Isolochus, and Callias, the son of Calliades, who have grown wiser in the society of Zeno, for which privilege they have each of them paid him the sum of a hundred minae1 to the increase of their wisdom and fame.
Al.
I certainly never did hear of any one.
Soc.
Well, and in reference to your own case, do you mean to remain as you are, or will you take some pains about yourself?
Al.
But if other statesmen are uneducated, what need has Alcibiades of education?
With your aid, Socrates, I will. And indeed, when I hear you speak, the truth of what you are saying strikes home to me, and I agree with you, for our statesmen, all but a few, do appear to be quite uneducated.
Soc.
What is the inference?
Al.
Why, that if they were educated they would be trained athletes, and he who means to rival them ought to have knowledge and experience when he attacks them; but now, as they have become politicians without any special training, why should I have the trouble of learning and practising? For I know well that by the light of nature I shall get the better of them.
Soc.
The lover is pained at hearing from the lips of Alcibiades so unworthy a sentiment. He should have a higher ambition than this.
My dear friend, what a sentiment! And how unworthy of your noble form and your high estate!
Al.
What do you mean, Socrates; why do you say so?
Soc.
I am grieved when I think of our mutual love.
Al.
At what?
Soc.
At your fancying that the contest on which you are entering is with people here.
Al.
Why, what others are there?
Soc.
Is that a question which a magnanimous soul should ask?
Al.
Do you mean to say that the contest is not with these?
Soc.
And suppose that you were going to steer a ship into action, would you only aim at being the best pilot on board? Would you not, while acknowledging that you must possess this degree of excellence, rather look to your antagonists, and not, as you are now doing, to your fellow combatants? You ought to be so far above these latter, that they will not even dare to be your rivals; and, being regarded by you as inferiors, will do battle for you against the enemy; this is the kind of superiority which you must establish over them, if you mean to accomplish any noble action really worthy of yourself and of the state.
Al.
That would certainly be my aim.
Soc.
Verily, then, you have good reason to be satisfied, if you are better than the soldiers; and you need not, when you are their superior and have your thoughts and actions fixed upon them, look away to the generals of the enemy.
Al.
Of whom are you speaking, Socrates?
Soc.
His rivals should be the Spartan and Persian kings, not any chance persons.
Why, you surely know that our city goes to war 120now and then with the Lacedaemonians and with the great king?
Al.
True enough.
Soc.
And if you meant to be the ruler of this city, would you not be right in considering that the Lacedaemonian and Persian king were your true rivals?
Al.
I believe that you are right.
Soc.
Oh no, my friend, I am quite wrong, and I think that you ought rather to turn your attention to Midias the quail-breeder and others like him, who manage our politics; in whom, as the women would remark, you may still see the slaves’ cut of hair, cropping out in their minds as well as on their pates; and they come with their barbarous lingo to flatter us and not to rule us. To these, I say, you should look, and then you need not trouble yourself about your own fitness to contend in such a noble arena: there is no reason why you should either learn what has to be learned, or practise what has to be practised, and only when thoroughly prepared enter on a political career.
Al.
There, I think, Socrates, that you are right; I do not suppose, however, that the Spartan generals or the great king are really different from anybody else.
Soc.
But, my dear friend, do consider what you are saying.
Al.
What am I to consider?
Soc.
In the first place, will you be more likely to take care of yourself, if you are in a wholesome fear and dread of them, or if you are not?
Al.
Clearly, if I have such a fear of them.
Soc.
And do you think that you will sustain any injury if you take care of yourself?
Al.
No, I shall be greatly benefited.
Soc.
And this is one very important respect in which that notion of yours is bad.
Al.
True.
Soc.
In the next place, consider that what you say is probably false.
Al.
How so?
Soc.
Let me ask you whether better natures are likely to be found in noble races or not in noble races?
Al.
Clearly in noble races.
Soc.
Are not those who are well born and well bred most likely to be perfect in virtue?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
We too have our pride of birth, but how inferior are we to those who are descended from Zeus through a line of kings!
Then let us compare our antecedents with those of the Lacedaemonian and Persian kings; are they inferior to us in descent? Have we not heard that the former are sprung from Heracles, and the latter from Achaemenes, and that the race of Heracles and the race of Achaemenes go back to Perseus, son of Zeus?
Al.
121Why, so does mine go back to Eurysaces, and he to Zeus!
Soc.
The wealth and dignity of the Spartan kings is great, but it is as nothing compared with that of the Persians.The birth of the Persian princes is a world-famous event, and the utmost pains is taken with their education, which is entrusted to great and noble persons.When Alcibiades was born nobody knew or cared, and his education was handed over to a worn-out slave of his guardian’s.The country called the ‘queen’s girdle,’ the ‘queen’s veil,’ and the like.The queen of Persia or of Sparta, if they heard that a youth of twenty, without resources and without education, was going to attack their son or husband, would deem him mad.
And mine, noble Alcibiades, to Daedalus, and he to Hephaestus, son of Zeus. But, for all that, we are far inferior to them. For they are descended ‘from Zeus,’ through a line of kings—either kings of Argos and Lacedaemon, or kings of Persia, a country which the descendants of Achaemenes have always possessed, besides being at various times sovereigns of Asia, as they now are; whereas, we and our fathers were but private persons. How ridiculous would you be thought if you were to make a display of your ancestors and of Salamis the island of Eurysaces, or of Aegina, the habitation of the still more ancient Aeacus, before Artaxerxes, son of Xerxes. You should consider how inferior we are to them both in the derivation of our birth and in other particulars. Did you never observe how great is the property of the Spartan kings? And their wives are under the guardianship of the Ephori, who are public officers and watch over them, in order to preserve as far as possible the purity of the Heracleid blood. Still greater is the difference among the Persians; for no one entertains a suspicion that the father of a prince of Persia can be any one but the king. Such is the awe which invests the person of the queen, that any other guard is needless. And when the heir of the kingdom is born, all the subjects of the king feast; and the day of his birth is for ever afterwards kept as a holiday and time of sacrifice by all Asia; whereas, when you and I were born, Alcibiades, as the comic poet says, the neighbours hardly knew of the important event. After the birth of the royal child, he is tended, not by a good-for-nothing woman-nurse, but by the best of the royal eunuchs, who are charged with the care of him, and especially with the fashioning and right formation of his limbs, in order that he may be as shapely as possible; which being their calling, they are held in great honour. And when the young prince is seven years old he is put upon a horse and taken to the riding-masters, and begins to go out hunting. And at fourteen years of age he is handed over to the royal schoolmasters, as they are termed: these are four chosen men, reputed to be the best among the Persians of a certain age; and one of them is the wisest, another the justest, a third the most temperate, and a fourth the most valiant. The first instructs him in the magianism of Zoroaster, the son of Oromasus, which is the worship of 122the Gods, and teaches him also the duties of his royal office; the second, who is the justest, teaches him always to speak the truth; the third, or most temperate, forbids him to allow any pleasure to be lord over him, that he may be accustomed to be a freeman and king indeed,—lord of himself first, and not a slave; the most valiant trains him to be bold and fearless, telling him that if he fears he is to deem himself a slave; whereas Pericles gave you, Alcibiades, for a tutor Zopyrus the Thracian, a slave of his who was past all other work. I might enlarge on the nurture and education of your rivals, but that would be tedious; and what I have said is a sufficient sample of what remains to be said. I have only to remark, by way of contrast, that no one cares about your birth or nurture or education, or, I may say, about that of any other Athenian, unless he has a lover who looks after him. And if you cast an eye on the wealth, the luxury, the garments with their flowing trains, the anointings with myrrh, the multitudes of attendants, and all the other bravery of the Persians, you will be ashamed when you discern your own inferiority; or if you look at the temperance and orderliness and ease and grace and magnanimity and courage and endurance and love of toil and desire of glory and ambition of the Lacedaemonians—in all these respects you will see that you are but a child in comparison of them. Even in the matter of wealth, if you value yourself upon that, I must reveal to you how you stand; for if you form an estimate of the wealth of the Lacedaemonians, you will see that our possessions fall far short of theirs. For no one here can compete with them either in the extent and fertility of their own and the Messenian territory, or in the number of their slaves, and especially of the Helots, or of their horses, or of the animals which feed on the Messenian pastures. But I have said enough of this: and as to gold and silver, there is more of them in Lacedaemon than in all the rest of Hellas, for during many generations gold has been always flowing in to them from the whole Hellenic world, and often from the barbarian also, and never going 123out, as in the fable of Aesop the fox said to the lion, ‘The prints of the feet of those going in are distinct enough;’ but who ever saw the trace of money going out of Lacedaemon? and therefore you may safely infer that the inhabitants are the richest of the Hellenes in gold and silver, and that their kings are the richest of them, for they have a larger share of these things, and they have also a tribute paid to them which is very considerable. Yet the Spartan wealth, though great in comparison of the wealth of the other Hellenes, is as nothing in comparison of that of the Persians and their kings. Why, I have been informed by a credible person who went up to the king [at Susa], that he passed through a large tract of excellent land, extending for nearly a day’s journey, which the people of the country called the queen’s girdle, and another, which they called her veil; and several other fair and fertile districts, which were reserved for the adornment of the queen, and are named after her several habiliments. Now, I cannot help thinking to myself, What if some one were to go to Amestris, the wife of Xerxes and mother of Artaxerxes, and say to her, There is a certain Dinomachè, whose whole wardrobe is not worth fifty minae—and that will be more than the value—and she has a son who is possessed of a three-hundred acre patch at Erchiae, and he has a mind to go to war with your son—would she not wonder to what this Alcibiades trusts for success in the conflict? ‘He must rely,’ she would say to herself, ‘upon his training and wisdom—these are the things which Hellenes value.’ And if she heard that this Alcibiades who is making the attempt is not as yet twenty years old, and is wholly uneducated, and when his lover tells him that he ought to get education and training first, and then go and fight the king, he refuses, and says that he is well enough as he is, would she not be amazed, and ask, ‘On what, then, does the youth rely?’ And if we replied: He relies on his beauty, and stature, and birth, and mental endowments, she would think that we were mad, Alcibiades, when she compared the advantages which you possess with those of her own people. And I believe that even Lampido, the daughter 124of Leotychides, the wife of Archidamus and mother of Agis, all of whom were kings, would have the same feeling; if, in your present uneducated state, you were to turn your thoughts against her son, she too would be equally astonished. But how disgraceful, that we should not have as high a notion of what is required in us as our enemies’ wives and mothers have of the qualities which are required in their assailants! O my friend, be persuaded by me, and hear the Delphian inscription, ‘Know thyself’—not the men whom you think, but these kings are our rivals, and we can only overcome them by pains and skill. And if you fail in the required qualities, you will fail also in becoming renowned among Hellenes and Barbarians, which you seem to desire more than any other man ever desired anything.
Al.
I entirely believe you; but what are the sort of pains which are required, Socrates,—can you tell me?
Soc.
I too need education; and God, who is my guardian, inspires me with the belief that I shall bring you to honour.
Yes, I can; but we must take counsel together concerning the manner in which both of us may be most improved. For what I am telling you of the necessity of education applies to myself as well as to you; and there is only one point in which I have an advantage over you.
Al.
What is that?
Soc.
I have a guardian who is better and wiser than your guardian, Pericles.
Al.
Who is he, Socrates?
Soc.
God, Alcibiades, who up to this day has not allowed me to converse with you; and he inspires in me the faith that I am especially designed to bring you to honour.
Al.
You are jesting, Socrates.
Soc.
Perhaps; at any rate, I am right in saying that all men greatly need pains and care, and you and I above all men.
Al.
You are not far wrong about me.
Soc.
And certainly not about myself.
Al.
But what can we do?
Soc.
There must be no hesitation or cowardice, my friend.
Al.
That would not become us, Socrates.
Soc.
We must take counsel together, (not about equestrian or naval affairs), but about the things which occupy the minds of wise men.
No, indeed, and we ought to take counsel together: for do we not wish to be as good as possible?
Al.
We do.
Soc.
In what sort of virtue?
Al.
Plainly, in the virtue of good men.
Soc.
Who are good in what?
Al.
Those, clearly, who are good in the management of affairs.
Soc.
What sort of affairs? Equestrian affairs?
Al.
Certainly not.
Soc.
You mean that about them we should have recourse to horsemen?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
Well; naval affairs?
Al.
No.
Soc.
You mean that we should have recourse to sailors about them?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
Then what affairs? And who do them?
Al.
The affairs which occupy Athenian gentlemen. 125
Soc.
And when you speak of gentlemen, do you mean the wise or the unwise?
Al.
The wise.
Soc.
And a man is good in respect of that in which he is wise?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And evil in respect of that in which he is unwise?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
The shoemaker, for example, is wise in respect of the making of shoes?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
Then he is good in that?
Al.
He is.
Soc.
But in respect of the making of garments he is unwise?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
Then in that he is bad?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
Then upon this view of the matter the same man is good and also bad?
Al.
True.
Soc.
But would you say that the good are the same as the bad?
Al.
Certainly not.
Soc.
Then whom do you call the good?
Al.
And the wise are those who take counsel for the better order and improvement of the city.
I mean by the good those who are able to rule in the city.
Soc.
Not, surely, over horses?
Al.
Certainly not.
Soc.
But over men?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
When they are sick?
Al.
No.
Soc.
Or on a voyage?
Al.
No.
Soc.
Or reaping the harvest?
Al.
No.
Soc.
When they are doing something or nothing?
Al.
When they are doing something, I should say.
Soc.
I wish that you would explain to me what this something is.
Al.
When they are having dealings with one another, and using one another’s services, as we citizens do in our daily life.
Soc.
Illustrations.
Those of whom you speak are ruling over men who are using the services of other men?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
Are they ruling over the signal-men who give the time to the rowers?
Al.
No; they are not.
Soc.
That would be the office of the pilot?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
But, perhaps you mean that they rule over flute-players, who lead the singers and use the services of the dancers?
Al.
Certainly not.
Soc.
That would be the business of the teacher of the chorus?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
Then what is the meaning of being able to rule over men who use other men?
Al.
I mean that they rule over men who have common rights of citizenship, and dealings with one another.
Soc.
And what sort of an art is this? Suppose that I ask you again, as I did just now, What art makes men know how to rule over their fellow-sailors,—how would you answer?
Al.
The art of the pilot.
Soc.
And, if I may recur to another old instance, what art enables them to rule over their fellow-singers?
Al.
The art of the teacher of the chorus, which you were just now mentioning.
Soc.
And what do you call the art of fellow-citizens?
Al.
I should say, good counsel, Socrates.
Soc.
And is the art of the pilot evil counsel?
Al.
No.
Soc.
But good counsel?
Al.
Yes, that is what I should say,—good counsel, of which 126the aim is the preservation of the voyagers.
Soc.
True. And what is the aim of that other good counsel of which you speak?
Al.
The aim is the better order and preservation of the city.
Soc.
And what is that of which the absence or presence improves and preserves the order of the city? Suppose you were to ask me, what is that of which the presence or absence improves or preserves the order of the body? I should reply, the presence of health and the absence of disease. You would say the same?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And if you were to ask me the same question about the eyes, I should reply in the same way, ‘the presence of sight and the absence of blindness;’ or about the ears, I should reply, that they were improved and were in better case, when deafness was absent, and hearing was present in them.
Al.
True.
Soc.
And this improvement is given by friendship and agreement,
And what would you say of a state? What is that by the presence or absence of which the state is improved and better managed and ordered?
Al.
I should say, Socrates:—the presence of friendship and the absence of hatred and division.
Soc.
And do you mean by friendship agreement or disagreement?
Al.
Agreement.
Soc.
What art makes cities agree about numbers?
Al.
Arithmetic.
Soc.
And private individuals?
Al.
The same.
Soc.
And what art makes each individual agree with himself?
Al.
The same.
Soc.
And what art makes each of us agree with himself about the comparative length of the span and of the cubit? Does not the art of measure?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
Individuals are agreed with one another about this; and states, equally?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And the same holds of the balance?
Al.
True.
Soc.
But what is the other agreement of which you speak, and about what? what art can give that agreement? And does that which gives it to the state give it also to the individual, so as to make him consistent with himself and with another?
Al.
I should suppose so.
Soc.
But what is the nature of the agreement?—answer, and faint not.
Al.
such as exists between the members of a family, however they may differ in their qualities and accomplishments.
I mean to say that there should be such friendship and agreement as exists between an affectionate father and mother and their son, or between brothers, or between husband and wife.
Soc.
But can a man, Alcibiades, agree with a woman about the spinning of wool, which she understands and he does not?
Al.
No, truly.
Soc.
Nor has he any need, for spinning is a female accomplishment.
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
127And would a woman agree with a man about the science of arms, which she has never learned?
Al.
Certainly not.
Soc.
I suppose that the use of arms would be regarded by you as a male accomplishment?
Al.
It would.
Soc.
Then, upon your view, women and men have two sorts of knowledge?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
Then in their knowledge there is no agreement of women and men?
Al.
There is not.
Soc.
Nor can there be friendship, if friendship is agreement?
Al.
Plainly not.
Soc.
Then women are not loved by men when they do their own work?
Al.
I suppose not.
Soc.
Nor men by women when they do their own work?
Al.
No.
Soc.
If everybody is doing his own business, how can this promote friendship? And yet when individuals are doing each his own work, they are doing what is just.
Nor are states well administered, when individuals do their own work?
Al.
I should rather think, Socrates, that the reverse is the truth1 .
Soc.
What! do you mean to say that states are well administered when friendship is absent, the presence of which, as we were saying, alone secures their good order?
Al.
But I should say that there is friendship among them, for this very reason, that the two parties respectively do their own work.
Soc.
That was not what you were saying before; and what do you mean now by affirming that friendship exists when there is no agreement? How can there be agreement about matters which the one party knows, and of which the other is in ignorance?
Al.
Impossible.
Soc.
And when individuals are doing their own work, are they doing what is just or unjust?
Al.
What is just, certainly.
Soc.
And when individuals do what is just in the state, is there no friendship among them?
Al.
I suppose that there must be, Socrates.
Soc.
Then what do you mean by this friendship or agreement about which we must be wise and discreet in order that we may be good men? I cannot make out where it exists or among whom; according to you, the same persons may sometimes have it, and sometimes not.
Al.
But, indeed, Socrates, I do not know what I am saying; and I have long been, unconsciously to myself, in a most disgraceful state.
Soc.
Nevertheless, cheer up; at fifty, if you had discovered your deficiency, you would have been too old, and the time for taking care of yourself would have passed away, but yours is just the age at which the discovery should be made.
Al.
And what should he do, Socrates, who would make the discovery?
Soc.
The way to clear up difficulties is to answer questions. Alcibiades is willing to have recourse to this method of improvement.
Answer questions, Alcibiades; and that is a process which, by the grace of God, if I may put any faith in my oracle, will be very improving to both of us.
Al.
If I can be improved by answering, I will answer.
Soc.
128And first of all, that we may not peradventure be deceived by appearances, fancying, perhaps, that we are taking care of ourselves when we are not, what is the meaning of a man taking care of himself? and when does he take care? Does he take care of himself when he takes care of what belongs to him?
Al.
I should think so.
Soc.
When does a man take care of his feet? Does he not take care of them when he takes care of that which belongs to his feet?
Al.
I do not understand.
Soc.
Let me take the hand as an illustration; does not a ring belong to the finger, and to the finger only?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And the shoe in like manner to the foot?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And when we take care of our shoes, do we not take care of our feet?
Al.
I do not comprehend, Socrates.
Soc.
But you would admit, Alcibiades, that to take proper care of a thing is a correct expression?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And taking proper care means improving?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And what is the art which improves our shoes?
Al.
Shoemaking.
Soc.
Then by shoemaking we take care of our shoes?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And do we by shoemaking take care of our feet, or by some other art which improves the feet?
Al.
By some other art.
Soc.
And the same art improves the feet which improves the rest of the body?
Al.
Very true.
Soc.
Which is gymnastic?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
Then by gymnastic we take care of our feet, and by shoemaking of that which belongs to our feet?
Al.
Very true.
Soc.
And by gymnastic we take care of our hands, and by the art of graving rings of that which belongs to our hands?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And by gymnastic we take care of the body, and by the art of weaving and the other arts we take care of the things of the body?
Al.
Clearly.
Soc.
It has been shown by examples that a man does not take care of himself, when he only takes care of what belongs to him.
Then the art which takes care of each thing is different from that which takes care of the belongings of each thing?
Al.
True.
Soc.
Then in taking care of what belongs to you, you do not take care of yourself?
Al.
Certainly not.
Soc.
For the art which takes care of our belongings appears not to be the same as that which takes care of ourselves?
Al.
Clearly not.
Soc.
And now let me ask you what is the art with which we take care of ourselves?
Al.
I cannot say.
Soc.
At any rate, thus much has been admitted, that the art is not one which makes any of our possessions, but which makes ourselves better?
Al.
True.
Soc.
But should we ever have known what art makes a shoe better, if we did not know a shoe?
Al.
Impossible.
Soc.
Nor should we know what art makes a ring better, if we did not know a ring?
Al.
That is true.
Soc.
A man must know himself before he can improve himself or know what belongs to him.
And can we ever know what art makes a man better, 129if we do not know what we are ourselves?
Al.
Impossible.
Soc.
And is self-knowledge such an easy thing, and was he to be lightly esteemed who inscribed the text on the temple at Delphi? Or is self-knowledge a difficult thing, which few are able to attain?
Al.
At times I fancy, Socrates, that anybody can know himself; at other times the task appears to be very difficult.
Soc.
But whether easy or difficult, Alcibiades, still there is no other way; knowing what we are, we shall know how to take care of ourselves, and if we are ignorant we shall not know.
Al.
That is true.
Soc.
Well, then, let us see in what way the self-existent can be discovered by us; that will give us a chance of discovering our own existence, which otherwise we can never know.
Al.
You say truly.
Soc.
Come, now, I beseech you, tell me with whom you are conversing?—with whom but with me?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
As I am, with you?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
That is to say, I, Socrates, am talking?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And Alcibiades is my hearer?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And I in talking use words?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
And talking and using words have, I suppose, the same meaning?
Al.
To be sure.
Soc.
And the user is not the same as the thing which he uses?
Al.
What do you mean?
Soc.
I will explain; the shoemaker, for example, uses a square tool, and a circular tool, and other tools for cutting?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
But the tool is not the same as the cutter and user of the tool?
Al.
Of course not.
Soc.
And in the same way the instrument of the harper is to be distinguished from the harper himself?
Al.
It is.
Soc.
Now the question which I asked was whether you conceive the user to be always different from that which he uses?
Al.
I do.
Soc.
Then what shall we say of the shoemaker? Does he cut with his tools only or with his hands?
Al.
With his hands as well.
Soc.
He uses his hands too?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And does he use his eyes in cutting leather?
Al.
He does.
Soc.
He is distinct from what he uses; and therefore distinct from his own body.
And we admit that the user is not the same with the things which he uses?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
Then the shoemaker and the harper are to be distinguished from the hands and feet which they use?
Al.
Clearly.
Soc.
And does not a man use the whole body?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
And that which uses is different from that which is used?
Al.
True.
Soc.
Then a man is not the same as his own body?
Al.
That is the inference.
Soc.
What is he, then?
Al.
I cannot say.
Soc.
Nay, you can say that he is the user of the body.
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And the user of the body is the soul? 130
Al.
Yes, the soul.
Soc.
And the soul rules?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
Let me make an assertion which will, I think, be universally admitted.
Al.
But he must be one of three things:—
What is it?
Soc.
That man is one of three things.
Al.
What are they?
Soc.
Soul, body, or both together forming a whole.
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
But did we not say that the actual ruling principle of the body is man?
Al.
Soul, body, or the union of the two. What is the ruling principle in him? Clearly the soul.
Yes, we did.
Soc.
And does the body rule over itself?
Al.
Certainly not.
Soc.
It is subject, as we were saying?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
Then that is not the principle which we are seeking?
Al.
It would seem not.
Soc.
But may we say that the union of the two rules over the body, and consequently that this is man?
Al.
Very likely.
Soc.
The most unlikely of all things; for if one of the members is subject, the two united cannot possibly rule.
Al.
True.
Soc.
But since neither the body, nor the union of the two, is man, either man has no real existence, or the soul is man?
Al.
Just so.
Soc.
Is anything more required to prove that the soul is man?
Al.
Certainly not; the proof is, I think, quite sufficient.
Soc.
There remains a question of absolute existence, which has not been considered by us, or rather is being considered by us when we speak of the soul.
And if the proof, although not perfect, be sufficient, we shall be satisfied;—more precise proof will be supplied when we have discovered that which we were led to omit, from a fear that the enquiry would be too much protracted.
Al.
What was that?
Soc.
What I meant, when I said that absolute existence must be first considered; but now, instead of absolute existence, we have been considering the nature of individual existence, and this may, perhaps, be sufficient; for surely there is nothing which may be called more properly ourselves than the soul?
Al.
There is nothing.
Soc.
You and I are talking soul to soul.
Then we may truly conceive that you and I are conversing with one another, soul to soul?
Al.
Very true.
Soc.
And that is just what I was saying before—that I, Socrates, am not arguing or talking with the face of Alcibiades, but with the real Alcibiades; or in other words, with his soul.
Al.
True.
Soc.
Then he who bids a man know himself, would have him know his soul?
Al.
That appears to be true.
Soc.
But if the soul is the man, he who knows only the arts which concern man does not know himself.
He whose knowledge only extends to the body, 131knows the things of a man, and not the man himself?
Al.
That is true.
Soc.
Then neither the physician regarded as a physician, nor the trainer regarded as a trainer, knows himself?
Al.
He does not.
Soc.
The husbandmen and the other craftsmen are very far from knowing themselves, for they would seem not even to know their own belongings? When regarded in relation to the arts which they practise they are even further removed from self-knowledge, for they only know the belongings of the body, which minister to the body.
Al.
That is true.
Soc.
Then if temperance is the knowledge of self, in respect of his art none of them is temperate?
Al.
I agree.
Soc.
And this is the reason why their arts are accounted vulgar, and are not such as a good man would practise?
Al.
Quite true.
Soc.
Again, he who cherishes his body cherishes not himself, but what belongs to him?
Al.
That is true.
Soc.
But he who cherishes his money, cherishes neither himself nor his belongings, but is in a stage yet further removed from himself?
Al.
I agree.
Soc.
Then the money-maker has really ceased to be occupied with his own concerns?
Al.
True.
Soc.
The lover of the soul is the true lover.
And if any one has fallen in love with the person of Alcibiades, he loves not Alcibiades, but the belongings of Alcibiades?
Al.
True.
Soc.
But he who loves your soul is the true lover?
Al.
That is the necessary inference.
Soc.
The lover of the body goes away when the flower of youth fades?
Al.
True.
Soc.
He only remains and goes not away, so long as the soul of his beloved follows after virtue.
But he who loves the soul goes not away, as long as the soul follows after virtue?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And I am the lover who goes not away, but remains with you, when you are no longer young and the rest are gone?
Al.
Yes, Socrates; and therein you do well, and I hope that you will remain.
Soc.
Then you must try to look your best.
Al.
I will.
Soc.
The fact is, that there is only one lover of Alcibiades the son of Cleinias; there neither is nor ever has been seemingly any other; and he is his darling,—Socrates, the son of Sophroniscus and Phaenarete.
Al.
True.
Soc.
And did you not say, that if I had not spoken first, you were on the point of coming to me, and enquiring why I only remained?
Al.
That is true.
Soc.
And Socrates will never desert Alcibiades so long as he is not spoiled by the Athenian people.
The reason was that I loved you for your own sake, whereas other men love what belongs to you; and your 132beauty, which is not you, is fading away, just as your true self is beginning to bloom. And I will never desert you, if you are not spoiled and deformed by the Athenian people; for the danger which I most fear is that you will become a lover of the people and will be spoiled by them. Many a noble Athenian has been ruined in this way. For the demus of the great-hearted Erechtheus is of a fair countenance, but you should see him naked; wherefore observe the caution which I give you.
Al.
What caution?
Soc.
Practise yourself, sweet friend, in learning what you ought to know, before you enter on politics; and then you will have an antidote which will keep you out of harm’s way.
Al.
Good advice, Socrates, but I wish that you would explain to me in what way I am to take care of myself.
Soc.
Have we not made an advance? for we are at any rate tolerably well agreed as to what we are, and there is no longer any danger, as we once feared, that we might be taking care not of ourselves, but of something which is not ourselves.
Al.
That is true.
Soc.
And the next step will be to take care of the soul, and look to that?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
Leaving the care of our bodies and of our properties to others?
Al.
Very good.
Soc.
He who would take care of himself must first of all know himself.
But how can we have a perfect knowledge of the things of the soul?—For if we know them, then I suppose we shall know ourselves. Can we really be ignorant of the excellent meaning of the Delphian inscription, of which we were just now speaking?
Al.
What have you in your thoughts, Socrates?
Soc.
I will tell you what I suspect to be the meaning and lesson of that inscription. Let me take an illustration from sight, which I imagine to be the only one suitable to my purpose.
Al.
What do you mean?
Soc.
The eye which would see itself must look into the pupil of another, which is the divinest part of the eye, and will then behold itself.
Consider; if some one were to say to the eye, ‘See thyself,’ as you might say to a man, ‘Know thyself,’ what is the nature and meaning of this precept? Would not his meaning be:—That the eye should look at that in which it would see itself?
Al.
Clearly.
Soc.
And what are the objects in looking at which we see ourselves?
Al.
Clearly, Socrates, in looking at mirrors and the like.
Soc.
Very true; and is there not something of the nature of a mirror in our own eyes?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
Did you ever observe that the face of the person looking into the eye of another is reflected as in a mirror; and in the visual organ which is over against him, and which 133is called the pupil, there is a sort of image of the person looking?
Al.
That is quite true.
Soc.
Then the eye, looking at another eye, and at that in the eye which is most perfect, and which is the instrument of vision, will there see itself?
Al.
That is evident.
Soc.
But looking at anything else either in man or in the world, and not to what resembles this, it will not see itself?
Al.
Very true.
Soc.
Then if the eye is to see itself, it must look at the eye, and at that part of the eye where sight which is the virtue of the eye resides?
Al.
True.
Soc.
And the soul which would know herself must look especially at that part of herself in which she resembles the divine.
And if the soul, my dear Alcibiades, is ever to know herself, must she not look at the soul; and especially at that part of the soul in which her virtue resides, and to any other which is like this?
Al.
I agree, Socrates.
Soc.
And do we know of any part of our souls more divine than that which has to do with wisdom and knowledge?
Al.
There is none.
Soc.
Then this is that part of the soul which resembles the divine; and he who looks at this and at the whole class of things divine, will be most likely to know himself?
Al.
Clearly.
Soc.
And self-knowledge we agree to be wisdom?
Al.
True.
Soc.
But if we have no self-knowledge and no wisdom, can we ever know our own good and evil?
Al.
How can we, Socrates?
Soc.
You mean, that if you did not know Alcibiades, there would be no possibility of your knowing that what belonged to Alcibiades was really his?
Al.
It would be quite impossible.
Soc.
He who knows not himself and his belongings, will not know others and their belongings, and therefore he will not know the affairs of states.
Nor should we know that we were the persons to whom anything belonged, if we did not know ourselves?
Al.
How could we?
Soc.
And if we did not know our own belongings, neither should we know the belongings of our belongings?
Al.
Clearly not.
Soc.
Then we were not altogether right in acknowledging just now that a man may know what belongs to him and yet not know himself; nay, rather he cannot even know the belongings of his belongings; for the discernment of the things of self, and of the things which belong to the things of self, appear all to be the business of the same man, and of the same art.
Al.
So much may be supposed.
Soc.
And he who knows not the things which belong to himself, will in like manner be ignorant of the things which belong to others?
Al.
Very true.
Soc.
And if he knows not the affairs of others, he will not know the affairs of states?
Al.
Certainly not.
Soc.
Then such a man can never be a statesman?
Al.
He cannot.
Soc.
Nor an economist?
Al.
He cannot.
Soc.
He will not know what he is doing? 134
Al.
He will not.
Soc.
And will not he who is ignorant fall into error?
Al.
Assuredly.
Soc.
And, if he knows not what he is doing, he will be miserable and will make others miserable.
And if he falls into error will he not fail both in his public and private capacity?
Al.
Yes, indeed.
Soc.
And failing, will he not be miserable?
Al.
Very.
Soc.
And what will become of those for whom he is acting?
Al.
They will be miserable also.
Soc.
Then he who is not wise and good cannot be happy?
Al.
He cannot.
Soc.
The bad, then, are miserable?
Al.
Yes, very.
Soc.
And if so, not he who has riches, but he who has wisdom, is delivered from his misery?
Al.
Clearly.
Soc.
Cities, then, if they are to be happy, do not want walls, or triremes, or docks, or numbers, or size, Alcibiades, without virtue1 ?
Al.
Indeed they do not.
Soc.
And you must give the citizens virtue, if you mean to administer their affairs rightly or nobly?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
He must give the citizens wisdom and justice, and he cannot give what he has not got.
But can a man give that which he has not?
Al.
Impossible.
Soc.
Then you or any one who means to govern and superintend, not only himself and the things of himself, but the state and the things of the state, must in the first place acquire virtue.
Al.
That is true.
Soc.
You have not therefore to obtain power or authority, in order to enable you to do what you wish for yourself and the state, but justice and wisdom.
Al.
Clearly.
Soc.
If he acts wisely and justly he will act according to the will of God.
You and the state, if you act wisely and justly, will act according to the will of God?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
As I was saying before, you will look only at what is bright and divine, and act with a view to them?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
In the mirror of the divine he will see his own good and will act rightly and be happy.
In that mirror you will see and know yourselves and your own good?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And so you will act rightly and well?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
In which case, I will be security for your happiness.
Al.
I accept the security.
Soc.
But if you act unrighteously, your eye will turn to the dark and godless, and being in darkness and ignorance of yourselves, you will probably do deeds of darkness.
Al.
Very possibly.
Soc.
For if a man, my dear Alcibiades, has the power to do what he likes, but has no understanding, what is likely to 135be the result, either to him as an individual or to the state—for example, if he be sick and is able to do what he likes, not having the mind of a physician—having moreover tyrannical power, and no one daring to reprove him, what will happen to him? Will he not be likely to have his constitution ruined?
Al.
That is true.
Soc.
Or again, in a ship, if a man having the power to do what he likes, has no intelligence or skill in navigation, do you see what will happen to him and to his fellow-sailors?
Al.
Yes; I see that they will all perish.
Soc.
And in like manner, in a state, and where there is any power and authority which is wanting in virtue, will not misfortune, in like manner, ensue?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
Not power, but virtue, should be the aim both of individuals and of states: and he only is a freeman who has virtue.
Not tyrannical power, then, my good Alcibiades, should be the aim either of individuals or states, if they would be happy, but virtue.
Al.
That is true.
Soc.
And before they have virtue, to be commanded by a superior is better for men as well as for children1 ?
Al.
That is evident.
Soc.
And that which is better is also nobler?
Al.
True.
Soc.
And what is nobler is more becoming?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
Then to the bad man slavery is more becoming, because better?
Al.
True.
Soc.
Then vice is only suited to a slave?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And virtue to a freeman?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And, O my friend, is not the condition of a slave to be avoided?
Al.
Certainly, Socrates.
Soc.
And are you now conscious of your own state? And do you know whether you are a freeman or not?
Al.
I think that I am very conscious indeed of my own state.
Soc.
And do you know how to escape out of a state which I do not even like to name to my beauty?
Al.
Yes, I do.
Soc.
How?
Al.
By your help, Socrates.
Soc.
That is not well said, Alcibiades.
Al.
What ought I to have said?
Soc.
By the help of God.
Al.
I agree; and I further say, that our relations are likely to be reversed. From this day forward, I must and will follow you as you have followed me; I will be the disciple, and you shall be my master.
Soc.
O that is rare! My love breeds another love: and so like the stork I shall be cherished by the bird whom I have hatched.
Al.
Strange, but true; and henceforward I shall begin to think about justice.
Soc.
And I hope that you will persist; although I have fears, not because I doubt you; but I see the power of the state, which may be too much for both of us.
MENEXENUS.
INTRODUCTION.
Menexenus.Introduction.
The Menexenus has more the character of a rhetorical exercise than any other of the Platonic works. The writer seems to have wished to emulate Thucydides, and the far slighter work of Lysias. In his rivalry with the latter, to whom in the Phaedrus Plato shows a strong antipathy, he is entirely successful, but he is not equal to Thucydides. The Menexenus, though not without real Hellenic interest, falls very far short of the rugged grandeur and political insight of the great historian. The fiction of the speech having been invented by Aspasia is well sustained, and is in the manner of Plato, notwithstanding the anachronism which puts into her mouth an allusion to the peace of Antalcidas, an event occurring forty years after the date of the supposed oration. But Plato, like Shakespeare, is careless of such anachronisms, which are not supposed to strike the mind of the reader. The effect produced by these grandiloquent orations on Socrates, who does not recover after having heard one of them for three days and more, is truly Platonic.
Such discourses, if we may form a judgment from the three which are extant (for the so-called Funeral Oration of Demosthenes is a bad and spurious imitation of Thucydides and Lysias), conformed to a regular type. They began with Gods and ancestors, and the legendary history of Athens, to which succeeded an almost equally fictitious account of later times. The Persian war usually formed the centre of the narrative; in the age of Isocrates and Demosthenes the Athenians were still living on the glories of Marathon and Salamis. The Menexenus veils in panegyric the weak places of Athenian history. The war of Athens and Boeotia is a war of liberation; the Athenians gave back the Spartans taken at Sphacteria out of kindness—indeed, the only fault of the city was too great kindness to their enemies, who were more honoured than the friends of others (cp. Thucyd. ii. 41, which seems to contain the germ of the idea); we democrats are the aristocracy of virtue, and the like. These are the platitudes and falsehoods in which history is disguised. The taking of Athens is hardly mentioned.
The author of the Menexenus, whether Plato or not, is evidently intending to ridicule the practice, and at the same time to show that he can beat the rhetoricians in their own line, as in the Phaedrus he may be supposed to offer an example of what Lysias might have said, and of how much better he might have written in his own style. The orators had recourse to their favourite loci communes, one of which, as we find in Lysias, was the shortness of the time allowed them for preparation. But Socrates points out that they had them always ready for delivery, and that there was no difficulty in improvising any number of such orations. To praise the Athenians among the Athenians was easy,—to praise them among the Lacedaemonians would have been a much more difficult task. Socrates himself has turned rhetorician, having learned of a woman, Aspasia, the mistress of Pericles; and any one whose teachers had been far inferior to his own—say, one who had learned from Antiphon the Rhamnusian—would be quite equal to the task of praising men to themselves. When we remember that Antiphon is described by Thucydides as the best pleader of his day, the satire on him and on the whole tribe of rhetoricians is transparent.
The ironical assumption of Socrates, that he must be a good orator because he had learnt of Aspasia, is not coarse, as Schleiermacher supposes, but is rather to be regarded as fanciful. Nor can we say that the offer of Socrates to dance naked out of love for Menexenus, is any more un-Platonic than the threat of physical force which Phaedrus uses towards Socrates (286 C). Nor is there any real vulgarity in the fear which Socrates expresses that he will get a beating from his mistress, Aspasia: this is the natural exaggeration of what might be expected from an imperious woman. Socrates is not to be taken seriously in all that he says, and Plato, both in the Symposium and elsewhere, is not slow to admit a sort of Aristophanic humour. How a great original genius like Plato might or might not have written, what was his conception of humour, or what limits he would have prescribed to himself, if any, in drawing the picture of the Silenus Socrates, are problems which no critical instinct can determine.
On the other hand, the dialogue has several Platonic traits, whether original or imitated may be uncertain. Socrates, when he departs from his character of a ‘know nothing’ and delivers a speech, generally pretends that what he is speaking is not his own composition. Thus in the Cratylus he is run away with (410 E); in the Phaedrus he has heard somebody say something (235 C)—is inspired by the genius loci (238 D); in the Symposium he derives his wisdom from Diotima of Mantinea, and the like. But he does not impose on Menexenus by his dissimulation. Without violating the character of Socrates, Plato, who knows so well how to give a hint, or some one writing in his name, intimates clearly enough that the speech in the Menexenus like that in the Phaedrus is to be attributed to Socrates. The address of the dead to the living at the end of the oration may also be compared to the numerous addresses of the same kind which occur in Plato, in whom the dramatic element is always tending to prevail over the rhetorical. The remark has been often made, that in the Funeral Oration of Thucydides there is no allusion to the existence of the dead. But in the Menexenus a future state is clearly, although not strongly, asserted.
Whether the Menexenus is a genuine writing of Plato, or an imitation only, remains uncertain. In either case, the thoughts are partly borrowed from the Funeral Oration of Thucydides; and the fact that they are so, is not in favour of the genuineness of the work. Internal evidence seems to leave the question of authorship in doubt. There are merits and there are defects which might lead to either conclusion. The form of the greater part of the work makes the enquiry difficult; the introduction and the finale certainly wear the look either of Plato or of an extremely skilful imitator. The excellence of the forgery may be fairly adduced as an argument that it is not a forgery at all. In this uncertainty the express testimony of Aristotle, who quotes, in the Rhetoric1 , the well-known words, ‘It is easy to praise the Athenians among the Athenians,’ from the Funeral Oration, may perhaps turn the balance in its favour. It must be remembered also that the work was famous in antiquity, and is included in the Alexandrian catalogues of Platonic writings.
MENEXENUS.
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE.
Socrates and Menexenus.
Socrates.
Menexenus.Socrates, Menexenus.
234Whence come you, Menexenus? Are you from the Agora?
Menexenus.
Yes, Socrates; I have been at the Council.
Soc.
And what might you be doing at the Council? And yet I need hardly ask, for I see that you, believing yourself to have arrived at the end of education and of philosophy, and to have had enough of them, are mounting upwards to things higher still, and, though rather young for the post, are intending to govern us elder men, like the rest of your family, which has always provided some one who kindly took care of us.
Men.
Yes, Socrates, I shall be ready to hold office, if you allow and advise that I should, but not if you think otherwise. I went to the council chamber because I heard that the Council was about to choose some one who was to speak over the dead. For you know that there is to be a public funeral?
Soc.
Yes, I know. And whom did they choose?
Men.
No one; they delayed the election until to-morrow, but I believe that either Archinus or Dion will be chosen.
Soc.
The gain of dying in battle.The effect upon Socrates of panegyrical oratory.
O Menexenus! death in battle is certainly in many respects a noble thing. The dead man gets a fine and costly funeral, although he may have been poor, and an elaborate speech is made over him by a wise man who has long ago prepared what he has to say, although he who is praised may not have been good for much. The speakers praise him for what he has done and for what he has not done—that is the beauty of them—and they steal away our souls with their embellished words; in every conceivable form they praise 235the city; and they praise those who died in war, and all our ancestors who went before us; and they praise ourselves also who are still alive, until I feel quite elevated by their laudations, and I stand listening to their words, Menexenus, and become enchanted by them, and all in a moment I imagine myself to have become a greater and nobler and finer man than I was before. And if, as often happens, there are any foreigners who accompany me to the speech, I become suddenly conscious of having a sort of triumph over them, and they seem to experience a corresponding feeling of admiration at me, and at the greatness of the city, which appears to them, when they are under the influence of the speaker, more wonderful than ever. This consciousness of dignity lasts me more than three days, and not until the fourth or fifth day do I come to my senses and know where I am; in the meantime I have been living in the Islands of the Blest. Such is the art of our rhetoricians, and in such manner does the sound of their words keep ringing in my ears.
Men.
Socrates always making fun of the rhetoricians.
You are always making fun of the rhetoricians, Socrates; this time, however, I am inclined to think that the speaker who is chosen will not have much to say, for he has been called upon to speak at a moment’s notice, and he will be compelled almost to improvise.
Soc.
But why, my friend, should he not have plenty to say? Every rhetorician has speeches ready made; nor is there any difficulty in improvising that sort of stuff. Had the orator to praise Athenians among Peloponnesians, or Peloponnesians among Athenians, he must be a good rhetorician who could succeed and gain credit. But there is no difficulty in a man’s winning applause when he is contending for fame among the persons whom he is praising.
Men.
Do you think not, Socrates?
Soc.
Certainly ‘not.’
Men.
Could Socrates himself make a funeral oration?
Do you think that you could speak yourself if there should be a necessity, and if the Council were to choose you?
Soc.
That I should be able to speak is no great wonder, Menexenus, considering that I have an excellent mistress in the art of rhetoric,—she who has made so many good speakers, and one who was the best among all the Hellenes—Pericles, the son of Xanthippus.
Men.
And who is she? I suppose that you mean Aspasia.
Soc.
Yes; for he is a pupil of Aspasia.
Yes, I do; and besides her I had Connus, the son of 236Metrobius, as a master, and he was my master in music, as she was in rhetoric. No wonder that a man who has received such an education should be a finished speaker; even the pupil of very inferior masters, say, for example, one who had learned music of Lamprus, and rhetoric of Antiphon the Rhamnusian, might make a figure if he were to praise the Athenians among the Athenians.
Men.
And what would you be able to say if you had to speak?
Soc.
The funeral oration composed by Aspasia.
Of my own wit, most likely nothing; but yesterday I heard Aspasia composing a funeral oration about these very dead. For she had been told, as you were saying, that the Athenians were going to choose a speaker, and she repeated to me the sort of speech which he should deliver, partly improvising and partly from previous thought, putting together fragments of the funeral oration which Pericles spoke, but which, as I believe, she composed.
Men.
And can you remember what Aspasia said?
Soc.
I ought to be able, for she taught me, and she was ready to strike me because I was always forgetting.
Men.
Then why will you not rehearse what she said?
Soc.
Because I am afraid that my mistress may be angry with me if I publish her speech.
Men.
Nay, Socrates, let us have the speech, whether Aspasia’s or any one else’s, no matter. I hope that you will oblige me.
Soc.
But I am afraid that you will laugh at me if I continue the games of youth in old age.
Men.
Far otherwise, Socrates; let us by all means have the speech.
Soc.
Truly I have such a disposition to oblige you, that if you bid me dance naked I should not like to refuse, since we are alone. Listen then: If I remember rightly, she began as follows, with the mention of the dead1 :—
Socrates.
There is a tribute of deeds and of words. The departed have already had the first, when going forth on their destined journey they were attended on their way by the state and by their friends; the tribute of words remains to be given to them, as is meet and by law ordained. For noble words are a memorial and a crown of noble actions, which are given to the doers of them by the hearers. A word is needed which will duly praise the dead and gently admonish the living, exhorting the brethren and descendants of the departed to imitate their virtue, and consoling their fathers and mothers and the survivors, if any, who may chance to be alive of the 237previous generation. What sort of a word will this be, and how shall we rightly begin the praises of these brave men? In their life they rejoiced their own friends with their valour, and their death they gave in exchange for the salvation of the living. And I think that we should praise them in the order in which nature made them good, for they were good because they were sprung from good fathers. Wherefore let us first of all praise the goodness of their birth; secondly, their nurture and education; and then let us set forth how noble their actions were, and how worthy of the education which they had received.
The departed were the children of the soil;
And first as to their birth. Their ancestors were not strangers, nor are these their descendants sojourners only, whose fathers have come from another country; but they are the children of the soil, dwelling and living in their own land. And the country which brought them up is not like other countries, a stepmother to her children, but their own true mother; she bore them and nourished them and received them, and in her bosom they now repose. It is meet and right, therefore, that we should begin by praising the land which is their mother, and that will be a way of praising their noble birth.
and their country is dear to the Gods, who contended for the possession of her.She first brought forth man, and proved her true motherhood by providing food for her own offspring.The Gods were the rulers of primitive men, and gave them arts.
The country is worthy to be praised, not only by us, but by all mankind; first, and above all, as being dear to the Gods. This is proved by the strife and contention of the Gods respecting her. And ought not the country which the Gods praise to be praised by all mankind? The second praise which may be fairly claimed by her, is that at the time when the whole earth was sending forth and creating diverse animals, tame and wild, she our mother was free and pure from savage monsters, and out of all animals selected and brought forth man, who is superior to the rest in understanding, and alone has justice and religion. And a great proof that she brought forth the common ancestors of us and of the departed, is that she provided the means of support for her offspring. For as a woman proves her motherhood by giving milk to her young ones (and she who has no fountain of milk is not a mother), so did this our land prove that she was the mother of men, for in those days she alone and first of all brought forth wheat and barley for human 238food, which is the best and noblest sustenance for man, whom she regarded as her true offspring. And these are truer proofs of motherhood in a country than in a woman, for the woman in her conception and generation is but the imitation of the earth, and not the earth of the woman. And of the fruit of the earth she gave a plenteous supply, not only to her own, but to others also; and afterwards she made the olive to spring up to be a boon to her children, and to help them in their toils. And when she had herself nursed them and brought them up to manhood, she gave them Gods to be their rulers and teachers, whose names are well known, and need not now be repeated. They are the Gods who first ordered our lives, and instructed us in the arts for the supply of our daily needs, and taught us the acquisition and use of arms for the defence of the country.
We have a good government, which is sometimes called a democracy, but is really an aristocracy, for the best rule with the consent of the many.The principle of our government is equality; the only superiority is that of virtue and wisdom.
Thus born into the world and thus educated, the ancestors of the departed lived and made themselves a government, which I ought briefly to commemorate. For government is the nurture of man, and the government of good men is good, and of bad men bad. And I must show that our ancestors were trained under a good government, and for this reason they were good, and our contemporaries are also good, among whom our departed friends are to be reckoned. Then as now, and indeed always, from that time to this, speaking generally, our government was an aristocracy—a form of government which receives various names, according to the fancies of men, and is sometimes called democracy, but is really an aristocracy or government of the best which has the approval of the many. For kings we have always had, first hereditary and then elected, and authority is mostly in the hands of the people, who dispense offices and power to those who appear to be most deserving of them. Neither is a man rejected from weakness or poverty or obscurity of origin, nor honoured by reason of the opposite, as in other states, but there is one principle—he who appears to be wise and good is a governor and ruler. The basis of this our government is equality of birth; for other states are made up of all sorts and unequal conditions of men, and therefore their governments are unequal; there are tyrannies and there are oligarchies, in which the one party are slaves and the others masters. But we and our citizens are brethren, the children all of one 239mother, and we do not think it right to be one another’s masters or servants; but the natural equality of birth compels us to seek for legal equality, and to recognize no superiority except in the reputation of virtue and wisdom.
The greatness of Persia.Yet at Marathon the army of Darius was overcome by the Athenians almost single-handed.The men of Marathon should have the first place: those who followed in the war were their disciples, except the men who defeated the Persians at Salamis and first made proof of them at sea: these have the second place.And the third place is to be assigned to those who fought at Plataea.Eurymedon; Cyprus; Egypt.
And so their and our fathers, and these, too, our brethren, being nobly born and having been brought up in all freedom, did both in their public and private capacity many noble deeds famous over the whole world. They were the deeds of men who thought that they ought to fight both against Hellenes for the sake of Hellenes on behalf of freedom, and against barbarians in the common interest of Hellas. Time would fail me to tell of their defence of their country against the invasion of Eumolpus and the Amazons, or of their defence of the Argives against the Cadmeians, or of the Heracleids against the Argives; besides, the poets have already declared in song to all mankind their glory, and therefore any commemoration of their deeds in prose which we might attempt would hold a second place. They already have their reward, and I say no more of them; but there are other worthy deeds of which no poet has worthily sung, and which are still wooing the poet’s muse. Of these I am bound to make honourable mention, and shall invoke others to sing of them also in lyric and other strains, in a manner becoming the actors. And first I will tell how the Persians, lords of Asia, were enslaving Europe, and how the children of this land, who were our fathers, held them back. Of these I will speak first, and praise their valour, as is meet and fitting. He who would rightly estimate them should place himself in thought at that time, when the whole of Asia was subject to the third king of Persia. The first king, Cyrus, by his valour freed the Persians, who were his countrymen, and subjected the Medes, who were their lords, and he ruled over the rest of Asia, as far as Egypt; and after him came his son, who ruled all the accessible part of Egypt and Libya; the third king was Darius, who extended the land boundaries of the empire to 240Scythia, and with his fleet held the sea and the islands. None presumed to be his equal; the minds of all men were enthralled by him—so many and mighty and warlike nations had the power of Persia subdued. Now Darius had a quarrel against us and the Eretrians, because, as he said, we had conspired against Sardis, and he sent 500,000 men in transports and vessels of war, and 300 ships, and Datis as commander, telling him to bring the Eretrians and Athenians to the king, if he wished to keep his head on his shoulders. He sailed against the Eretrians, who were reputed to be amongst the noblest and most warlike of the Hellenes of that day, and they were numerous, but he conquered them all in three days; and when he had conquered them, in order that no one might escape, he searched the whole country after this manner: his soldiers, coming to the borders of Eretria and spreading from sea to sea, joined hands and passed through the whole country, in order that they might be able to tell the king that no one had escaped them. And from Eretria they went to Marathon with a like intention, expecting to bind the Athenians in the same yoke of necessity in which they had bound the Eretrians. Having effected one-half of their purpose, they were in the act of attempting the other, and none of the Hellenes dared to assist either the Eretrians or the Athenians, except the Lacedaemonians, and they arrived a day too late for the battle; but the rest were panic-stricken and kept quiet, too happy in having escaped for a time. He who has present to his mind that conflict will know what manner of men they were who received the onset of the barbarians at Marathon, and chastened the pride of the whole of Asia, and by the victory which they gained over the barbarians first taught other men that the power of the Persians was not invincible, but that hosts of men and the multitude of riches alike yield to valour. And I assert that those men are the fathers not only of ourselves, but of our liberties and of the liberties of all who are on the continent, for that was the action to which the Hellenes looked back when they ventured to fight for their own safety in the battles which ensued: they became disciples of the men of Marathon. To them, therefore, I assign in my speech the first place, and the second to those 241who fought and conquered in the sea fights at Salamis and Artemisium; for of them, too, one might have many things to say—of the assaults which they endured by sea and land, and how they repelled them. I will mention only that act of theirs which appears to me to be the noblest, and which followed that of Marathon and came nearest to it; for the men of Marathon only showed the Hellenes that it was possible to ward off the barbarians by land, the many by the few; but there was no proof that they could be defeated by ships, and at sea the Persians retained the reputation of being invincible in numbers and wealth and skill and strength. This is the glory of the men who fought at sea, that they dispelled the second terror which had hitherto possessed the Hellenes, and so made the fear of numbers, whether of ships or men, to cease among them. And so the soldiers of Marathon and the sailors of Salamis became the schoolmasters of Hellas; the one teaching and habituating the Hellenes not to fear the barbarians at sea, and the others not to fear them by land. Third in order, for the number and valour of the combatants, and third in the salvation of Hellas, I place the battle of Plataea. And now the Lacedaemonians as well as the Athenians took part in the struggle; they were all united in this greatest and most terrible conflict of all; wherefore their virtues will be celebrated in times to come, as they are now celebrated by us. But at a later period many Hellenic tribes were still on the side of the barbarians, and there was a report that the great king was going to make a new attempt upon the Hellenes, and therefore justice requires that we should also make mention of those who crowned the previous work of our salvation, and drove and purged away all barbarians from the sea. These were the men who fought by sea at the river Eurymedon, and who went on the expedition to Cyprus, and who sailed to Egypt and divers other places; and they should be gratefully remembered by us, because they compelled the king in fear for himself to look to his own safety instead of plotting the destruction of Hellas.
Tanagra; Oenophyta.Sphacteria.The Sicilian expedition.Cyzicus.Hellas betrayed to the Persian.Arginusae.The taking of the city is obscurely intimated.The great reconciliation of kindred.Change in the relation of the Athenians (1) to the other Hellenes; (2) to the Persian king.
242And so the war against the barbarians was fought out to the end by the whole city on their own behalf, and on behalf of their countrymen. There was peace, and our city was held in honour; and then, as prosperity makes men jealous, there succeeded a jealousy of her, and jealousy begat envy, and so she became engaged against her will in a war with the Hellenes. On the breaking out of war, our citizens met the Lacedaemonians at Tanagra, and fought for the freedom of the Boeotians; the issue was doubtful, and was decided by the engagement which followed. For when the Lacedaemonians had gone on their way, leaving the Boeotians, whom they were aiding, on the third day after the battle of Tanagra, our countrymen conquered at Oenophyta, and righteously restored those who had been unrighteously exiled. And they were the first after the Persian war who fought on behalf of liberty in aid of Hellenes against Hellenes; they were brave men, and freed those whom they aided, and were the first too who were honourably interred in this sepulchre by the state. Afterwards there was a mighty war, in which all the Hellenes joined, and devastated our country, which was very ungrateful of them; and our countrymen, after defeating them in a naval engagement and taking their leaders, the Spartans, at Sphagia, when they might have destroyed them, spared their lives, and gave them back, and made peace, considering that they should war with their fellow-countrymen only until they gained a victory over them, and not because of the private anger of the state destroy the common interest of Hellas; but that with barbarians they should war to the death. Worthy of praise are they also who waged this war, and are here interred; for they proved, if any one doubted the superior prowess of the Athenians in the former war with the barbarians, that their doubts had no foundation—showing by their victory in the civil war with Hellas, in which they subdued the other chief state of the Hellenes, that they could conquer single-handed those with whom they had been allied in the war against the barbarians. After the peace there followed a third war, which was of a terrible and desperate nature, and in this many brave men who are here interred lost their lives—many of them had won victories in Sicily, whither they had gone over the seas 243to fight for the liberties of the Leontines, to whom they were bound by oaths; but, owing to the distance, the city was unable to help them, and they lost heart and came to misfortune, their very enemies and opponents winning more renown for valour and temperance than the friends of others. Many also fell in naval engagements at the Hellespont, after having in one day taken all the ships of the enemy, and defeated them in other naval engagements. And what I call the terrible and desperate nature of the war, is that the other Hellenes, in their extreme animosity towards the city, should have entered into negotiations with their bitterest enemy, the king of Persia, whom they, together with us, had expelled;—him, without us, they again brought back, barbarian against Hellenes, and all the hosts, both of Hellenes and barbarians, were united against Athens. And then shone forth the power and valour of our city. Her enemies had supposed that she was exhausted by the war, and our ships were blockaded at Mitylene. But the citizens themselves embarked, and came to the rescue with sixty other ships, and their valour was confessed of all men, for they conquered their enemies and delivered their friends. And yet by some evil fortune they were left to perish at sea, and therefore are1 not interred here. Ever to be remembered and honoured are they, for by their valour not only that sea-fight was won for us, but the entire war was decided by them, and through them the city gained the reputation of being invincible, even though attacked by all mankind. And that reputation was a true one, for the defeat which came upon us was our own doing. We were never conquered by others, and to this day we are still unconquered by them; but we were our own conquerors, and received defeat at our own hands. Afterwards there was quiet and peace abroad, but there sprang up war at home; and, if men are destined to have civil war, no one could have desired that his city should take the disorder in a milder form. How joyful and natural was the reconciliation of those who came from the Piraeus and those who came from the city; with what moderation did they order the war against the tyrants in Eleusis, and in a manner how unlike what the other 244Hellenes expected! And the reason of this gentleness was the veritable tie of blood, which created among them a friendship as of kinsmen, faithful not in word only, but in deed. And we ought also to remember those who then fell by one another’s hands, and on such occasions as these to reconcile them with sacrifices and prayers, praying to those who have power over them, that they may be reconciled even as we are reconciled. For they did not attack one another out of malice or enmity, but they were unfortunate. And that such was the fact we ourselves are witnesses, who are of the same race with them, and have mutually received and granted forgiveness of what we have done and suffered. After this there was perfect peace, and the city had rest; and her feeling was that she forgave the barbarians, who had severely suffered at her hands and severely retaliated, but that she was indignant at the ingratitude of the Hellenes, when she remembered how they had received good from her and returned evil, having made common cause with the barbarians, depriving her of the ships which had once been their salvation, and dismantling our walls, which had preserved their own from falling. She thought that she would no longer defend the Hellenes, when enslaved either by one another or by the barbarians, and did accordingly. This was our feeling, while the Lacedaemonians were thinking that we who were the champions of liberty had fallen, and that their business was to subject the remaining Hellenes. And why should I say more? for the events of which I am speaking happened not long ago and we can all of us remember how the chief peoples of Hellas, Argives and Boeotians and Corinthians, came to feel the need of us, and, what is the greatest miracle of all, the Persian king himself was driven to such extremity as to come round to the opinion, that from this city, of which he was the destroyer, and from no other, his salvation would proceed.
And if a person desired to bring a deserved accusation against our city, he would find only one charge which he could justly urge—that she was too compassionate and too favourable to the weaker side. And in this instance she was not able to hold out or keep her resolution of refusing aid to 245her injurers when they were being enslaved, but she was softened, and did in fact send out aid, and delivered the Hellenes from slavery, and they were free until they afterwards enslaved themselves. Whereas, to the great king she refused to give the assistance of the state, for she could not forget the trophies of Marathon and Salamis and Plataea; but she allowed exiles and volunteers to assist him, and they were his salvation. And she herself, when she was compelled, entered into the war, and built walls and ships, and fought with the Lacedaemonians on behalf of the Parians. Now the king fearing this city and wanting to stand aloof, when he saw the Lacedaemonians growing weary of the war at sea, asked of us, as the price of his alliance with us and the other allies, to give up the Hellenes in Asia, whom the Lacedaemonians had previously handed over to him, he thinking that we should refuse, and that then he might have a pretence for withdrawing from us. About the other allies he was mistaken, for the Corinthians and Argives and Boeotians, and the other states, were quite willing to let them go, and swore and covenanted, that, if he would pay them money, they would make over to him the Hellenes of the continent, and we alone refused to give them up and swear. Such was the natural nobility of this city, so sound and healthy was the spirit of freedom among us, and the instinctive dislike of the barbarian, because we are pure Hellenes, having no admixture of barbarism in us. For we are not like many others, descendants of Pelops or Cadmus or Egyptus or Danaus, who are by nature barbarians, and yet pass for Hellenes, and dwell in the midst of us; but we are pure Hellenes, uncontaminated by any foreign element, and therefore the hatred of the foreigner has passed unadulterated into the life-blood of the city. And so, notwithstanding our noble sentiments, we were again isolated, because we were unwilling to be guilty of the base and unholy act of giving up Hellenes to barbarians. And we were in the same case as when we were subdued before; but, by the favour of Heaven, we managed better, for we ended the war without the loss of our ships or walls or colonies; the enemy was only too glad to be quit of us. Yet in this war we lost many brave men, such as were those who fell owing to the ruggedness of the ground at the battle of Corinth, or by treason at Lechaeum. Brave men, too; were those who delivered the Persian king, and drove the Lacedaemonians 246from the sea. I remind you of them, and you must celebrate them together with me, and do honour to their memories.
Such were the actions of the men who are here interred, and of others who have died on behalf of their country; many and glorious things I have spoken of them, and there are yet many more and more glorious things remaining to be told—many days and nights would not suffice to tell of them. Let them not be forgotten, and let every man remind their descendants that they also are soldiers who must not desert the ranks of their ancestors, or from cowardice fall behind. Even as I exhort you this day, and in all future time, whenever I meet with any of you, shall continue to remind and exhort you, O ye sons of heroes, that you strive to be the bravest of men. And I think that I ought now to repeat what your fathers desired to have said to you who are their survivors, when they went out to battle, in case anything happened to them. I will tell you what I heard them say, and what, if they had only speech, they would fain be saying, judging from what they then said. And you must imagine that you hear them saying what I now repeat to you:—
‘Sons, the event proves that your fathers were brave men; for we might have lived dishonourably, but have preferred to die honourably rather than bring you and your children into disgrace, and rather than dishonour our own fathers and forefathers; considering that life is not life to one who is a dishonour to his race, and that to such a one neither men nor Gods are friendly, either while he is on the earth or after death in the world below. Remember our words, then, and whatever is your aim let virtue be the condition of the attainment of your aim, and know that without this all possessions and pursuits are dishonourable and evil. For neither does wealth bring honour to the owner, if he be a coward; of such a one the wealth belongs to another, and not to himself. Nor does beauty and strength of body, when dwelling in a base and cowardly man, appear comely, but the reverse of comely, making the possessor more conspicuous, and manifesting forth his cowardice. And all knowledge, when separated from justice and virtue, is seen to be cunning and not wisdom; wherefore make this your first and last and constant and all-absorbing aim, to exceed, 247if possible, not only us but all your ancestors in virtue; and know that to excel you in virtue only brings us shame, but that to be excelled by you is a source of happiness to us. And we shall most likely be defeated, and you will most likely be victors in the contest, if you learn so to order your lives as not to abuse or waste the reputation of your ancestors, knowing that to a man who has any self-respect, nothing is more dishonourable than to be honoured, not for his own sake, but on account of the reputation of his ancestors. The honour of parents is a fair and noble treasure to their posterity, but to have the use of a treasure of wealth and honour, and to leave none to your successors, because you have neither money nor reputation of your own, is alike base and dishonourable. And if you follow our precepts you will be received by us as friends, when the hour of destiny brings you hither; but if you neglect our words and are disgraced in your lives, no one will welcome or receive you. This is the message which is to be delivered to our children.
‘Some of us have fathers and mothers still living, and we would urge them, if, as is likely, we shall die, to bear the calamity as lightly as possible, and not to condole with one another; for they have sorrows enough, and will not need any one to stir them up. While we gently heal their wounds, let us remind them that the Gods have heard the chief part of their prayers; for they prayed, not that their children might live for ever, but that they might be brave and renowned. And this, which is the greatest good, they have attained. A mortal man cannot expect to have everything in his own life turning out according to his will; and they, if they bear their misfortunes bravely, will be truly deemed brave fathers of the brave. But if they give way to their sorrows, either they will be suspected of not being our parents, or we of not being such as our panegyrists declare. Let not either of the two alternatives happen, but rather let them be our chief and true panegyrists, who show in their lives that they are true men, and had men for their sons. Of old the saying, “Nothing too much,” appeared to be, and really was, well said. For he whose happiness rests with 248himself, if possible, wholly, and if not, as far as is possible,—who is not hanging in suspense on other men, or changing with the vicissitude of their fortune,—has his life ordered for the best. He is the temperate and valiant and wise; and when his riches come and go, when his children are given and taken away, he will remember the proverb—“Neither rejoicing overmuch nor grieving overmuch,” for he relies upon himself. And such we would have our parents to be—that is our word and wish, and as such we now offer ourselves, neither lamenting overmuch, nor fearing overmuch, if we are to die at this time. And we entreat our fathers and mothers to retain these feelings throughout their future life, and to be assured that they will not please us by sorrowing and lamenting over us. But, if the dead have any knowledge of the living, they will displease us most by making themselves miserable and by taking their misfortunes too much to heart, and they will please us best if they bear their loss lightly and temperately. For our life will have the noblest end which is vouchsafed to man, and should be glorified rather than lamented. And if they will direct their minds to the care and nurture of our wives and children, they will soonest forget their misfortunes, and live in a better and nobler way, and be dearer to us.
‘This is all that we have to say to our families: and to the state we would say—Take care of our parents and of our sons: let her worthily cherish the old age of our parents, and bring up our sons in the right way. But we know that she will of her own accord take care of them, and does not need any exhortation of ours.’
Socrates, Menexenus.
This, O ye children and parents of the dead, is the message which they bid us deliver to you, and which I do deliver with the utmost seriousness. And in their name I beseech you, the children, to imitate your fathers, and you, parents, to be of good cheer about yourselves; for we will nourish your age, and take care of you both publicly and privately in any place in which one of us may meet one of you who are the parents of the dead. And the care of you which the city shows, you know yourselves; for she has made provision by law concerning the parents and children of those who die in war; the highest authority is specially entrusted with the 249duty of watching over them above all other citizens, and they will see that your fathers and mothers have no wrong done to them. The city herself shares in the education of the children, desiring as far as it is possible that their orphanhood may not be felt by them; while they are children she is a parent to them, and when they have arrived at man’s estate she sends them to their several duties, in full armour clad; and bringing freshly to their minds the ways of their fathers, she places in their hands the instruments of their fathers’ virtues; for the sake of the omen, she would have them from the first begin to rule over their own houses arrayed in the strength and arms of their fathers. And as for the dead, she never ceases honouring them, celebrating in common for all rites which become the property of each; and in addition to this, holding gymnastic and equestrian contests, and musical festivals of every sort. She is to the dead in the place of a son and heir, and to their sons in the place of a father, and to their parents and elder kindred in the place of a guardian—ever and always caring for them. Considering this, you ought to bear your calamity the more gently; for thus you will be most endeared to the dead and to the living, and your sorrows will heal and be healed. And now do you and all, having lamented the dead in common according to the law, go your ways.
You have heard, Menexenus, the oration of Aspasia the Milesian.
Men.
This speech, Socrates, was not composed by Aspasia, but by yourself.
Truly, Socrates, I marvel that Aspasia, who is only a woman, should be able to compose such a speech; she must be a rare one.
Soc.
Well, if you are incredulous, you may come with me and hear her.
Men.
I have often met Aspasia, Socrates, and know what she is like.
Soc.
Well, and do you not admire her, and are you not grateful for her speech?
Men.
Yes, Socrates, I am very grateful to her or to him who told you, and still more to you who have told me.
Soc.
Very good. But you must take care not to tell of me, and then at some future time I will repeat to you many other excellent political speeches of hers.
Men.
Fear not; only let me hear them, and I will keep the secret.
Soc.
Then I will keep my promise.
APPENDIX II. ALCIBIADES II. ERYXIAS.
Appendix II.
The two dialogues which are translated in the second appendix are not mentioned by Aristotle, or by any early authority, and have no claim to be ascribed to Plato. They are examples of Platonic dialogues to be assigned probably to the second or third generation after Plato, when his writings were well known at Athens and Alexandria. They exhibit considerable originality, and are remarkable for containing several thoughts of the sort which we suppose to be modern rather than ancient, and which therefore have a peculiar interest for us. The Second Alcibiades shows that the difficulties about prayer which have perplexed Christian theologians were not unknown among the followers of Plato. The Eryxias was doubted by the ancients themselves: yet it may claim the distinction of being, among all Greek or Roman writings, the one which anticipates in the most striking manner the modern science of political economy and gives an abstract form to some of its principal doctrines.
For the translation of these two dialogues I am indebted to my friend and secretary, Mr. Knight.
That the Dialogue which goes by the name of the Second Alcibiades is a genuine writing of Plato will not be maintained by any modern critic, and was hardly believed by the ancients themselves. The dialectic is poor and weak. There is no power over language, or beauty of style; and there is a certain abruptness and ἀγροικία in the conversation, which is very un-Platonic. The best passage is probably that about the poets, p. 147:—the remark that the poet, who is of a reserved disposition, is uncommonly difficult to understand, and the ridiculous interpretation of Homer, are entirely in the spirit of Plato (cp. Protag. 339 foll.; Ion 534; Apol. 22 D). The characters are ill-drawn. Socrates assumes the ‘superior person’ and preaches too much, while Alcibiades is stupid and heavy-in-hand. There are traces of Stoic influence in the general tone and phraseology of the Dialogue (cp. 138 B, ὅπως μὴ λήσει τις . . . κακά: 139 C, ὅτι πα̂ς ἄϕρων μαίνεται): and the writer seems to have been acquainted with the ‘Laws’ of Plato (cp. Laws 3. 687, 688; 7. 801; 11. 931 B). An incident from the Symposium (213 E) is rather clumsily introduced (151 A), and two somewhat hackneyed quotations (Symp. 174 D, Gorg. 484 E) recur at 140 A and 146 A. The reference to the death of Archelaus as having occurred ‘quite lately’ (141 D) is only a fiction, probably suggested by the Gorgias, 470 D, where the story of Archelaus is told, and a similar phrase occurs,—τὰ γὰρ ἐχθὲς καὶ πρώην γεγονότα ταν̂τα, κ.τ.λ. There are several passages which are either corrupt or extremely ill-expressed (see pp. 144, 145, 146, 147, 150). But there is a modern interest in the subject of the dialogue; and it is a good example of a short spurious work, which may be attributed to the second or third century before Christ.
ALCIBIADES II.
INTRODUCTION
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE.
Socrates and Alcibiades.
Soc.
Alcibiades II.
138Are you going, Alcibiades, to offer prayer to Zeus?
Al.
Yes, Socrates, I am.
Soc.
Socrates, Alcibiades.
You seem to be troubled and to cast your eyes on the ground, as though you were thinking about something.
Al.
Of what do you suppose that I am thinking?
Soc.
Of the greatest of all things, as I believe. Tell me, do you not suppose that the Gods sometimes partly grant and partly reject the requests which we make in public and private, and favour some persons and not others?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
The danger of a prayer which is ill-advised.
Do you not imagine, then, that a man ought to be very careful, lest perchance without knowing it he implore great evils for himself, deeming that he is asking for good, especially if the Gods are in the mood to grant whatever he may request? There is the story of Oedipus, for instance, who prayed that his children might divide their inheritance between them by the sword: he did not, as he might have done, beg that his present evils might be averted, but called down new ones. And was not his prayer accomplished, and did not many and terrible evils thence arise, upon which I need not dilate?
Al.
Yes, Socrates, but you are speaking of a madman: surely you do not think that any one in his senses would venture to make such a prayer?
Soc.
Madness, then, you consider to be the opposite of discretion?
Al.
Of course.
Soc.
And some men seem to you to be discreet, and others the contrary?
Al.
They do.
Soc.
Well, then, let us discuss who these are. We acknowledge that some are discreet, some foolish, and that some are mad?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And again, there are some who are in health?
Al.
There are.
Soc.
While others are ailing?
Al.
Yes. 139
Soc.
And they are not the same?
Al.
Certainly not.
Soc.
Nor are there any who are in neither state?
Al.
No.
Soc.
A man must either be sick or be well?
Al.
That is my opinion.
Soc.
Alcibiades first desires and afterwards admits that differences of kind do not exclude differences of degree.
Very good: and do you think the same about discretion and want of discretion?
Al.
How do you mean?
Soc.
Do you believe that a man must be either in or out of his senses; or is there some third or intermediate condition, in which he is neither one nor the other?
Al.
Decidedly not.
Soc.
He must be either sane or insane?
Al.
So I suppose.
Soc.
Did you not acknowledge that madness was the opposite of discretion?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And that there is no third or middle term between discretion and indiscretion?
Al.
True.
Soc.
And there cannot be two opposites to one thing?
Al.
There cannot.
Soc.
Then madness and want of sense are the same?
Al.
That appears to be the case.
Soc.
We shall be in the right, therefore, Alcibiades, if we say that all who are senseless are mad. For example, if among persons of your own age or older than yourself there are some who are senseless,—as there certainly are,—they are mad. For tell me, by heaven, do you not think that in the city the wise are few, while the foolish, whom you call mad, are many?
Al.
I do.
Soc.
But how could we live in safety with so many crazy people? Should we not long since have paid the penalty at their hands, and have been struck and beaten and endured every other form of ill-usage which madmen are wont to inflict? Consider, my dear friend: may it not be quite otherwise?
Al.
Why, Socrates, how is that possible? I must have been mistaken.
Soc.
So it seems to me. But perhaps we may consider the matter thus:—
Al.
How?
Soc.
I will tell you. We think that some are sick; do we not?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
The sick may have many kinds of sickness; so there are different kinds of want of sense.
And must every sick person either have the gout, or be in a fever, or suffer from ophthalmia? Or do you believe that a man may labour under some other disease, even although he has none of these complaints? Surely, they are not the only maladies which exist?
Al.
Certainly not.
Soc.
And is every kind of ophthalmia a disease?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And every disease ophthalmia?
Al.
Surely not. But I scarcely understand what I mean myself.
Soc.
140Perhaps, if you give me your best attention, ‘two of us’ looking together, we may find what we seek.
Al.
I am attending, Socrates, to the best of my power.
Soc.
We are agreed, then, that every form of ophthalmia is a disease, but not every disease ophthalmia?
Al.
We are.
Soc.
And so far we seem to be right. For every one who suffers from a fever is sick; but the sick, I conceive, do not all have fever or gout or ophthalmia, although each of these is a disease, which, according to those whom we call physicians, may require a different treatment. They are not all alike, nor do they produce the same result, but each has its own effect, and yet they are all diseases. May we not take an illustration from the artizans?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
There are cobblers and carpenters and sculptors and others of all sorts and kinds, whom we need not stop to enumerate. All have their distinct employments and all are workmen, although they are not all of them cobblers or carpenters or sculptors.
Al.
No, indeed.
Soc.
And in like manner men differ in regard to want of sense. Those who are most out of their wits we call ‘madmen,’ while we term those who are less far gone ‘stupid’ or ‘idiotic,’ or, if we prefer gentler language, describe them as ‘romantic’ or ‘simple-minded,’ or, again, as ‘innocent’ or ‘inexperienced’ or ‘foolish.’ You may even find other names, if you seek for them; but by all of them lack of sense is intended. They only differ as one art appeared to us to differ from another or one disease from another. Or what is your opinion?
Al.
I agree with you.
Soc.
Then let us return to the point at which we digressed. We said at first that we should have to consider who were the wise and who the foolish. For we acknowledged that there are these two classes? Did we not?
Al.
To be sure.
Soc.
And you regard those as sensible who know what ought to be done or said?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
The senseless are those who do not know this?
Al.
True.
Soc.
The latter will say or do what they ought not without their own knowledge?
Al.
Exactly.
Soc.
Men often, like Oedipus, pray unadvisedly.
Oedipus, as I was saying, Alcibiades, was a person of 141this sort. And even now-a-days you will find many who [have offered inauspicious prayers], although, unlike him, they were not in anger nor thought that they were asking evil. He neither sought, nor supposed that he sought for good, but others have had quite the contrary notion. I believe that if the God whom you are about to consult should appear to you, and, in anticipation of your request, enquired whether you would be contented to become tyrant of Athens, and if this seemed in your eyes a small and mean thing, should add to it the dominion of all Hellas; and seeing that even then you would not be satisfied unless you were ruler of the whole of Europe, should promise, not only that, but, if you so desired, should proclaim to all mankind in one and the same day that Alcibiades, son of Cleinias, was tyrant:—in such a case, I imagine, you would depart full of joy, as one who had obtained the greatest of goods.
Al.
And not only I, Socrates, but any one else who should meet with such luck.
Soc.
Yet you would not accept the dominion and lordship of all the Hellenes and all the barbarians in exchange for your life?
Al.
Certainly not: for then what use could I make of them?
Soc.
And would you accept them if you were likely to use them to a bad and mischievous end?
Al.
I would not.
Soc.
Archelaus and his beloved.Men never refuse the goods of fortune, however great the evils which may attend them.
You see that it is not safe for a man either rashly to accept whatever is offered him, or himself to request a thing, if he is likely to suffer thereby or immediately to lose his life. And yet we could tell of many who, having long desired and diligently laboured to obtain a tyranny, thinking that thus they would procure an advantage, have nevertheless fallen victims to designing enemies. You must have heard of what happened only the other day, how Archelaus of Macedonia was slain by his beloved1 , whose love for the tyranny was not less than that of Archelaus for him. The tyrannicide expected by his crime to become tyrant and afterwards to have a happy life; but when he had held the tyranny three or four days, he was in his turn conspired against and slain. Or look at certain of our own citizens,—and of their actions we have been not hearers, but eyewitnesses,—who have desired to obtain military command: of 142those who have gained their object, some are even to this day exiles from the city, while others have lost their lives. And even they who seem to have fared best, have not only gone through many perils and terrors during their office, but after their return home they have been beset by informers worse than they once were by their foes, insomuch that several of them have wished that they had remained in a private station rather than have had the glories of command. If, indeed, such perils and terrors were of profit to the commonwealth, there would be reason in undergoing them; but the very contrary is the case. Again, you will find persons who have prayed for offspring, and when their prayers were heard, have fallen into the greatest pains and sufferings. For some have begotten children who were utterly bad, and have therefore passed all their days in misery, while the parents of good children have undergone the misfortune of losing them, and have been so little happier than the others that they would have preferred never to have had children rather than to have had them and lost them. And yet, although these and the like examples are manifest and known of all, it is rare to find any one who has refused what has been offered him, or, if he were likely to gain aught by prayer, has refrained from making his petition. The mass of mankind would not decline to accept a tyranny, or the command of an army, or any of the numerous things which cause more harm than good: but rather, if they had them not, would have prayed to obtain them. And often in a short space of time they change their tone, and wish their old prayers unsaid. Wherefore also I suspect that men are entirely wrong when they blame the gods as the authors of the ills which befall them1 : ‘their own presumption,’ or folly (whichever is the right word)—
‘Has brought these unmeasured woes upon them2 .’
He must have been a wise poet, Alcibiades, who, seeing as I believe, his friends foolishly praying for and doing things which would not really profit them, offered up a common prayer in behalf of them all:—
- ‘King Zeus, grant us good whether prayed for or unsought by us; 143
- But that which we ask amiss, do thou avert3 .’
In my opinion, I say, the poet spoke both well and prudently; but if you have anything to say in answer to him, speak out.
Al.
It is difficult, Socrates, to oppose what has been well said. And I perceive how many are the ills of which ignorance is the cause, since, as would appear, through ignorance we not only do, but what is worse, pray for the greatest evils. No man would imagine that he would do so; he would rather suppose that he was quite capable of praying for what was best: to call down evil seems more like a curse than a prayer.
Soc.
But perhaps, my good friend, some one who is wiser than either you or I will say that we have no right to blame ignorance thus rashly, unless we can add what ignorance we mean and of what, and also to whom and how it is respectively a good or an evil?
Al.
How do you mean? Can ignorance possibly be better than knowledge for any person in any conceivable case?
Soc.
So I believe:—you do not think so?
Al.
Certainly not.
Soc.
Orestes and Alcmaeon.
And yet surely I may not suppose that you would ever wish to act towards your mother as they say that Orestes and Alcmaeon and others have done towards their parent.
Al.
Good words, Socrates, prithee.
Soc.
Ignorance of the best is bad: ignorance of the bad good.
You ought not to bid him use auspicious words, who says that you would not be willing to commit so horrible a deed, but rather him who affirms the contrary, if the act appear to you unfit even to be mentioned. Or do you think that Orestes, had he been in his senses and knew what was best for him to do, would ever have dared to venture on such a crime?
Al.
Certainly not.
Soc.
Nor would any one else, I fancy?
Al.
No.
Soc.
That ignorance is bad then, it would appear, which is of the best and does not know what is best?
Al.
So I think, at least.
Soc.
And both to the person who is ignorant and everybody else?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
Let us take another case. Suppose that you were suddenly to get into your head that it would be a good thing 144to kill Pericles, your kinsman and guardian, and were to seize a sword and, going to the doors of his house, were to enquire if he were at home, meaning to slay only him and no one else:—the servants reply, ‘Yes’: (Mind, I do not mean that you would really do such a thing; but there is nothing, you think, to prevent a man who is ignorant of the best, having occasionally the whim that what is worst is best?
Al.
No.)
Soc.
A man might be prevented from committing murder by ignorance of the person whom he was going to murder.
—If, then, you went indoors, and seeing him, did not know him, but thought that he was some one else, would you venture to slay him?
Al.
Most decidedly not 1 [it seems to me]1 .
Soc.
For you designed to kill, not the first who offered, but Pericles himself?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
And if you made many attempts, and each time failed to recognize Pericles, you would never attack him?
Al.
Never.
Soc.
Well, but if Orestes in like manner had not known his mother, do you think that he would ever have laid hands upon her?
Al.
No.
Soc.
He did not intend to slay the first woman he came across, nor any one else’s mother, but only his own?
Al.
True.
Soc.
Ignorance, then, is better for those who are in such a frame of mind, and have such ideas?
Al.
Obviously.
Soc.
You acknowledge that for some persons in certain cases the ignorance of some things is a good and not an evil, as you formerly supposed?
Al.
I do.
Soc.
2 And there is still another case which will also perhaps appear strange to you, if you will consider it?2
Al.
What is that, Socrates?
Soc.
All knowledge if unaccompanied by a knowledge of the best is hurtful.
It may be, in short, that the possession of all the sciences, if unaccompanied by the knowledge of the best, will more often than not injure the possessor. Consider the matter thus:—Must we not, when we intend either to do or say anything, suppose that we know or ought to know that which we propose so confidently to do or say?
Al.
Yes, in my opinion.
Soc.
We may take the orators for an example, who from 145time to time advise us about war and peace, or the building of walls and the construction of harbours, whether they understand the business in hand, or only think that they do. Whatever the city, in a word, does to another city, or in the management of her own affairs, all happens by the counsel of the orators.
Al.
True.
Soc.
But now see what follows, if I can 1 [make it clear to you]1 . You would distinguish the wise from the foolish?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
The many are foolish, the few wise?
Al.
Certainly.
Soc.
And you use both the terms, ‘wise’ and ‘foolish,’ in reference to something?
Al.
I do.
Soc.
Examples.
Would you call a person wise who can give advice, but does not know whether or when it is better to carry out the advice?
Al.
Decidedly not.
Soc.
Nor again, I suppose, a person who knows the art of war, but does not know whether it is better to go to war or for how long?
Al.
No.
Soc.
Nor, once more, a person who knows how to kill another or to take away his property or to drive him from his native land, but not when it is better to do so or for whom it is better?
Al.
Certainly not.
Soc.
But he who understands anything of the kind and has at the same time the knowledge of the best course of action:—and the best and the useful are surely the same?—
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
—Such an one, I say, we should call wise and a useful adviser both of himself and of the city. What do you think?
Al.
I agree.
Soc.
And if any one knows how to ride or to shoot with the bow or to box or to wrestle, or to engage in any other sort of contest or to do anything whatever which is in the nature of an art,—what do you call him who knows what is best according to that art? Do you not speak of one who knows what is best in riding as a good rider?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And in a similar way you speak of a good boxer or a good flute-player or a good performer in any other art?
Al.
True.
Soc.
But is it necessary that the man who is clever in any of these arts should be wise also in general? Or is there a difference between the clever artist and the wise man?
Al.
All the difference in the world.
Soc.
A state would be bad which was composed only of skilful artists and clever politicians, but where no one had the knowledge of the best.
And what sort of a state do you think that would be which was composed of good archers and flute-players and athletes and masters in other arts, and besides them of those others about whom we spoke, who knew how to go to war and how to kill, as well as of orators puffed up with political pride, but in which not one of them all had this knowledge of the best, and there was no one who could tell when it was better to apply any of these arts or in regard to 146whom?
Al.
I should call such a state bad, Socrates.
Soc.
You certainly would when you saw each of them rivalling the other and esteeming that of the greatest importance in the state,
‘Wherein he himself most excelled1 .’
—I mean that which was best in any art, while he was entirely ignorant of what was best for himself and for the state, because, as I think, he trusts to opinion which is devoid of intelligence. In such a case should we not be right if we said that the state would be full of anarchy and lawlessness?
Al.
Decidedly.
Soc.
But ought we not then, think you, either to fancy that we know or really to know, what we confidently propose to do or say?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
And if a person does that which he knows or supposes that he knows, and the result is beneficial, he will act advantageously both for himself and for the state?
Al.
True.
Soc.
And if he do the contrary, both he and the state will suffer?
Al.
Yes.
Soc.
Well, and are you of the same mind, as before?
Al.
I am.
Soc.
But were you not saying that you would call the many unwise and the few wise?
Al.
I was.
Soc.
And have we not come back to our old assertion that the many fail to obtain the best because they trust to opinion which is devoid of intelligence?
Al.
That is the case.
Soc.
It is good, then, for the many, if they particularly desire to do that which they know or suppose that they know, neither to know nor to suppose that they know, in cases where if they carry out their ideas in action they will be losers rather than gainers?
Al.
What you say is very true.
Soc.
Do you not see that I was really speaking the truth when I affirmed that the possession of any other kind of knowledge was more likely to injure than to benefit the possessor, unless he had also the knowledge of the best?
Al.
I do now, if I did not before, Socrates.
Soc.
The soul requires this knowledge of the best before she sets sail on the voyage of life.
The state or the soul, therefore, which wishes to have a right existence must hold firmly to this knowledge, just as the sick man clings to the physician, or the passenger 147depends for safety on the pilot. And if the soul does not set sail until she have obtained this she will be all the safer in the voyage through life. But when she rushes in pursuit of wealth or bodily strength or anything else, not having the knowledge of the best, so much the more is she likely to meet with misfortune. And he who has the love of learning1 , and is skilful in many arts, and does not possess the knowledge of the best, but is under some other guidance, will make, as he deserves, a sorry voyage:—he will, I believe, hurry through the brief space of human life, pilotless in mid-ocean, and the words will apply to him in which the poet blamed his enemy:—
- ‘ . . . . . Full many a thing he knew;
- But knew them all badly2 .’
Al.
How in the world, Socrates, do the words of the poet apply to him? They seem to me to have no bearing on the point whatever.
Soc.
The poets spoke in riddles a hidden truth.
Quite the contrary, my sweet friend: only the poet is talking in riddles after the fashion of his tribe. For all poetry has by nature an enigmatical character, and it is by no means everybody who can interpret it. And if, moreover, the spirit of poetry happen to seize on a man who is of a begrudging temper and does not care to manifest his wisdom but keeps it to himself as far as he can, it does indeed require an almost superhuman wisdom to discover what the poet would be at. You surely do not suppose that Homer, the wisest and most divine of poets, was unaware of the impossibility of knowing a thing badly: for it was no less a person than he who said of Margites that ‘he knew many things, but knew them all badly.’ The solution of the riddle is this, I imagine:—By ‘badly’ Homer meant ‘bad’ and ‘knew’ stands for ‘to know.’ Put the words together;—the metre will suffer, but the poet’s meaning is clear;—‘Margites knew all these things, but it was bad for him to know so many things, he must have been a good-for-nothing, unless the argument has played us false.
Al.
But I do not think that it has, Socrates: at least, if the argument is fallacious, it would be difficult for me to find another which I could trust.
Soc.
And you are right in thinking so.
Al.
Well, that is my opinion.
Soc.
Alcibiades is too unstable to be able to trust his own prayers.
But tell me, by Heaven:—you must see now the nature and greatness of the difficulty in which you, like others, have your part. For you change about in all directions, and never come to rest anywhere: what you once most strongly inclined to suppose, you put aside again and 148quite alter your mind. If the God to whose shrine you are going should appear at this moment, and ask before you made your prayer, ‘Whether you would desire to have one of the things which we mentioned at first, or whether he should leave you to make your own request:’—what in either case, think you, would be the best way to take advantage of the opportunity?
Al.
Indeed, Socrates, I could not answer you without consideration. It seems to me to be a wild thing1 to make such a request; a man must be very careful lest he pray for evil under the idea that he is asking for good, when shortly after he may have to recall his prayer, and, as you were saying, demand the opposite of what he at first requested.
Soc.
And was not the poet whose words I originally quoted wiser than we are, when he bade us [pray God] to defend us from evil even though we asked for it?
Al.
I believe that you are right.
Soc.
The Lacedaemonians, too, whether from admiration of the poet or because they have discovered the idea for themselves, are wont to offer the prayer alike in public and private, that the Gods will give unto them the beautiful as well as the good:—no one is likely to hear them make any further petition. And yet up to the present time they have not been less fortunate than other men; or if they have sometimes met with misfortune, the fault has not been due to their prayer. For surely, as I conceive, the Gods have power either to grant our requests, or to send us the contrary of what we ask.
Socrates.The silent prayer of the Lacedaemonians better than all the offerings of the other Hellenes.
And now I will relate to you a story which I have heard from certain of our elders. It chanced that when the Athenians and Lacedaemonians were at war, our city lost every battle by land and sea and never gained a victory. The Athenians being annoyed and perplexed how to find a remedy for their troubles, decided to send and enquire at the shrine of Ammon. Their envoys were also to ask, ‘Why the Gods always granted the victory to the Lacedaemonians?’ ‘We,’ (they were to say,) ‘offer them more and finer sacrifices than any other Hellenic state, and adorn their temples with gifts, as nobody else does; moreover, we make the most solemn and costly processions to them every year, and spend more money in their service than all the rest of the Hellenes put together. But the Lacedaemonians 149take no thought of such matters, and pay so little respect to the Gods that they have a habit of sacrificing blemished animals to them, and in various ways are less zealous than we are, although their wealth is quite equal to ours.’ When they had thus spoken, and had made their request to know what remedy they could find against the evils which troubled them, the prophet made no direct answer,—clearly because he was not allowed by the God to do so;—but he summoned them to him and said: ‘Thus saith Ammon to the Athenians: “The silent worship of the Lacedaemonians pleaseth me better than all the offerings of the other Hellenes.” ’ Such were the words of the God, and nothing more. He seems to have meant by ‘silent worship’ the prayer of the Lacedaemonians, which is indeed widely different from the usual requests of the Hellenes. For they either bring to the altar bulls with gilded horns or make offerings to the Gods, and beg at random for what they need, good or bad. When, therefore, the Gods hear them using words of ill omen they reject these costly processions and sacrifices of theirs. And we ought, I think, to be very careful and consider well what we should say and what leave unsaid. Homer, too, will furnish us with similar stories. For he tells us how the Trojans in making their encampment,
‘Offered up whole hecatombs to the immortals,’
Socrates, Alcibiades.
and how the ‘sweet savour’ was borne ‘to the heavens by the winds;
- ‘But the blessed Gods were averse and received it not.
- For exceedingly did they hate the holy Ilium,
- Both Priam and the people of the spear-skilled king.’
So that it was in vain for them to sacrifice and offer gifts, seeing that they were hateful to the Gods, who are not, like vile usurers, to be gained over by bribes. And it is foolish for us to boast that we are superior to the Lacedaemonians by reason of our much worship. The idea is inconceivable 150that the Gods have regard, not to the justice and purity of our souls, but to costly processions and sacrifices, which men may celebrate year after year, although they have committed innumerable crimes against the Gods or against their fellowmen or the state. For the Gods, as Ammon and his prophet declare, are no receivers of gifts, and they scorn such unworthy service. Wherefore also it would seem that wisdom and justice are especially honoured both by the Gods and by men of sense; and they are the wisest and most just who know how to speak and act towards Gods and men. But I should like to hear what your opinion is about these matters.
Al.
I agree, Socrates, with you and with the God, whom, indeed, it would be unbecoming for me to oppose.
Soc.
Do you not remember saying that you were in great perplexity, lest perchance you should ask for evil, supposing that you were asking for good?
Al.
I do.
Soc.
Alcibiades cannot tell whether he is asking for good or evil. ‘Therefore let his words be few.’
You see, then, that there is a risk in your approaching the God in prayer, lest haply he should refuse your sacrifice when he hears the blasphemy which you utter, and make you partake of other evils as well. The wisest plan, therefore, seems to me that you should keep silence; for your ‘highmindedness’—to use the mildest term which men apply to folly—will most likely prevent you from using the prayer of the Lacedaemonians. You had better wait until we find out how we should behave towards the Gods and towards men.
Al.
And how long must I wait, Socrates, and who will be my teacher? I should be very glad to see the man.
Soc.
It is he who takes an especial interest in you. But first of all, I think, the darkness must be taken away in which your soul is now enveloped, just as Athene in Homer removes the mist from the eyes of Diomede that
‘He may distinguish between God and mortal man.’
Afterwards the means may be given to you whereby you may distinguish between good and evil. At present, I fear, this is beyond your power.
Al.
Only let my instructor take away the impediment, whether it pleases him to call it mist or anything else! I care not who he is; but I am resolved to disobey none of his commands, if I am likely to be the better for them.
Soc.
And surely he has a wondrous care for you. 151
Al.
It seems to be altogether advisable to put off the sacrifice until he is found.
Soc.
You are right: that will be safer than running such a tremendous risk.
Al.
But how shall we manage, Socrates?—At any rate I will set this crown of mine upon your head, as you have given me such excellent advice, and to the Gods we will offer crowns and perform the other customary rites when I see that day approaching: nor will it be long hence, if they so will.
Soc.
I accept your gift, and shall be ready and willing to receive whatever else you may proffer. Euripides makes Creon say in the play, when he beholds Teiresias with his crown and hears that he has gained it by his skill as the first-fruits of the spoil:—
- ‘An auspicious omen I deem thy victor’s wreath:
- For well thou knowest that wave and storm oppress us.’
And so I count your gift to be a token of good-fortune; for I am in no less stress than Creon, and would fain carry off the victory over your lovers.
ERYXIAS.
INTRODUCTION.
Eryxias.Introduction.
Much cannot be said in praise of the style or conception of the Eryxias. It is frequently obscure; like the exercise of a student, it is full of small imitations of Plato:—Phaeax returning from an expedition to Sicily (cp. Socrates in the Charmides from the army at Potidaea), the figure of the game at draughts, 395 B, borrowed from Rep. vi. 487, etc. It has also in many passages the ring of sophistry. On the other hand, the rather unhandsome treatment which is exhibited towards Prodicus is quite unlike the urbanity of Plato.
Yet there are some points in the argument which are deserving of attention. (1) That wealth depends upon the need of it or demand for it, is the first anticipation in an abstract form of one of the great principles of modern political economy, and the nearest approach to it to be found in an ancient writer. (2) The resolution of wealth into its simplest implements going on to infinity is a subtle and refined thought. (3) That wealth is relative to circumstances is a sound conception. (4) That the arts and sciences which receive payment are likewise to be comprehended under the notion of wealth, also touches a question of modern political economy. (5) The distinction of post hoc and propter hoc, often lost sight of in modern as well as in ancient times. These metaphysical conceptions and distinctions show considerable power of thought in the writer, whatever we may think of his merits as an imitator of Plato.
ERYXIAS.
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE.
Socrates.
Eryxias.
Erasistratus.
Critias.
Scene:—The portico of a temple of Zeus.
Eryxias.Socrates, Erasistratus.
392It happened by chance that Eryxias the Steirian was walking with me in the Portico of Zeus the Deliverer, when there came up to us Critias and Erasistratus, the latter the son of Phaeax, who was the nephew of Erasistratus. Now Erasistratus had just arrived from Sicily and that part of the world. As they approached, he said, Hail, Socrates!
Soc.
The same to you, I said; have you any good news from Sicily to tell us?
Eras.
Most excellent. But if you please, let us first sit down; for I am tired with my yesterday’s journey from Megara.
Soc.
Gladly, if that is your desire.
Eras.
The troublesome Sicilians.Socrates, Erasistratus.
What would you wish to hear first? he said. What the Sicilians are doing, or how they are disposed towards our city? To my mind, they are very like wasps: so long as you only cause them a little annoyance they are quite unmanageable; you must destroy their nests if you wish to get the better of them. And in a similar way, the Syracusans, unless we set to work in earnest, and go against them with a great expedition, will never submit to our rule. The petty injuries which we at present inflict merely irritate them enough to make them utterly intractable. And now they have sent ambassadors to Athens, and intend, I suspect, to play us some trick.—While we were talking, the Syracusan envoys chanced to go by, and Erasistratus, pointing to one of them, said to me, That, Socrates, is the richest man in all Italy and Sicily. For who has larger estates or more land at his disposal to cultivate if he please? And they are of a quality, too, finer than any other land in Hellas. Moreover, he has all the things which go to make up wealth, slaves and horses innumerable, gold and silver without end.
I saw that he was inclined to expatiate on the riches of the man; so I asked him, Well, Erasistratus, and what sort of character does he bear in Sicily?
Eras.
The wicked millionaire.
He is esteemed to be, and really is, the wickedest of 393all the Sicilians and Italians, and even more wicked than he is rich; indeed, if you were to ask any Sicilian whom he thought to be the worst and the richest of mankind, you would never hear any one else named.
I reflected that we were speaking, not of trivial matters, but about wealth and virtue, which are deemed to be of the greatest moment, and I asked Erasistratus whom he considered the wealthier,—he who was the possessor of a talent of silver or he who had a field worth two talents?
Eras.
The owner of the field.
Soc.
And on the same principle he who had robes and bedding and such things which are of greater value to him than to a stranger would be richer than the stranger?
Eras.
True.
Soc.
And if any one gave you a choice, which of these would you prefer?
Eras.
That which was most valuable.
Soc.
Wealth consists of things which are valuable.
In which way do you think you would be the richer?
Eras.
By choosing as I said.
Soc.
And he appears to you to be the richest who has goods of the greatest value?
Eras.
He does.
Soc.
Socrates, Erasistratus, Eryxias.
And are not the healthy richer than the sick, since health is a possession more valuable than riches to the sick? Surely there is no one who would not prefer to be poor and well, rather than to have all the King of Persia’s wealth and to be ill. And this proves that men set health above wealth, else they would never choose the one in preference to the other.
Eras.
True.
Soc.
And if anything appeared to be more valuable than health, he would be the richest who possessed it?
Eras.
He would.
Soc.
Suppose that some one came to us at this moment and were to ask, Well, Socrates and Eryxias and Erasistratus, can you tell me what is of the greatest value to men? Is it not that of which the possession will best enable a man to advise how his own and his friends’ affairs should be administered?—What will be our reply?
Eras.
I should say, Socrates, that happiness was the most precious of human possessions.
Soc.
Not a bad answer. But do we not deem those men who are most prosperous to be the happiest?
Eras.
That is my opinion.
Soc.
And are they not most prosperous who commit the fewest errors in respect either of themselves or of other men?
Eras.
Certainly.
Soc.
And they who know what is evil and what is good; what should be done and what should be left undone;—these 394behave the most wisely and make the fewest mistakes?
Erasistratus agreed to this.
Soc.
Then the wisest and those who do best and the most fortunate and the richest would appear to be all one and the same, if wisdom is really the most valuable of our possessions?
Of what use would wisdom be, if a man had not the necessaries of life?
Yes, said Eryxias, interposing, but what use would it be if a man had the wisdom of Nestor and wanted the necessaries of life, food and drink and clothes and the like? Where would be the advantage of wisdom then? Or how could he be the richest of men who might even have to go begging, because he had not wherewithal to live?
Socrates, Eryxias.
I thought that what Eryxias was saying had some weight, and I replied, Would the wise man really suffer in this way, if he were so ill-provided; whereas if he had the house of Polytion, and the house were full of gold and silver, he would lack nothing?
Eryx.
Yes; for then he might dispose of his property and obtain in exchange what he needed, or he might sell it for money with which he could supply his wants and in a moment procure abundance of everything.
Soc.
The wisdom of Nestor better and even more saleable than the house of Polytion.And in the arts is not wisdom better than riches?
True, if he could find some one who preferred such a house to the wisdom of Nestor. But if there are persons who set great store by wisdom like Nestor’s and the advantages accruing from it, to sell these, if he were so disposed, would be easier still. Or is a house a most useful and necessary possession, and does it make a great difference in the comfort of life to have a mansion like Polytion’s instead of living in a shabby little cottage, whereas wisdom is of small use and it is of no importance whether a man is wise or ignorant about the highest matters? Or is wisdom despised of men and can find no buyers, although cypress wood and marble of Pentelicus are eagerly bought by numerous purchasers? Surely the prudent pilot or the skilful physician, or the artist of any kind who is proficient in his art, is more worth than the things which are especially reckoned among riches; and he who can advise well and prudently for himself and others is able also to sell the product of his art, if he so desire.
Eryxias looked askance, as if he had received some unfair 395treatment, and said, I believe, Socrates, that if you were forced to speak the truth, you would declare that you were richer than Callias the son of Hipponicus. And yet, although you claimed to be wiser about things of real importance, you would not any the more be richer than he.
Eryxias is supposed to reply that arguments can prove anything and convince no one.Socrates, Eryxias, Critias.
I dare say, Eryxias, I said, that you may regard these arguments of ours as a kind of game; you think that they have no relation to facts, but are like the pieces in the game of draughts which the player can move in such a way that his opponents are unable to make any countermove1 . And perhaps, too, as regards riches you are of opinion that while facts remain the same, there are arguments, no matter whether true or false, which enable the user of them to prove that the wisest and the richest are one and the same, although he is in the wrong and his opponents are in the right. There would be nothing strange in this; it would be as if two persons were to dispute about letters, one declaring that the word Socrates began with an S, the other that it began with an A, and the latter could gain the victory over the former.
Eryxias disclaims the answer which is attributed to him.
Eryxias glanced at the audience, laughing and blushing at once, as if he had had nothing to do with what had just been said, and replied,—No, indeed, Socrates, I never supposed that our arguments should be of a kind which would never convince any one of those here present or be of advantage to them. For what man of sense could ever be persuaded that the wisest and the richest are the same? The truth is that we are discussing the subject of riches, and my notion is that we should argue respecting the honest and dishonest means of acquiring them, and, generally, whether they are a good thing or a bad.
The argument is renewed from a fresh point of view. Eryxias declares riches to be a good; Critias maintains that they are sometimes an evil.
Very good, I said, and I am obliged to you for the hint: in future we will be more careful. But why do not you yourself, as you introduced the argument, and do not think that the former discussion touched the point at issue, tell us whether you consider riches to be a good or an evil?
I am of opinion, he said, that they are a good. He was about to add something more, when Critias interrupted him:—Do you really suppose so, Eryxias?
Certainly, replied Eryxias; I should be mad if I did not: and I do not fancy that you would find any one else of a contrary opinion.
And I, retorted Critias, should say that there is no one whom I could not compel to admit that riches are bad for 396some men. But surely, if they were a good, they could not appear bad for any one?
Socrates encourages the two disputants to follow up the argument.
Here I interposed and said to them: If you two were having an argument about equitation and what was the best way of riding, supposing that I knew the art myself, I should try to bring you to an agreement. For I should be ashamed if I were present and did not do what I could to prevent your difference. And I should do the same if you were quarrelling about any other art and were likely, unless you agreed on the point in dispute, to part as enemies instead of as friends. But now, when we are contending about a thing of which the usefulness continues during the whole of life, and it makes an enormous difference whether we are to regard it as beneficial or not,—a thing, too, which is esteemed of the highest importance by the Hellenes:—(for parents, as soon as their children are, as they think, come to years of discretion, urge them to consider how wealth may be acquired, since by riches the value of a man is judged):—When, I say, we are thus in earnest, and you, who agree in other respects, fall to disputing about a matter of such moment, that is, about wealth, and not merely whether it is black or white, light or heavy, but whether it is a good or an evil, whereby, although you are now the dearest of friends and kinsmen, the most bitter hatred may arise betwixt you, I must hinder your dissension to the best of my power. If I could, I would tell you the truth, and so put an end to the dispute; but as I cannot do this, and each of you supposes that you can bring the other to an agreement, I am prepared, as far as my capacity admits, to help you in solving the question. Please, therefore, Critias, try to make us accept the doctrines which you yourself entertain.
Crit.
I should like to follow up the argument, and will ask Eryxias whether he thinks that there are just and unjust men?
Eryx.
Most decidedly.
Crit.
And does injustice seem to you an evil or a good?
Eryx.
An evil.
Crit.
Do you consider that he who bribes his neighbour’s wife and commits adultery with her, acts justly or unjustly, and this although both the state and the laws forbid?
Eryx.
Unjustly.
Crit.
Wealth may furnish the opportunity of crime.
And if the wicked man has wealth and is willing to 397spend it, he will carry out his evil purposes? whereas he who is short of means cannot do what he fain would, and therefore does not sin? In such a case, surely, it is better that a person should not be wealthy, if his poverty prevents the accomplishment of his desires, and his desires are evil? Or, again, should you call sickness a good or an evil?
Eryx.
An evil.
Crit.
Well, and do you think that some men are intemperate?
Eryx.
Yes.
Crit.
Socrates, Eryxias, Critias, Erasistratus.
Then, if it is better for his health that the intemperate man should refrain from meat and drink and other pleasant things, but he cannot owing to his intemperance, will it not also be better that he should be too poor to gratify his lust rather than that he should have a superabundance of means? For thus he will not be able to sin, although he desire never so much.
Eryxias takes offence at Critias, whose argument, as Socrates pretends, is only the repetition of one which had been used by Prodicus of Ceos on the day before,
Critias appeared to be arguing so admirably that Eryxias, if he had not been ashamed of the bystanders, would probably have got up and struck him. For he thought that he had been robbed of a great possession when it became obvious to him that he had been wrong in his former opinion about wealth. I observed his vexation, and feared that they would proceed to abuse and quarrelling: so I said,—I heard that very argument used in the Lyceum yesterday by a wise man, Prodicus of Ceos; but the audience thought that he was talking mere nonsense, and no one could be persuaded that he was speaking the truth. And when at last a certain talkative young gentleman came in, and, taking his seat, began to laugh and jeer at Prodicus, tormenting him and demanding an explanation of his argument, he gained the ear of the audience far more than Prodicus.
Can you repeat the discourse to us? said Erasistratus.
Soc.
If I can only remember it, I will. The youth began by asking Prodicus, In what way did he think that riches were a good and in what an evil? Prodicus answered, as you did just now, that they were a good to good men and to those who knew in what way they should be employed, while to the bad and the ignorant they were an evil. The same is true, he went on to say, of all other things; men make them to be what they are themselves. The saying of Archilochus is true:—
‘Men’s thoughts correspond to the things which they meet with.’
and had been refuted by an impertinent youth.Socrates.
398Well, then, replied the youth, if any one makes me wise in that wisdom whereby good men become wise, he must also make everything else good to me. Not that he concerns himself at all with these other things, but he has converted my ignorance into wisdom. If, for example, a person teach me grammar or music, he will at the same time teach me all that relates to grammar or music, and so when he makes me good, he makes things good to me.
Prodicus did not altogether agree: still he consented to what was said.
And do you think, said the youth, that doing good things is like building a house,—the work of human agency; or do things remain what they were at first, good or bad, for all time?
Prodicus began to suspect, I fancy, the direction which the argument was likely to take, and did not wish to be put down by a mere stripling before all those present:—(if they two had been alone, he would not have minded):—so he answered, cleverly enough: I think that doing good things is a work of human agency.
And is virtue in your opinion, Prodicus, innate or acquired by instruction?
The latter, said Prodicus.
Then you would consider him a simpleton who supposed that he could obtain by praying to the Gods the knowledge of grammar or music or any other art, which he must either learn from another or find out for himself?
Prodicus agreed to this also.
And when you pray to the Gods that you may do well and receive good, you mean by your prayer nothing else than that you desire to become good and wise:—if, at least, things are good to the good and wise and evil to the evil. But in that case, if virtue is acquired by instruction, it would appear that you only pray to be taught what you do not know.
Hereupon I said to Prodicus that it was no misfortune to him if he had been proved to be in error in supposing that the Gods immediately granted to us whatever we asked:—if, I added, whenever you go up to the Acropolis you earnestly entreat the Gods to grant you good things, although you know not whether they can yield your request, it is as though you went to the doors of the grammarian and begged him, although you had never made a study of the art, to give you a knowledge of grammar which would enable you forthwith to do the business of a grammarian.
Socrates, Erasistratus.Prodicus is desired to leave the gymnasium because he is disturbing the minds of youth.
While I was speaking, Prodicus was preparing to retaliate 399upon his youthful assailant, intending to employ the argument of which you have just made use; for he was annoyed to have it supposed that he offered a vain prayer to the Gods. But the master of the gymnasium came to him and begged him to leave because he was teaching the youths doctrines which were unsuited to them, and therefore bad for them.
I have told you this because I want you to understand how men are circumstanced in regard to philosophy. Had Prodicus been present and said what you have said, the audience would have thought him raving, and he would have been ejected from the gymnasium. But you have argued so excellently well that you have not only persuaded your hearers, but have brought your opponent to an agreement. For just as in the law courts, if two witnesses testify to the same fact, one of whom seems to be an honest fellow and the other a rogue, the testimony of the rogue often has the contrary effect on the judges’ minds to what he intended, while the same evidence if given by the honest man at once strikes them as perfectly true. And probably the audience have something of the same feeling about yourself and Prodicus; they think him a Sophist and a braggart, and regard you as a gentleman of courtesy and worth. For they do not pay attention to the argument so much as to the character of the speaker.
Socrates jesting professes to be in earnest.
But truly, Socrates, said Erasistratus, though you may be joking, Critias does seem to me to be saying something which is of weight.
Soc.
I am in profound earnest, I assure you. But why, as you have begun your argument so prettily, do you not go on with the rest? There is still something lacking, now you have agreed that [wealth] is a good to some and an evil to others. It remains to enquire what constitutes wealth; for unless you know this, you cannot possibly come to an understanding as to whether it is a good or an evil. I am ready to assist you in the enquiry to the utmost of my power: but first let him who affirms that riches are a good, tell us what, in his opinion, is wealth.
Eras.
Indeed, Socrates, I have no notion about wealth beyond that which men commonly have. I suppose that wealth is a quantity of money1 ; and this, I imagine, would also be Critias’ definition.
Soc.
What is money? It is observed that different kinds of money pass current in different countries,—Carthage, Lacedaemon, Ethiopia, Scythia.
Then now we have to consider, What is money? Or else later on we shall be found to differ about the question. For instance, the Carthaginians use money of this sort. Something which is about the size of a stater is tied up in a 400small piece of leather: what it is, no one knows but the makers. A seal is next set upon the leather, which then passes into circulation, and he who has the largest number of such pieces is esteemed the richest and best off. And yet if any one among us had a mass of such coins he would be no wealthier than if he had so many pebbles from the mountain. At Lacedaemon, again, they use iron by weight which has been rendered useless: and he who has the greatest mass of such iron is thought to be the richest, although elsewhere it has no value. In Ethiopia engraved stones are employed, of which a Lacedaemonian could make no use. Once more, among the Nomad Scythians a man who owned the house of Polytion would not be thought richer than one who possessed Mount Lycabettus among ourselves. And clearly those things cannot all be regarded as possessions; for in some cases the possessors would appear none the richer thereby: but, as I was saying, some one of them is thought in one place to be money, and the possessors of it are the wealthy, whereas in some other place it is not money, and the ownership of it does not confer wealth; just as the standard of morals varies, and what is honourable to some men is dishonourable to others. And if we wish to enquire why a house is valuable to us but not to the Scythians, or why the Carthaginians value leather which is worthless to us, or the Lacedaemonians find wealth in iron and we do not, can we not get an answer in some such way as this: Would an Athenian, who had a thousand talents weight of the stones which lie about in the Agora and which we do not employ for any purpose, be thought to be any the richer?
Eras.
He certainly would not appear so to me.
Soc.
But if he possessed a thousand talents weight of some precious stone, we should say that he was very rich?
Eras.
Of course.
Soc.
The reason is that the one is useless and the other useful?
Eras.
Yes.
Soc.
And in the same way among the Scythians a house has no value because they have no use for a house, nor would a Scythian set so much store on the finest house in the world as on a leather coat, because he could use the one and not the other. Or again, the Carthaginian coinage is not wealth in our eyes, for we could not employ it, as we can silver, to procure what we need, and therefore it is of no use to us.
Eras.
True.
Soc.
Wealth is useful, but other things are useful besides wealth.
What is useful to us, then, is wealth, and what is useless to us is not wealth?
But how do you mean, Socrates? said Eryxias, interrupting. 401Do we not employ in our intercourse with one another speech and violence (?) and various other things? These are useful and yet they are not wealth.
Soc.
Clearly we have not yet answered the question, What is wealth? That wealth must be useful, to be wealth at all,—thus much is acknowledged by every one. But what particular thing is wealth, if not all things? Let us pursue the argument in another way; and then we may perhaps find what we are seeking. What is the use of wealth, and for what purpose has the possession of riches been invented,—in the sense, I mean, in which drugs have been discovered for the cure of disease? Perhaps in this way we may throw some light on the question. It appears to be clear that whatever constitutes wealth must be useful, and that wealth is one class of useful things; and now we have to enquire, What is the use of those useful things which constitute wealth? For all things probably may be said to be useful which we use in production, just as all things which have life are animals, but there is a special kind of animal which we call ‘man.’ Now if any one were to ask us, What is that of which, if we were rid, we should not want medicine and the instruments of medicine, we might reply that this would be the case if disease were absent from our bodies and either never came to them at all or went away again as soon as it appeared; and we may therefore conclude that medicine is the science which is useful for getting rid of disease. But if we are further asked, What is that from which, if we were free, we should have no need of wealth? can we give an answer? If we have none, suppose that we restate the question thus:—If a man could live without food or drink, and yet suffer neither hunger nor thirst, would he want either money or anything else in order to supply his needs?
Eryx.
He would not.
Soc.
If the body had no wants or feelings there would be no need of money.
And does not this apply in other cases? If we did not want for the service of the body the things of which we now stand in need, and heat and cold and the other bodily sensations were unperceived by us, there would be no use in this so-called wealth, if no one, that is, had any necessity for those things which now make us wish for wealth in order that we may satisfy the desires and needs of the body in respect of our various wants. And therefore if the possession of wealth is useful in ministering to our bodily wants, and bodily wants were unknown to us, we should not need wealth, and possibly there would be no such thing as wealth.
Eryx.
Clearly not.
Soc.
Then our conclusion is, as would appear, that wealth is what is useful to this end?
Eryxias once more gave his assent, but the small argument considerably troubled him.
Soc.
And what is your opinion about another question:—Would 402you say that the same thing can be at one time useful and at another useless for the production of the same result?
Eryx.
I cannot say more than that if we require the same thing to produce the same result, then it seems to me to be useful; if not, not.
Soc.
Then if without the aid of fire we could make a brazen statue, we should not want fire for that purpose; and if we did not want it, it would be useless to us? And the argument applies equally in other cases.
Eryx.
Clearly.
Soc.
And therefore conditions which are not required for the existence of a thing are not useful for the production of it?
Eryx.
Of course not.
Soc.
And if without gold or silver or anything else which we do not use directly for the body in the way that we do food and drink and bedding and houses,—if without these we could satisfy the wants of the body, they would be of no use to us for that purpose?
Eryx.
They would not.
Soc.
They would no longer be regarded as wealth, because they are useless, whereas that would be wealth which enabled us to obtain what was useful to us?
Eryx.
O Socrates, you will never be able to persuade me that gold and silver and similar things are not wealth. But I am very strongly of opinion that things which are useless to us are not wealth, and that the money which is useful for this purpose is of the greatest use; not that these things are not useful towards life, if by them we can procure wealth.
Soc.
The arts too are wealth, for by them the needs of life are satisfied.
And how would you answer another question? There are persons, are there not, who teach music and grammar and other arts for pay, and thus procure those things of which they stand in need?
Eryx.
There are.
Soc.
And these men by the arts which they profess, and in exchange for them, obtain the necessities of life just as we do by means of gold and silver?
Eryx.
True.
Soc.
Then if they procure by this means what they want for the purposes of life, that art will be useful towards life? For do we not say that silver is useful because it enables us to supply our bodily needs?
Eryx.
We do.
Soc.
Then if these arts are reckoned among things useful, the arts are wealth for the same reason as gold and silver are, for, clearly, the possession of them gives wealth. Yet a little while ago we found it difficult to accept the argument which 403proved that the wisest are the wealthiest. But now there seems no escape from this conclusion. Suppose that we are asked, ‘Is a horse useful to everybody?’ will not our reply be, ‘No, but only to those who know how to use a horse?’
Eryx.
Certainly.
Soc.
And so, too, physic is not useful to every one, but only to him who knows how to use it?
Eryx.
Socrates, Eryxias, Critias.
True.
Soc.
And the same is the case with everything else?
Eryx.
Yes.
Soc.
Then gold and silver and all the other elements which are supposed to make up wealth are only useful to the person who knows how to use them?
Eryx.
Exactly.
Soc.
And were we not saying before that it was the business of a good man and a gentleman to know where and how anything should be used?
Eryx.
Yes.
Soc.
The good only know how to use things.
The good and gentle, therefore, will alone have profit from these things, supposing at least that they know how to use them. But if so, to them only will they seem to be wealth. It appears, however, that where a person is ignorant of riding, and has horses which are useless to him, if some one teaches him that art, he makes him also richer, for what was before useless has now become useful to him, and in giving him knowledge he has also conferred riches upon him.
Eryx.
That is the case.
Soc.
Yet I dare be sworn that Critias will not be moved a whit by the argument.
Crit.
No, by heaven, I should be a madman if I were. But why do you not finish the argument which proves that gold and silver and other things which seem to be wealth are not real wealth? For I have been exceedingly delighted to hear the discourses which you have just been holding.
Soc.
My argument, Critias (I said), appears to have given you the same kind of pleasure which you might have derived from some rhapsode’s recitation of Homer; for you do not believe a word of what has been said. But come now, give me an answer to this question. Are not certain things useful to the builder when he is building a house?
Crit.
They are.
Soc.
Socrates, Critias.
And would you say that those things are useful which are employed in house building,—stones and bricks and beams and the like, and also the instruments with which the builder built the house, the beams and stones which they provided, and again the instruments by which these were obtained?
Crit.
It seems to me that they are all useful for building.
Soc.
And is it not true of every art, that not only the materials but the instruments by which we procure them and without which the work could not go on, are useful for that art?
Crit.
Certainly.
Soc.
And further, the instruments by which the instruments 404are procured, and so on, going back from stage to stage ad infinitum,—are not all these, in your opinion, necessary in order to carry out the work?
Crit.
We may fairly suppose such to be the case.
Soc.
A sophism. Gold and silver would be useless if they were not needed to obtain food; and things cannot be at one time useless, at another time useful, in the same actions.
And if a man has food and drink and clothes and the other things which are useful to the body, would he need gold or silver or any other means by which he could procure that which he now has?
Crit.
I do not think so.
Soc.
Then you consider that a man never wants any of these things for the use of the body?
Crit.
Certainly not.
Soc.
And if they appear useless to this end, ought they not always to appear useless? For we have already laid down the principle that things cannot be at one time useful and at another time not, in the same process.
Crit.
But in that respect your argument and mine are the same. For you maintain if they are useful to a certain end, they can never become useless; whereas I say that in order to accomplish some results bad things are needed, and good for others.
Soc.
But can a bad thing be used to carry out a good purpose?
Crit.
I should say not.
Soc.
And we call those actions good which a man does for the sake of virtue?
Crit.
Yes.
Soc.
But can a man learn any kind of knowledge which is imparted by word of mouth if he is wholly deprived of the sense of hearing?
Crit.
Certainly not, I think.
Soc.
And will not hearing be useful for virtue, if virtue is taught by hearing and we use the sense of hearing in giving instruction?
Crit.
Yes.
Soc.
There are indirect means towards ends.
And since medicine frees the sick man from his disease, that art too may sometimes appear useful in the acquisition of virtue, e. g. when hearing is procured by the aid of medicine.
Crit.
Very likely.
Soc.
But if, again, we obtain by wealth the aid of medicine, shall we not regard wealth as useful for virtue?
Crit.
True.
Soc.
And also the instruments by which wealth is procured?
Crit.
Certainly.
Soc.
Wealth may be gained discreditably, but spent in the acquisition of virtue.
Then you think that a man may gain wealth by bad and disgraceful means, and, having obtained the aid of medicine which enables him to acquire the power of hearing, may use that very faculty for the acquisition of virtue?
Crit.
Yes, I do.
Soc.
But can that which is evil be useful for virtue?
Crit.
No.
Soc.
It is not therefore necessary that the means by which we obtain what is useful for a certain object should always be useful for the same object: for it seems that bad actions may sometimes serve good purposes? The matter will be still 405plainer if we look at it in this way:—If things are useful towards the several ends for which they exist, which ends would not come into existence without them, how would you regard them? Can ignorance, for instance, be useful for knowledge, or disease for health, or vice for virtue?
Crit.
Never.
Soc.
And yet we have already agreed—have we not?—that there can be no knowledge where there has not previously been ignorance, nor health where there has not been disease, nor virtue where there has not been vice?
Crit.
Difference between causes and antecedents.
I think that we have.
Soc.
But then it would seem that the antecedents without which a thing cannot exist are not necessarily useful to it. Otherwise ignorance would appear useful for knowledge, disease for health, and vice for virtue.
Critias still showed great reluctance to accept any argument which went to prove that all these things were useless. I saw that it was as difficult to persuade him as (according to the proverb) it is to boil a stone, so I said: Let us bid ‘good-bye’ to the discussion, since we cannot agree whether these things are useful and a part of wealth or not. But what shall we say to another question: Which is the happier and better man,—he who requires the greatest quantity of necessaries for body and diet, or he who requires only the fewest and least? The answer will perhaps become more obvious if we suppose some one, comparing the man himself at different times, to consider whether his condition is better when he is sick or when he is well?
Crit.
That is not a question which needs much consideration.
Soc.
Health is a better condition than disease; and it needs less.
Probably, I said, every one can understand that health is a better condition than disease. But when have we the greatest and the most various needs, when we are sick or when we are well?
Crit.
When we are sick.
Soc.
And when we are in the worst state we have the greatest and most especial need and desire of bodily pleasures?
Crit.
True.
Soc.
So he is best off who has fewest desires.
And seeing that a man is best off when he is least in need of such things, does not the same reasoning apply to the case of any two persons, of whom one has many and great wants and desires, and the other few and moderate? For instance, some men are gamblers, some drunkards, and some gluttons: and gambling and the love of drink and greediness are all desires?
Crit.
Certainly.
Soc.
But desires are only the lack of something: and those who have the greatest desires are in a worse condition than those who have none or very slight ones?
Crit.
406Certainly I consider that those who have such wants are bad, and that the greater their wants the worse they are.
Soc.
And do we think it possible that a thing should be useful for a purpose unless we have need of it for that purpose?
Crit.
No.
Soc.
Then if these things are useful for supplying the needs of the body, we must want them for that purpose?
Crit.
That is my opinion.
Soc.
And he to whom the greatest number of things are useful for his purpose, will also want the greatest number of means of accomplishing it, supposing that we necessarily feel the want of all useful things?
Crit.
It seems so.
Soc.
The argument proves then that he who has great riches has likewise need of many things for the supply of the wants of the body; for wealth appears useful towards that end. And the richest must be in the worst condition, since they seem to be most in want of such things.
[1 ]Butler’s Analogy.
[1 ]Cp. Arist. Pol. i. 13, § 10.
[2 ]Cp. Theaet. 146 D.
[1 ]Cp. Aristot. Post. Anal. I. i. 6.
[1 ]Or, whether a certain area is capable of being inscribed as a triangle in a certain circle.
[1 ]Or, whether a certain area is capable of being inscribed as a triangle in a certain circle.
[2 ]Or, when you apply it to the given line, i. e. the diameter of the circle (αὐτον̂).
[2 ]Or, when you apply it to the given line, i. e. the diameter of the circle (αὐτον̂).
[3 ]Or, similar to the area so applied.
[3 ]Or, similar to the area so applied.
[1 ]Theog. 33 ff.
[2 ]Theog. 435 ff.
[1 ]Cp. Euthyphro 11 B.
[1 ]Cp. 1 Alcib. 111 foll.
[1 ]Or, I am certain that I am right in taking this course.
[1 ]Aristoph., Clouds, 225 ff.
[1 ]Probably in allusion to Aristophanes who caricatured, and to Euripides who borrowed the notions of Anaxagoras, as well as to other dramatic poets.
[1 ]Homer, Il. ix. 363.
[1 ]Cp. Apol. 37 C, D.
[1 ]Cp. Apol. 30 C.
[1 ]e.g. cp. Rep. i. 335 E.
[1 ]Cp. Phaedr. 230 C.
[2 ]Cp. Apol. 37 D.
[1 ]But cp. Rep. x. 611 A.
[2 ]Cp. Meno 83 ff.
[1 ]Cp. Apol. 40 E.
[1 ]Compare Milton, Comus, 463 foll.:—
- ‘But when lust,
- By unchaste looks, loose gestures, and foul talk,
- But most by lewd and lavish act of sin,
- Lets in defilement to the inward parts,
- The soul grows clotted by contagion,
- Imbodies, and imbrutes, till she quite lose,
- The divine property of her first being.
- Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp
- Oft seen in charnel vaults and sepulchres,
- Lingering, and sitting by a new made grave,
- As loath to leave the body that it lov’d,
- And linked itself by carnal sensuality
- To a degenerate and degraded state.’
[1 ]Cp. Rep. x. 619 C.
[1 ]Cp. Rev., esp. c. xxi. v. 18 ff.
[1 ]Compare the following: ‘Now, and for us, it is a time to Hellenize and to praise knowing; for we have Hebraized too much and have overvalued doing. But the habits and discipline received from Hebraism remain for our race an eternal possession. And as humanity is constituted, one must never assign the second rank to-day without being ready to restore them to the first to-morrow.’ Sir William W. Hunter, Preface to Orissa.
[1 ]Omitting the words τὸν ῥητορικὸν δίκαιον ε[Editor: illegible character]ναι and δὲ in next clause.
[1 ]There is an untranslatable play on the name ‘Polus,’ which means ‘a colt.’
[1 ]Cp. Rep. ix. 579, 580.
[1 ]Cp. Rep. ii. 359.
[1 ]Fragm. Incert. 151 (Böckh).
[2 ]Antiope, fragm. 20 (Dindorf).
[1 ]Cp. what is said of Gorgias by Callicles at p. 482.
[1 ]Cp. Rep. i. 348.
[2 ]Cp. Phaedr. 250 C.
[3 ]An untranslateable pun,—διὰ τὸ πιθανόν τε καὶ πιστικὸν ὠνόμασε πίθον.
[1 ]Or, ‘I am in profound earnest.’
[1 ]Cp. Rep. iv. 436.
[1 ]Cp. Rep. iii. 392 foll.
[1 ]Cp. Laws vi. 752 A.
[1 ]p. 485.
[1 ]Cp. Republic, 9. 578 ff.
[1 ]Cp. Rep. iii. 407 E.
[1 ]Cp. Symp. 216: 1 Alcib. 135.
[2 ]Reading with the majority of MSS. πράξοντες.
[1 ]Cp. Protag. 328.
[1 ]Il. xv. 187. foll.
[1 ]Cp. Rep. x. 615 E.
[1 ]Odyss. xi. 569.
[1 ]Cp. Gorgias 448 A.
[1 ]Cp. Gorgias 499, 505; Rep. vi. 487.
[1 ]Cp. Symp. 213 C.
[2 ]Cp. Symp. 217 E ff.
[1 ]Cp. Symp. 181 E.
[1 ]About £406.
[1 ]Cp. Rep. i. 332 foll.
[1 ]Cp. Arist. Pol. vii. 1. § 5.
[1 ]Cp. Arist. Pol. i. 5. § 7.
[1 ]i. 9, 30; iii. 14, 11.
[1 ]Thucyd. ii. 35–46.
[1 ]Reading οὐ κεɩ̂νται, or taking οὐκ before ἀναιρεθέντες with κεɩ̂νται.
[1 ]Cp. Aristotle, Pol. v. 10, § 17.
[1 ]Cp. Rep. x. 619 C.
[2 ]Hom. Odyss. i. 32.
[3 ]The author of these lines, which are probably of Pythagorean origin, is unknown. They are found also in the Anthology (Anth. Pal. 10. 108).
[1 ]These words are omitted in several MSS.
[1 ]These words are omitted in several MSS.
[2 ]The reading is here uncertain.
[2 ]The reading is here uncertain.
[1 ]Some words appear to have dropped out here.
[1 ]Some words appear to have dropped out here.
[1 ]Euripides, Antiope, fr. 20 (Dindorf).
[1 ]Or, reading πολυμάθειαν, ‘abundant learning.’
[2 ]A fragment from the pseudo-Homeric poem, ‘Margites.’
[1 ]The Homeric word μάργος is said to be here employed in allusion to the quotation from the ‘Margites’ which Socrates has just made; but it is not used in the sense which it has in Homer.
[1 ]Cp. Rep. vi. 487.
[1 ]Cp. Arist. Pol. i. 9. §§ 10, 14.
10: Aristotle, The Nicomachean Ethics [1893]
Aristotle, The Nichomachean Ethics of Aristotle, trans. F.H. Peters, M.A. 5th edition (London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Truebner & Co., 1893).
Accessed from oll.libertyfund.org/title/903 on 2011-05-14
The text is in the public domain.
PREFACE TO THE FIFTH EDITION.
Many more or less important alterations have been made in this translation, which was first published in 1881, as new editions have from time to time been called for. The present edition in particular has been revised throughout, and brought into accordance with Bywater’s text (Oxford, 1890),* which is coming to be recognized, not in Oxford only, as the received text of the Nicomachean Ethics. I wish gratefully to acknowledge the debt which, in common with all lovers of Aristotle, I owe to Mr. Bywater, both for his edition and for his “Contributions to the Textual Criticism of the Nicomachean Ethics” (Oxford, 1892).
To Mr. Stewart also I wish to express my gratitude, not only for much assistance derived from his admirable “Notes on the Nicomachean Ethics” (Oxford, 1892), but also for much kindly and helpful criticism in that work and in a review of my first edition (Mind, July, 1881). My old friends Mr. A. C. Bradley and Mr. J. Cook Wilson (Professors now at Glasgow and Oxford respectively) will allow me to repeat my thanks for the valuable help they gave me when the first edition was passing through the press. To Mr. F. H. Hall of Oriel, and Mr. L. A. Selby Bigge of my own College, I am indebted for some corrections in a subsequent edition. To other translators and commentators I am also under many obligations, which I can only acknowledge in general terms.
When I have inserted in the text explanatory words of my own, I have enclosed them in square brackets thus [ ]. A short Index of leading terms and proper names has been added to this edition (in preparing which I have found Mr. Bywater’s Index of the greatest service). This Index makes no pretension to completeness or anything approaching to completeness (except in regard to proper names). Its aim is merely, in conjunction with the Table of Contents, to help the reader to find the more important passages bearing on the questions in which he may be specially interested.
F. H. PETERS.
Oxford,May, 1893.
BOOK I.
THE END.
1.
In all he does man seeks same good as end or means.
Every art and every kind of inquiry, and likewise every act and purpose, seems to aim at some good: and so it has been well said that the good is that at which everything aims.
But a difference is observable among these aims or ends. What is aimed at is sometimes the exercise of a faculty, sometimes a certain result beyond that exercise. And where there is an end beyond the act, there the result is better than the exercise of the faculty.
Now since there are many kinds of actions and many arts and sciences, it follows that there are many ends also; e.g. health is the end of medicine, ships of shipbuilding, victory of the art of war, and wealth of economy.
But when several of these are subordinated to some one art or science,—as the making of bridles and other trappings to the art of horsemanship, and this in turn, along with all else that the soldier does, to the art of war, and so on,* —then the end of the master-art is always more desired than the ends of the subordinate arts, since these are pursued for its sake. And this is equally true whether the end in view be the mere exercise of a faculty or something beyond that, as in the above instances.
2.
THE end is THE good; our subject is this and its science Politics.
If then in what we do there be some end which we wish for on its own account, choosing all the others as means to this, but not every end without exception as a means to something else (for so we should go on ad infinitum, and desire would be left void and objectless),—this evidently will be the good or the best of all things. And surely from a practical point of view it much concerns us to know this good; for then, like archers shooting at a definite mark, we shall be more likely to attain what we want.
If this be so, we must try to indicate roughly what it is, and first of all to which of the arts or sciences it belongs.
It would seem to belong to the supreme art or science, that one which most of all deserves the name of master-art or master-science.
Now Politics† seems to answer to this description. For it prescribes which of the sciences a state needs, and which each man shall study, and up to what point; and to it we see subordinated even the highest arts, such as economy, rhetoric, and the art of war.
Since then it makes use of the other practical sciences, and since it further ordains what men are to do and from what to refrain, its end must include the ends of the others, and must be the proper good of man.
For though this good is the same for the individual and the state, yet the good of the state seems a grander and more perfect thing both to attain and to secure; and glad as one would be to do this service for a single individual, to do it for a people and for a number of states is nobler and more divine.
This then is the aim of the present inquiry, which is a sort of political inquiry.*
3.
Exactness not permitted by subject nor to be expected by student, who needs experience and training.
We must be content if we can attain to so much precision in our statement as the subject before us admits of; for the same degree of accuracy is no more to be expected in all kinds of reasoning than in all kinds of handicraft.
Now the things that are noble and just (with which Politics deals) are so various and so uncertain, that some think these are merely conventional and not natural distinctions.
There is a similar uncertainty also about what is good, because good things often do people harm: men have before now been ruined by wealth, and have lost their lives through courage.
Our subject, then, and our data being of this nature, we must be content if we can indicate the truth roughly and in outline, and if, in dealing with matters that are not amenable to immutable laws, and reasoning from premises that are but probable, we can arrive at probable conclusions.*
The reader, on his part, should take each of my statements in the same spirit; for it is the mark of an educated man to require, in each kind of inquiry, just so much exactness as the subject admits of: it is equally absurd to accept probable reasoning from a mathematician, and to demand scientific proof from an orator.
But each man can form a judgment about what he knows, and is called “a good judge” of that—of any special matter when he has received a special education therein, “a good judge” (without any qualifying epithet) when he has received a universal education. And hence a young man is not qualified to be a student of Politics; for he lacks experience of the affairs of life, which form the data and the subject-matter of Politics.
Further, since he is apt to be swayed by his feelings, he will derive no benefit from a study whose aim is not speculative but practical.
But in this respect young in character counts the same as young in years; for the young man’s disqualification is not a matter of time, but is due to the fact that feeling rules his life and directs all his desires. Men of this character turn the knowledge they get to no account in practice, as we see with those we call incontinent; but those who direct their desires and actions by reason will gain much profit from the knowledge of these matters.
So much then by way of preface as to the student, and the spirit in which he must accept what we say, and the object which we propose to ourselves.
4.
Men agree that the good is happiness, but differ as to what this is.
4. Since—to resume—all knowledge and all purpose aims at some good, what is this which we say is the aim of Politics; or, in other words, what is the highest of all realizable goods?
As to its name, I suppose nearly all men are agreed; for the masses and the men of culture alike declare that it is happiness, and hold that to “live well” or to “do well” is the same as to be “happy.”
But they differ as to what this happiness is, and the masses do not give the same account of it as the philosophers.
The former take it to be something palpable and plain, as pleasure or wealth or fame; one man holds it to be this, and another that, and often the same man is of different minds at different times,—after sickness it is health, and in poverty it is wealth; while when they are impressed with the consciousness of their ignorance, they admire most those who say grand things that are above their comprehension.
Some philosophers, on the other hand, have thought that, beside these several good things, there is an “absolute” good which is the cause of their goodness.
As it would hardly be worth while to review all the opinions that have been held, we will confine ourselves to those which are most popular, or which seem to have some foundation in reason.
We must reason from facts accepted without question by the man of trained character.
But we must not omit to notice the distinction that is drawn between the method of proceeding from your starting-points or principles, and the method of working up to them. Plato used with fitness to raise this question, and to ask whether the right way is from or to your starting-points, as in the race-course you may run from the judges to the boundary, or vice versâ.
Well, we must start from what is known.
But “what is known” may mean two things: “what is known to us,” which is one thing, or “what is known” simply, which is another.
I think it is safe to say that we must start from what is known to us.
And on this account nothing but a good moral training can qualify a man to study what is noble and just—in a word, to study questions of Politics. For the undemonstrated fact is here the starting-point, and if this undemonstrated fact be sufficiently evident to a man, he will not require a “reason why.” Now the man who has had a good moral training either has already arrived at starting-points or principles of action, or will easily accept them when pointed out. But he who neither has them nor will accept them may hear what Hesiod says* —
- “The best is he who of himself doth know;
- Good too is he who listens to the wise;
- But he who neither knows himself nor heeds
- The words of others, is a useless man.”
5.
The good cannot be pleasure, nor honour, nor virtue.
Let us now take up the discussion at the point from which we digressed.
It seems that men not unreasonably take their notions of the good or happiness from the lives actually led, and that the masses who are the least refined suppose it to be pleasure, which is the reason why they aim at nothing higher than the life of enjoyment.
For the most conspicuous kinds of life are three: this life of enjoyment, the life of the statesman, and, thirdly, the contemplative life.
The mass of men show themselves utterly slavish in their preference for the life of brute beasts, but their views receive consideration because many of those in high places have the tastes of Sardanapalus.
Men of refinement with a practical turn prefer honour; for I suppose we may say that honour is the aim of the statesman’s life.
But this seems too superficial to be the good we are seeking: for it appears to depend upon those who give rather than upon those who receive it; while we have a presentiment that the good is something that is peculiarly a man’s own and can scarce be taken away from him.
Moreover, these men seem to pursue honour in order that they may be assured of their own excellence,—at least, they wish to be honoured by men of sense, and by those who know them, and on the ground of their virtue or excellence. It is plain, then, that in their view, at any rate, virtue or excellence is better than honour; and perhaps we should take this to be the end of the statesman’s life, rather than honour.
But virtue or excellence also appears too incomplete to be what we want; for it seems that a man might have virtue and yet be asleep or be inactive all his life, and, moreover, might meet with the greatest disasters and misfortunes; and no one would maintain that such a man is happy, except for argument’s sake. But we will not dwell on these matters now, for they are sufficiently discussed in the popular treatises.
The third kind of life is the life of contemplation: we will treat of it further on.*
As for the money-making life, it is something quite contrary to nature; and wealth evidently is not the good of which we are in search, for it is merely useful as a means to something else. So we might rather take pleasure and virtue or excellence to be ends than wealth; for they are chosen on their own account. But it seems that not even they are the end, though much breath has been wasted in attempts to show that they are.
6.
Various arguments to show against the Platonists that there cannot be one universal good.
Dismissing these views, then, we have now to consider the “universal good,” and to state the difficulties which it presents; though such an inquiry is not a pleasant task in view of our friendship for the authors of the doctrine of ideas. But we venture to think that this is the right course, and that in the interests of truth we ought to sacrifice even what is nearest to us, especially as we call ourselves philosophers. Both are dear to us, but it is a sacred duty to give the preference to truth.
In the first place, the authors of this theory themselves did not assert a common idea in the case of things of which one is prior to the other; and for this reason they did not hold one common idea of numbers. Now the predicate good is applied to substances and also to qualities and relations. But that which has independent existence, what we call “substance,” is logically prior to that which is relative; for the latter is an offshoot as it were, or [in logical language] an accident of a thing or substance. So [by their own showing] there cannot be one common idea of these goods.
Secondly, the term good is used in as many different ways as the term “is” or “being:” we apply the term to substances or independent existences, as God, reason; to qualities, as the virtues; to quantity, as the moderate or due amount; to relatives, as the useful; to time, as opportunity; to place, as habitation, and so on. It is evident, therefore, that the word good cannot stand for one and the same notion in all these various applications; for if it did, the term could not be applied in all the categories, but in one only.
Thirdly, if the notion were one, since there is but one science of all the things that come under one idea, there would be but one science of all goods; but as it is, there are many sciences even of the goods that come under one category; as, for instance, the science which deals with opportunity in war is strategy, but in disease is medicine; and the science of the due amount in the matter of food is medicine, but in the matter of exercise is the science of gymnastic.
Fourthly, one might ask what they mean by the “absolute:” in “absolute man” and “man” the word “man” has one and the same sense; for in respect of manhood there will be no difference between them; and if so, neither will there be any difference in respect of goodness between “absolute good” and “good.”
Fifthly, they do not make the good any more good by making it eternal; a white thing that lasts a long while is no whiter than what lasts but a day.
There seems to be more plausibility in the doctrine of the Pythagoreans, who [in their table of opposites] place the one on the same side with the good things [instead of reducing all goods to unity]; and even Speusippus* seems to follow them in this.
However, these points may be reserved for another occasion; but objection may be taken to what I have said on the ground that the Platonists do not speak in this way of all goods indiscriminately, but hold that those that are pursued and welcomed on their own account are called good by reference to one common form or type, while those things that tend to produce or preserve these goods, or to prevent their opposites, are called good only as means to these, and in a different sense.
It is evident that there will thus be two classes of goods: one good in themselves, the other good as means to the former. Let us separate then from the things that are merely useful those that are good in themselves, and inquire if they are called good by reference to one common idea or type.
Now what kind of things would one call “good in themselves”?
Surely those things that we pursue even apart from their consequences, such as wisdom and sight and certain pleasures and certain honours; for although we sometimes pursue these things as means, no one could refuse to rank them among the things that are good in themselves.
If these be excluded, nothing is good in itself except the idea; and then the type or form will be meaningless.*
If however, these are ranked among the things that are good in themselves, then it must be shown that the goodness of all of them can be defined in the same terms, as white has the same meaning when applied to snow and to white lead.
But, in fact, we have to give a separate and different account of the goodness of honour and wisdom and pleasure.
Good, then, is not a term that is applied to all these things alike in the same sense or with reference to one common idea or form.
But how then do these things come to be called good? for they do not appear to have received the same name by chance merely. Perhaps it is because they all proceed from one source, or all conduce to one end; or perhaps it is rather in virtue of some analogy, just as we call the reason the eye of the soul because it bears the same relation to the soul that the eye does to the body, and so on.
But we may dismiss these questions at present; for to discuss them in detail belongs more properly to another branch of philosophy.
Even if there were, it would not help us here.
And for the same reason we may dismiss the further consideration of the idea; for even granting that this term good, which is applied to all these different things, has one and the same meaning throughout, or that there is an absolute good apart from these particulars, it is evident that this good will not be anything that man can realize or attain: but it is a good of this kind that we are now seeking.
It might, perhaps, be thought that it would nevertheless be well to make ourselves acquainted with this universal good, with a view to the goods that are attainable and realizable. With this for a pattern, it may be said, we shall more readily discern our own good, and discerning achieve it.
There certainly is some plausibility in this argument, but it seems to be at variance with the existing sciences; for though they are all aiming at some good and striving to make up their deficiencies, they neglect to inquire about this universal good. And yet it is scarce likely that the professors of the several arts and sciences should not know, nor even look for, what would help them so much.
And indeed I am at a loss to know how the weaver or the carpenter would be furthered in his art by a knowledge of this absolute good, or how a man would be rendered more able to heal the sick or to command an army by contemplation of the pure form or idea. For it seems to me that the physician does not even seek for health in this abstract way, but seeks for the health of man, or rather of some particular man, for it is individuals that he has to heal.
7.
The good is the final end, and happiness is this.
Leaving these matters, then, let us return once more to the question, what this good can be of which we are in search.
It seems to be different in different kinds of action and in different arts,—one thing in medicine and another in war, and so on. What then is the good in each of these cases? Surely that for the sake of which all else is done. And that in medicine is health, in war is victory, in building is a house,—a different thing in each different case, but always, in whatever we do and in whatever we choose, the end. For it is always for the sake of the end that all else is done.
If then there be one end of all that man does, this end will be the realizable good,—or these ends, if there be more than one.
By this generalization our argument is brought to the same point as before.* This point we must try to explain more clearly.
We see that there are many ends. But some of these are chosen only as means, as wealth, flutes, and the whole class of instruments. And so it is plain that not all ends are final.
But the best of all things must, we conceive, be something final.
If then there be only one final end, this will be what we are seeking,—or if there be more than one, then the most final of them.
Now that which is pursued as an end in itself is more final than that which is pursued as means to something else, and that which is never chosen as means than that which is chosen both as an end in itself and as means, and that is strictly final which is always chosen as an end in itself and never as means.
Happiness seems more than anything else to answer to this description: for we always choose it for itself, and never for the sake of something else; while honour and pleasure and reason, and all virtue or excellence, we choose partly indeed for themselves (for, apart from any result, we should choose each of them), but partly also for the sake of happiness, supposing that they will help to make us happy. But no one chooses happiness for the sake of these things, or as a means to anything else at all.
We seem to be led to the same conclusion when we start from the notion of self-sufficiency.
The final good is thought to be self-sufficing [or all-sufficing]. In applying this term we do not regard a man as an individual leading a solitary life, but we also take account of parents, children, wife, and, in short, friends and fellow-citizens generally, since man is naturally a social being. Some limit must indeed be set to this; for if you go on to parents and descendants and friends of friends, you will never come to a stop. But this we will consider further on: for the present we will take self-sufficing to mean what by itself makes life desirable and in want of nothing. And happiness is believed to answer to this description.
And further, happiness is believed to be the most desirable thing in the world, and that not merely as one among other good things: if it were merely one among other good things [so that other things could be added to it], it is plain that the addition of the least of other goods must make it more desirable; for the addition becomes a surplus of good, and of two goods the greater is always more desirable.
Thus it seems that happiness is something final and self-sufficing, and is the end of all that man does.
To find it we ask, What is man’s junction?
But perhaps the reader thinks that though no one will dispute the statement that happiness is the best thing in the world, yet a still more precise definition of it is needed.
This will best be gained, I think, by asking, What is the function of man? For as the goodness and the excellence of a piper or a sculptor, or the practiser of any art, and generally of those who have any function or business to do, lies in that function, so man’s good would seem to lie in his function, if he has one.
But can we suppose that, while a carpenter and a cobbler has a function and a business of his own, man has no business and no function assigned him by nature? Nay, surely as his several members, eye and hand and foot, plainly have each his own function, so we must suppose that man also has some function over and above all these.
What then is it?
Life evidently he has in common even with the plants, but we want that which is peculiar to him. We must exclude, therefore, the life of mere nutrition and growth.
Next to this comes the life of sense; but this too he plainly shares with horses and cattle and all kinds of animals.
There remains then the life whereby he acts—the life of his rational nature,* with its two sides or divisions, one rational as obeying reason, the other rational as having and exercising reason.
But as this expression is ambiguous,† we must be understood to mean thereby the life that consists in the exercise of the faculties; for this seems to be more properly entitled to the name.
The function of man, then, is exercise of his vital faculties [or soul] on one side in obedience to reason, and on the other side with reason.
But what is called the function of a man of any profession and the function of a man who is good in that profession are generically the same, e.g. of a harper and of a good harper; and this holds in all cases without exception, only that in the case of the latter his superior excellence at his work is added; for we say a harper’s function is to harp, and a good harper’s to harp well.
(Man’s function then being, as we say, a kind of life—that is to say, exercise of his faculties and action of various kinds with reason—the good man’s function is to do this well and beautifully [or nobly]. But the function of anything is done well when it is done in accordance with the proper excellence of that thing.)‡
Resulting definition of happiness.
If this be so the result is that the good of man is exercise of his faculties in accordance with excellence or virtue, or, if there be more than one, in accordance with the best and most complete virtue.*
But there must also be a full term of years for this exercise;† for one swallow or one fine day does not make a spring, nor does one day or any small space of time make a blessed or happy man.
This, then, may be taken as a rough outline of the good; for this, I think, is the proper method,—first to sketch the outline, and then to fill in the details. But it would seem that, the outline once fairly drawn, any one can carry on the work and fit in the several items which time reveals to us or helps us to find. And this indeed is the way in which the arts and sciences have grown; for it requires no extraordinary genius to fill up the gaps.
We must bear in mind, however, what was said above, and not demand the same degree of accuracy in all branches of study, but in each case so much as the subject-matter admits of and as is proper to that kind of inquiry. The carpenter and the geometer both look for the right angle, but in different ways: the former only wants such an approximation to it as his work requires, but the latter wants to know what constitutes a right angle, or what is its special quality; his aim is to find out the truth. And so in other cases we must follow the same course, lest we spend more time on what is immaterial than on the real business in hand.
Nor must we in all cases alike demand the reason why; sometimes it is enough if the undemonstrated fact be fairly pointed out, as in the case of the starting-points or principles of a science. Undemonstrated facts always form the first step or starting-point of a science; and these starting-points or principles are arrived at some in one way, some in another—some by induction, others by perception, others again by some kind of training. But in each case we must try to apprehend them in the proper way, and do our best to define them clearly; for they have great influence upon the subsequent course of an inquiry. A good start is more than half the race, I think, and our starting-point or principle, once found, clears up a number of our difficulties.
8.
This view harmonizes various current views.
We must not be satisfied, then, with examining this starting-point or principle of ours as a conclusion from our data, but must also view it in its relation to current opinions on the subject; for all experience harmonizes with a true principle, but a false one is soon found to be incompatible with the facts.
Now, good things have been divided into three classes, external goods on the one hand, and on the other goods of the soul and goods of the body; and the goods of the soul are commonly said to be goods in the fullest sense, and more good than any other.
But “actions and exercises of the vital faculties or soul” may be said to be “of the soul.” So our account is confirmed by this opinion, which is both of long standing and approved by all who busy themselves with philosophy.
But, indeed, we secure the support of this opinion by the mere statement that certain actions and exercises are the end; for this implies that it is to be ranked among the goods of the soul, and not among external goods.
Our account, again, is in harmony with the common saying that the happy man lives well and does well; for we may say that happiness, according to us, is a living well and doing well.
And, indeed, all the characteristics that men expect to find in happiness seem to belong to happiness as we define it.
Some hold it to be virtue or excellence, some prudence, others a kind of wisdom; others, again, hold it to be all or some of these, with the addition of pleasure, either as an ingredient or as a necessary accompaniment; and some even include external prosperity in their account of it.
Now, some of these views have the support of many voices and of old authority; others have few voices, but those of weight; but it is probable that neither the one side nor the other is entirely wrong, but that in some one point at least, if not in most, they are both right.
First, then, the view that happiness is excellence or a kind of excellence harmonizes with our account; for “exercise of faculties in accordance with excellence” belongs to excellence.
But I think we may say that it makes no small difference whether the good be conceived as the mere possession of something, or as its use—as a mere habit or trained faculty, or as the exercise of that faculty. For the habit or faculty may be present, and yet issue in no good result, as when a man is asleep, or in any other way hindered from his function; but with its exercise this is not possible, for it must show itself in acts and in good acts. And as at the Olympic games it is not the fairest and strongest who receive the crown, but those who contend (for among these are the victors), so in life, too, the winners are those who not only have all the excellences, but manifest these in deed.
And, further, the life of these men is in itself pleasant. For pleasure is an affection of the soul, and each man takes pleasure in that which he is said to love,—he who loves horses in horses, he who loves sight-seeing in sight-seeing, and in the same way he who loves justice in acts of justice, and generally the lover of excellence or virtue in virtuous acts or the manifestation of excellence.
And while with most men there is a perpetual conflict between the several things in which they find pleasure, since these are not naturally pleasant, those who love what is noble take pleasure in that which is naturally pleasant. For the manifestations of excellence are naturally pleasant, so that they are both pleasant to them and pleasant in themselves.
Their life, then, does not need pleasure to be added to it as an appendage, but contains pleasure in itself.
Indeed, in addition to what we have said, a man is not good at all unless he takes pleasure in noble deeds. No one would call a man just who did not take pleasure in doing justice, nor generous who took no pleasure in acts of generosity, and so on.
If this be so, the manifestations of excellence will be pleasant in themselves. But they are also both good and noble, and that in the highest degree—at least, if the good man’s judgment about them is right, for this is his judgment.
Happiness, then, is at once the best and noblest and pleasantest thing in the world, and these are not separated, as the Delian inscription would have them to be:—
- “What is most just is noblest, health is best,
- Pleasantest is to get your heart’s desire.”
For all these characteristics are united in the best exercises of our faculties; and these, or some one of them that is better than all the others, we identify with happiness.
But nevertheless happiness plainly requires external goods too, as we said; for it is impossible, or at least not easy, to act nobly without some furniture of fortune. There are many things that can only be done through instruments, so to speak, such as friends and wealth and political influence: and there are some things whose absence takes the bloom off our happiness, as good birth, the blessing of children, personal beauty; for a man is not very likely to be happy if he is very ugly in person, or of low birth, or alone in the world, or childless, and perhaps still less if he has worthless children or friends, or has lost good ones that he had.
As we said, then, happiness seems to stand in need of this kind of prosperity; and so some identify it with good fortune, just as others identify it with excellence.
9.
It happiness acquired, or the gift of Gods or of chance?
This has led people to ask whether happiness is attained by learning, or the formation of habits, or any other kind of training, or comes by some divine dispensation or even by chance.
Well, if the Gods do give gifts to men, happiness is likely to be among the number, more likely, indeed, than anything else, in proportion as it is better than all other human things.
This belongs more properly to another branch of inquiry; but we may say that even if it is not heavensent, but comes as a consequence of virtue or some kind of learning or training, still it seems to be one of the most divine things in the world; for the prize and aim of virtue would appear to be better than anything else and something divine and blessed.
Again, if it is thus acquired it will be widely accessible; for it will then be in the power of all except those who have lost the capacity for excellence to acquire it by study and diligence.
And if it be better that men should attain happiness in this way rather than by chance, it is reasonable to suppose that it is so, since in the sphere of nature all things are arranged in the best possible way, and likewise in the sphere of art, and of each mode of causation, and most of all in the sphere of the noblest mode of causation. And indeed it would be too absurd to leave what is noblest and fairest to the dispensation of chance.
But our definition itself clears up the difficulty;* for happiness was defined as a certain kind of exercise of the vital faculties in accordance with excellence or virtue. And of the remaining goods [other than happiness itself], some must be present as necessary conditions, while others are aids and useful instruments to happiness. And this agrees with what we said at starting. We then laid down that the end of the art political is the best of all ends; but the chief business of that art is to make the citizens of a certain character—that is, good and apt to do what is noble. It is not without reason, then, that we do not call an ox, or a horse, or any brute happy; for none of them is able to share in this kind of activity.
For the same reason also a child is not happy; he is as yet, because of his age, unable to do such things. If we ever call a child happy, it is because we hope he will do them. For, as we said, happiness requires not only perfect excellence or virtue, but also a full term of years for its exercise. For our circumstances are liable to many changes and to all sorts of chances, and it is possible that he who is now most prosperous will in his old age meet with great disasters, as is told of Priam in the tales of Troy; and a man who is thus used by fortune and comes to a miserable end cannot be called happy.
10.
Can no man be called happy during life?
Are we, then, to call no man happy as long as he lives, but to wait for the end, as Solon said?
And, supposing we have to allow this, do we mean that he actually is happy after he is dead? Surely that is absurd, especially for us who say that happiness is a kind of activity or life.
But if we do not call the dead man happy, and if Solon meant not this, but that only then could we safely apply the term to a man, as being now beyond the reach of evil and calamity, then here too we find some ground for objection. For it is thought that both good and evil may in some sort befall a dead man (just as they may befall a living man, although he is unconscious of them), e.g. honours rendered to him, or the reverse of these, and again the prosperity or the misfortune of his children and all his descendants.
But this, too, has its difficulties; for after a man has lived happily to a good old age, and ended as he lived, it is possible that many changes may befall him in the persons of his descendants, and that some of them may turn out good and meet with the good fortune they deserve, and others the reverse. It is evident too that the degree in which the descendants are related to their ancestors may vary to any extent. And it would be a strange thing if the dead man were to change with these changes and become happy and miserable by turns. But it would also be strange to suppose that the dead are not affected at all, even for a limited time, by the fortunes of their posterity.
But let us return to our former question; for its solution will, perhaps, clear up this other difficulty.
The saying of Solon may mean that we ought to look for the end and then call a man happy, not because he now is, but because he once was happy.
But surely it is strange that when he is happy we should refuse to say what is true of him, because we do not like to apply the term to living men in view of the changes to which they are liable, and because we hold happiness to be something that endures and is little liable to change, while the fortunes of one and the same man often undergo many revolutions: for, it is argued, it is plain that, if we follow the changes of fortune, we shall call the same man happy and miserable many times over, making the happy man “a sort of chameleon and one who rests on no sound foundation.”
We reply that it cannot be right thus to follow fortune. For it is not in this that our weal or woe lies; but, as we said, though good fortune is needed to complete man’s life, yet it is the excellent employment of his powers that constitutes his happiness, as the reverse of this constitutes his misery.
But the discussion of this difficulty leads to a further confirmation of our account. For nothing human is so constant as the excellent exercise of our faculties. The sciences themselves seem to be less abiding. And the highest of these exercises* are the most abiding, because the happy are occupied with them most of all and most continuously (for this seems to be the reason why we do not forget how to do them† ).
The happy man, then, as we define him, will have this required property of permanence, and all through life will preserve his character; for he will be occupied continually, or with the least possible interruption, in excellent deeds and excellent speculations; and, whatever his fortune be, he will take it in the noblest fashion, and bear himself always and in all things suitably, since he is truly good and “foursquare without a flaw.”
But the dispensations of fortune are many, some great, some small. The small ones, whether good or evil, plainly are of no weight in the scale; but the great ones, when numerous, will make life happier if they be good; for they help to give a grace to life themselves, and their use is noble and good; but, if they be evil, will enfeeble and spoil happiness; for they bring pain, and often impede the exercise of our faculties.
But nevertheless true worth shines out even here, in the calm endurance of many great misfortunes, not through insensibility, but through nobility and greatness of soul. And if it is what a man does that determines the character of his life, as we said, then no happy man will become miserable; for he will never do what is hateful and base. For we hold that the man who is truly good and wise will bear with dignity whatever fortune sends, and will always make the best of his circumstances, as a good general will turn the forces at his command to the best account, and a good shoemaker will make the best shoe that can be made out of a given piece of leather, and so on with all other crafts.
If this be so, the happy man will never become miserable, though he will not be truly happy if he meets with the fate of Priam.
But yet he is not unstable and lightly changed: he will not be moved from his happiness easily, nor by any ordinary misfortunes, but only by many heavy ones; and after such, he will not recover his happiness again in a short time, but if at all, only in a considerable period, which has a certain completeness, and in which he attains to great and noble things.
We shall meet all objections, then, if we say that a happy man is “one who exercises his faculties in accordance with perfect excellence, being duly furnished with external goods, not for any chance time, but for a full term of years:” to which perhaps we should add, “and who shall continue to live so, and shall die as he lived,” since the future is veiled to us, but happiness we take to be the end and in all ways perfectly final or complete.
If this be so, we may say that those living men are blessed or perfectly happy who both have and shall continue to have these characteristics, but happy as men only.
11.
Cannot the fortunes of survivors affect the dead?
Passing now from this question to that of the fortunes of descendants and of friends generally, the doctrine that they do not affect the departed at all seems too cold and too much opposed to popular opinion. But as the things that happen to them are many and differ in all sorts of ways, and some come home to them more and some less, so that to discuss them all separately would be a long, indeed an endless task, it will perhaps be enough to speak of them in general terms and in outline merely.
Now, as of the misfortunes that happen to a man’s self, some have a certain weight and influence on his life, while others are of less moment, so is it also with what happens to any of his friends. And, again, it always makes much more difference whether those who are affected by an occurrence are alive or dead than it does whether a terrible crime in a tragedy be enacted on the stage or merely supposed to have already taken place. We must therefore take these differences into account, and still more, perhaps, the fact that it is a doubtful question whether the dead are at all accessible to good and ill. For it appears that even if anything that happens, whether good or evil, does come home to them, yet it is something unsubstantial and slight to them if not in itself; or if not that, yet at any rate its influence is not of that magnitude or nature that it can make happy those who are not, or take away their happiness from those that are.
It seems then—to conclude—that the prosperity, and likewise the adversity, of friends does affect the dead, but not in such a way or to such an extent as to make the happy unhappy, or to do anything of the kind.
12.
Happiness as absolute end is above praise.
These points being settled, we may now inquire whether happiness is to be ranked among the goods that we praise, or rather among those that we revere; for it is plainly not a mere potentiality, but an actual good.
What we praise seems always to be praised as being of a certain quality and having a certain relation to something. For instance, we praise the just and the courageous man, and generally the good man, and excellence or virtue, because of what they do or produce; and we praise also the strong or the swiftfooted man, and so on, because he has a certain gift or faculty in relation to some good and admirable thing.
This is evident if we consider the praises bestowed on the Gods. The Gods are thereby made ridiculous by being made relative to man; and this happens because, as we said, a thing can only be praised in relation to something else.
If, then, praise be proper to such things as we mentioned, it is evident that to the best things is due, not praise, but something greater and better, as our usage shows; for the Gods we call blessed and happy, and “blessed” is the term we apply to the most godlike men.
And so with good things: no one praises happiness as he praises justice, but calls it blessed, as something better and more divine.
On these grounds Eudoxus is thought to have based a strong argument for the claims of pleasure to the first prize: for he maintained that the fact that it is not praised, though it is a good thing, shows that it is higher than the goods we praise, as God and the good are higher; for these are the standards by reference to which we judge all other things,—giving praise to excellence or virtue, since it makes us apt to do what is noble, and passing encomiums on the results of virtue, whether these be bodily or psychical.
But to refine on these points belongs more properly to those who have made a study of the subject of encomiums; for us it is plain from what has been said that happiness is one of the goods which we revere and count as final.
And this further seems to follow from the fact that it is a starting-point or principle: for everything we do is always done for its sake; but the principle and cause of all good we hold to be something divine and worthy of reverence.
13.
Division of the faculties and resulting division of the virtues.
Since happiness is an exercise of the vital faculties in accordance with perfect virtue or excellence, we will now inquire about virtue or excellence; for this will probably help us in our inquiry about happiness.
And indeed the true statesman seems to be especially concerned with virtue, for he wishes to make the citizens good and obedient to the laws. Of this we have an example in the Cretan and the Lacedæmonian lawgivers, and any others who have resembled them. But if the inquiry belongs to Politics or the science of the state, it is plain that it will be in accordance with our original purpose to pursue it.
The virtue or excellence that we are to consider is, of course, the excellence of man; for it is the good of man and the happiness of man that we started to seek. And by the excellence of man I mean excellence not of body, but of soul; for happiness we take to be an activity of the soul.
If this be so, then it is evident that the statesman must have some knowledge of the soul, just as the man who is to heal the eye or the whole body must have some knowledge of them, and that the more in proportion as the science of the state is higher and better than medicine. But all educated physicians take much pains to know about the body.
As statesmen [or students of Politics], then, we must inquire into the nature of the soul, but in so doing we must keep our special purpose in view and go only so far as that requires; for to go into minuter detail would be too laborious for the present undertaking.
Now, there are certain doctrines about the soul which are stated elsewhere with sufficient precision, and these we will adopt.
Two parts of the soul are distinguished, an irrational and a rational part.
Whether these are separated as are the parts of the body or any divisible thing, or whether they are only distinguishable in thought but in fact inseparable, like concave and convex in the circumference of a circle, makes no difference for our present purpose.
Of the irrational part, again, one division seems to be common to all things that live, and to be possessed by plants—I mean that which causes nutrition and growth; for we must assume that all things that take nourishment have a faculty of this kind, even when they are embryos, and have the same faculty when they are full grown; at least, this is more reasonable than to suppose that they then have a different one.
The excellence of this faculty, then, is plainly one that man shares with other beings, and not specifically human.
And this is confirmed by the fact that in sleep this part of the soul, or this faculty, is thought to be most active, while the good and the bad man are undistinguishable when they are asleep (whence the saying that for half their lives there is no difference between the happy and the miserable; which indeed is what we should expect; for sleep is the cessation of the soul from those functions in respect of which it is called good or bad), except that they are to some slight extent roused by what goes on in their bodies, with the result that the dreams of the good man are better than those of ordinary people.
However, we need not pursue this further, and may dismiss the nutritive principle, since it has no place in the excellence of man.
But there seems to be another vital principle that is irrational, and yet in some way partakes of reason. In the case of the continent and of the incontinent man alike we praise the reason or the rational part, for it exhorts them rightly and urges them to do what is best; but there is plainly present in them another principle besides the rational one, which fights and struggles against the reason. For just as a paralyzed limb, when you will to move it to the right, moves on the contrary to the left, so is it with the soul; the incontinent man’s impulses run counter to his reason. Only whereas we see the refractory member in the case of the body, we do not see it in the case of the soul. But we must nevertheless, I think, hold that in the soul too there is something beside the reason, which opposes and runs counter to it (though in what sense it is distinct from the reason does not matter here).
It seems, however, to partake of reason also, as we said: at least, in the continent man it submits to the reason; while in the temperate and courageous man we may say it is still more obedient; for in him it is altogether in harmony with the reason.
The irrational part, then, it appears, is twofold. There is the vegetative faculty, which has no share of reason; and the faculty of appetite or of desire in general, which in a manner partakes of reason or is rational as listening to reason and submitting to its sway,—rational in the sense in which we speak of rational obedience to father or friends, not in the sense in which we speak of rational apprehension of mathematical truths. But all advice and all rebuke and exhortation testify that the irrational part is in some way amenable to reason.
If then we like to say that this part, too, has a share of reason, the rational part also will have two divisions: one rational in the strict sense as possessing reason in itself, the other rational as listening to reason as a man listens to his father.
Now, on this division of the faculties is based the division of excellence; for we speak of intellectual excellences and of moral excellences; wisdom and understanding and prudence we call intellectual, liberality and temperance we call moral virtues or excellences. When we are speaking of a man’s moral character we do not say that he is wise or intelligent, but that he is gentle or temperate. But we praise the wise man, too, for his habit of mind or trained faculty; and a habit or trained faculty that is praiseworthy is what we call an excellence or virtue.
BOOK II.
MORAL VIRTUE.
1.
Moral virtue is acquired by the repetition of the corresponding acts.
Excellence, then, being of these two kinds, intellectual and moral intellectual excellence owes its birth and growth mainly to instruction, and so requires time and experience, while moral excellence is the result of habit or custom (ἔθος), and has accordingly in our language received a name formed by a slight change from ἔθος.*
From this it is plain that none of the moral excellences or virtues is implanted in us by nature; for that which is by nature cannot be altered by training. For instance, a stone naturally tends to fall downwards, and you could not train it to rise upwards, though you tried to do so by throwing it up ten thousand times, nor could you train fire to move downwards, nor accustom anything which naturally behaves in one way to behave in any other way.
The virtues,† then, come neither by nature nor against nature, but nature gives the capacity for acquiring them, and this is developed by training.
Again, where we do things by nature we get the power first, and put this power forth in act afterwards: as we plainly see in the case of the senses; for it is not by constantly seeing and hearing that we acquire those faculties, but, on the contrary, we had the power first and then used it, instead of acquiring the power by the use. But the virtues we acquire by doing the acts, as is the case with the arts too. We learn an art by doing that which we wish to do when we have learned it; we become builders by building, and harpers by harping. And so by doing just acts we become just, and by doing acts of temperance and courage we become temperate and courageous.
This is attested, too, by what occurs in states; for the legislators make their citizens good by training; i.e. this is the wish of all legislators, and those who do not succeed in this miss their aim, and it is this that distinguishes a good from a bad constitution.
Again, both the moral virtues and the corresponding vices result from and are formed by the same acts; and this is the case with the arts also. It is by harping that good harpers and bad harpers alike are produced: and so with builders and the rest; by building well they will become good builders, and bad builders by building badly. Indeed, if it were not so, they would not want anybody to teach them, but would all be born either good or bad at their trades. And it is just the same with the virtues also. It is by our conduct in our intercourse with other men that we become just or unjust, and by acting in circumstances of danger, and training ourselves to feel fear or confidence, that we become courageous or cowardly. So, too, with our animal appetites and the passion of anger; for by behaving in this way or in that on the occasions with which these passions are concerned, some become temperate and gentle, and others profligate and ill-tempered. In a word, acts of any kind produce habits or characters of the same kind.
Hence we ought to make sure that our acts be of a certain kind; for the resulting character varies as they vary. It makes no small difference, therefore, whether a man be trained from his youth up in this way or in that, but a great difference, or rather all the difference.
2.
These acts must be such as reason prescribes; they can’t be defined exactly, but must be neither too much nor too little.
But our present inquiry has not, like the rest, a merely speculative aim; we are not inquiring merely in order to know what excellence or virtue is, but in order to become good; for otherwise it would profit us nothing. We must ask therefore about these acts, and see of what kind they are to be; for, as we said, it is they that determine our habits or character.
First of all, then, that they must be in accordance with right reason is a common characteristic of them, which we shall here take for granted, reserving for future discussion* the question what this right reason is, and how it is related to the other excellences.
But let it be understood, before we go on, that all reasoning on matters of practice must be in outline merely, and not scientifically exact: for, as we said at starting, the kind of reasoning to be demanded varies with the subject in hand; and in practical matters and questions of expediency there are no invariable laws, any more than in questions of health.
And if our general conclusions are thus inexact, still more inexact is all reasoning about particular cases; for these fall under no system of scientifically established rules or traditional maxims, but the agent must always consider for himself what the special occasion requires, just as in medicine or navigation.
But though this is the case we must try to render what help we can.
First of all, then, we must observe that, in matters of this sort, to fall short and to exceed are alike fatal. This is plain (to illustrate what we cannot see by what we can see) in the case of strength and health. Too much and too little exercise alike destroy strength, and to take too much meat and drink, or to take too little, is equally ruinous to health, but the fitting amount produces and increases and preserves them. Just so, then, is it with temperance also, and courage, and the other virtues. The man who shuns and fears everything and never makes a stand, becomes a coward; while the man who fears nothing at all, but will face anything, becomes foolhardy. So, too, the man who takes his fill of any kind of pleasure, and abstains from none, is a profligate, but the man who shuns all (like him whom we call a “boor”) is devoid of sensibility.* Thus temperance and courage are destroyed both by excess and defect, but preserved by moderation.
But habits or types of character are not only produced and preserved and destroyed by the same occasions and the same means, but they will also manifest themselves in the same circumstances. This is the case with palpable things like strength. Strength is produced by taking plenty of nourishment and doing plenty of hard work, and the strong man, in turn, has the greatest capacity for these. And the case is the same with the virtues: by abstaining from pleasure we become temperate, and when we have become temperate we are best able to abstain. And so with courage: by habituating ourselves to despise danger, and to face it, we become courageous; and when we have become courageous, we are best able to face danger.
3.
Virtue is in various ways concerned with pleasure and pain.
The pleasure or pain that accompanies the acts must be taken as a test of the formed habit or character.
He who abstains from the pleasures of the body and rejoices in the abstinence is temperate, while he who is vexed at having to abstain is profligate; and again, he who faces danger with pleasure, or, at any rate, without pain, is courageous, but he to whom this is painful is a coward.
For moral virtue or excellence is closely concerned with pleasure and pain. It is pleasure that moves us to do what is base, and pain that moves us to refrain from what is noble. And therefore, as Plato says, man needs to be so trained from his youth up as to find pleasure and pain in the right objects. This is what sound education means.
Another reason why virtue has to do with pleasure and pain, is that it has to do with actions and passions or affections; but every affection and every act is accompanied by pleasure or pain.
The fact is further attested by the employment of pleasure and pain in correction; they have a kind of curative property, and a cure is effected by administering the opposite of the disease.
Again, as we said before, every type of character [or habit or formed faculty] is essentially relative to, and concerned with, those things that form it for good or for ill; but it is through pleasure and pain that bad characters are formed—that is to say, through pursuing and avoiding the wrong pleasures and pains, or pursuing and avoiding them at the wrong time, or in the wrong manner, or in any other of the various ways of going wrong that may be distinguished.
And hence some people go so far as to define the virtues as a kind of impassive or neutral state of mind. But they err in stating this absolutely, instead of qualifying it by the addition of the right and wrong manner, time, etc.
We may lay down, therefore, that this kind of excellence [i.e. moral excellence] makes us do what is best in matters of pleasure and pain, while vice or badness has the contrary effect. But the following considerations will throw additional light on the point.*
There are three kinds of things that move us to choose, and three that move us to avoid them: on the one hand, the beautiful or noble, the advantageous, the pleasant; on the other hand, the ugly or base, the hurtful, the painful. Now, the good man is apt to go right, and the bad man to go wrong, about them all, but especially about pleasure: for pleasure is not only common to man with animals, but also accompanies all pursuit or choice; since the noble, and the advantageous also, are pleasant in idea.
Again, the feeling of pleasure has been fostered in us all from our infancy by our training, and has thus become so engrained in our life that it can scarce be washed out.* And, indeed, we all more or less make pleasure our test in judging of actions. For this reason too, then, our whole inquiry must be concerned with these matters; since to be pleased and pained in the right or the wrong way has great influence on our actions.
Again, to fight with pleasure is harder than to fight with wrath (which Heraclitus says is hard), and virtue, like art, is always more concerned with what is harder; for the harder the task the better is success. For this reason also, then, both [moral] virtue or excellence and the science of the state must always be concerned with pleasures and pains; for he that behaves rightly with regard to them will be good, and he that behaves badly will be bad.
We will take it as established, then, that [moral] excellence or virtue has to do with pleasures and pains; and that the acts which produce it develop it, and also, when differently done, destroy it; and that it manifests itself in the same acts which produced it.
4.
The conditions of virtuous action as distinct from artistic production.
But here we may be asked what we mean by saying that men can become just and temperate only by doing what is just and temperate: surely, it may be said, if their acts are just and temperate, they themselves are already just and temperate, as they are grammarians and musicians if they do what is grammatical and musical.
We may answer, I think, firstly, that this is not quite the case even with the arts. A man may do something grammatical [or write something correctly] by chance, or at the prompting of another person: he will not be grammatical till he not only does something grammatical, but also does it grammatically [or like a grammatical person], i.e. in virtue of his own knowledge of grammar.
But, secondly, the virtues are not in this point analogous to the arts. The products of art have their excellence in themselves, and so it is enough if when produced they are of a certain quality; but in the case of the virtues, a man is not said to act justly or temperately [or like a just or temperate man] if what he does merely be of a certain sort—he must also be in a certain state of mind when he does it; i.e., first of all, he must know what he is doing; secondly, he must choose it, and choose it for itself; and, thirdly, his act must be the expression of a formed and stable character. Now, of these conditions, only one, the knowledge, is necessary for the possession of any art; but for the possession of the virtues knowledge is of little or no avail, while the other conditions that result from repeatedly doing what is just and temperate are not a little important, but all-important.
The thing that is done, therefore, is called just or temperate when it is such as the just or temperate man would do; but the man who does it is not just or temperate, unless he also does it in the spirit of the just or the temperate man.
It is right, then, to say that by doing what is just a man becomes just, and temperate by doing what is temperate, while without doing thus he has no chance of ever becoming good.
But most men, instead of doing thus, fly to theories, and fancy that they are philosophizing and that this will make them good, like a sick man who listens attentively to what the doctor says and then disobeys all his orders. This sort of philosophizing will no more produce a healthy habit of mind than this sort of treatment will produce a healthy habit of body.
5.
Virtue not an emotion, nor a faculty, but a trained faculty or habit.
We have next to inquire what excellence or virtue is.
A quality of the soul is either (1) a passion or emotion, or (2) a power or faculty, or (3) a habit or trained faculty; and so virtue must be one of these three. By (1) a passion or emotion we mean appetite, anger, fear, confidence, envy, joy, love, hate, longing, emulation, pity, or generally that which is accompanied by pleasure or pain; (2) a power or faculty is that in respect of which we are said to be capable of being affected in any of these ways, as, for instance, that in respect of which we are able to be angered or pained or to pity; and (3) a habit or trained faculty is that in respect of which we are well or ill regulated or disposed in the matter of our affections; as, for instance, in the matter of being angered, we are ill regulated if we are too violent or too slack, but if we are moderate in our anger we are well regulated. And so with the rest.
Now, the virtues are not emotions, nor are the vices—(1) because we are not called good or bad in respect of our emotions, but are called so in respect of our virtues or vices; (2) because we are neither praised nor blamed in respect of our emotions (a man is not praised for being afraid or angry, nor blamed for being angry simply, but for being angry in a particular way), but we are praised or blamed in respect of our virtues or vices; (3) because we may be angered or frightened without deliberate choice, but the virtues are a kind of deliberate choice, or at least are impossible without it; and (4) because in respect of our emotions we are said to be moved, but in respect of our virtues and vices we are not said to be moved, but to be regulated or disposed in this way or in that.
For these same reasons also they are not powers or faculties; for we are not called either good or bad for being merely capable of emotion, nor are we either praised or blamed for this. And further, while nature gives us our powers or faculties, she does not make us either good or bad. (This point, however, we have already treated.)
If, then, the virtues be neither emotions nor faculties, it only remains for them to be habits or trained faculties.
6.
viz., the habit of choosing the mean.
We have thus found the genus to which virtue belongs; but we want to know, not only that it is a trained faculty, but also what species of trained faculty it is.
We may safely assert that the virtue or excellence of a thing causes that thing both to be itself in good condition and to perform its function well. The excellence of the eye, for instance, makes both the eye and its work good; for it is by the excellence of the eye that we see well. So the proper excellence of the horse makes a horse what he should be, and makes him good at running, and carrying his rider, and standing a charge.
If, then, this holds good in all cases, the proper excellence or virtue of man will be the habit or trained faculty that makes a man good and makes him perform his function well.
How this is to be done we have already said, but we may exhibit the same conclusion in another way, by inquiring what the nature of this virtue is.
Now, if we have any quantity, whether continuous or discrete,* it is possible to take either a larger [or too large], or a smaller [or too small], or an equal [or fair] amount, and that either absolutely or relatively to our own needs.
By an equal or fair amount I understand a mean amount, or one that lies between excess and deficiency.
By the absolute mean, or mean relatively to the thing itself, I understand that which is equidistant from both extremes, and this is one and the same for all.
By the mean relatively to us I understand that which is neither too much nor too little for us; and this is not one and the same for all.
For instance, if ten be larger [or too large] and two be smaller [or too small], if we take six we take the mean relatively to the thing itself [or the arithmetical mean]; for it exceeds one extreme by the same amount by which it is exceeded by the other extreme: and this is the mean in arithmetical proportion.
But the mean relatively to us cannot be found in this way. If ten pounds of food is too much for a given man to eat, and two pounds too little, it does not follow that the trainer will order him six pounds: for that also may perhaps be too much for the man in question, or too little; too little for Milo, too much for the beginner. The same holds true in running and wrestling.
And so we may say generally that a master in any art avoids what is too much and what is too little, and seeks for the mean and chooses it—not the absolute but the relative mean.
If, then, every art or science perfects its work in this way, looking to the mean and bringing its work up to this standard (so that people are wont to say of a good work that nothing could be taken from it or added to it, implying that excellence is destroyed by excess or deficiency, but secured by observing the mean; and good artists, as we say, do in fact keep their eyes fixed on this in all that they do), and if virtue, like nature, is more exact and better than any art, it follows that virtue also must aim at the mean—virtue of course meaning moral virtue or excellence; for it has to do with passions and actions, and it is these that admit of excess and deficiency and the mean. For instance, it is possible to feel fear, confidence, desire, anger, pity, and generally to be affected pleasantly and painfully, either too much or too little, in either case wrongly; but to be thus affected at the right times, and on the right occasions, and towards the right persons, and with the right object, and in the right fashion, is the mean course and the best course, and these are characteristics of virtue. And in the same way our outward acts also admit of excess and deficiency, and the mean or due amount.
Virtue, then, has to deal with feelings or passions and with outward acts, in which excess is wrong and deficiency also is blamed, but the mean amount is praised and is right—both of which are characteristics of virtue.
Virtue, then, is a kind of moderation (μεσότης τις),* inasmuch as it aims at the mean or moderate amount (τὸ μέσον).
Again, there are many ways of going wrong (for evil is infinite in nature, to use a Pythagorean figure, while good is finite), but only one way of going right; so that the one is easy and the other hard—easy to miss the mark and hard to hit. On this account also, then, excess and deficiency are characteristic of vice, hitting the mean is characteristic of virtue:
“Goodness is simple, ill takes any shape.”
Virtue, then, is a habit or trained faculty of choice, the characteristic of which lies in moderation or observance of the mean relatively to the persons concerned, as determined by reason, i.e. by the reason by which the prudent man would determine it. And it is a moderation, firstly, inasmuch as it comes in the middle or mean between two vices, one on the side of excess, the other on the side of defect; and, secondly, inasmuch as, while these vices fall short of or exceed the due measure in feeling and in action, it finds and chooses the mean, middling, or moderate amount.
Regarded in its essence, therefore, or according to the definition of its nature, virtue is a moderation or middle state, but viewed in its relation to what is best and right it is the extreme of perfection.
But it is not all actions nor all passions that admit of moderation; there are some whose very names imply badness, as malevolence, shamelessness, envy, and, among acts, adultery, theft, murder. These and all other like things are blamed as being bad in themselves, and not merely in their excess or deficiency. It is impossible therefore to go right in them; they are always wrong: rightness and wrongness in such things (e.g. in adultery) does not depend upon whether it is the right person and occasion and manner, but the mere doing of any one of them is wrong.
It would be equally absurd to look for moderation or excess or deficiency in unjust cowardly or profligate conduct; for then there would be moderation in excess or deficiency, and excess in excess, and deficiency in deficiency.
The fact is that just as there can be no excess or deficiency in temperance or courage because the mean or moderate amount is, in a sense, an extreme, so in these kinds of conduct also there can be no moderation or excess or deficiency, but the acts are wrong however they be done. For, to put it generally, there cannot be moderation in excess or deficiency, nor excess or deficiency in moderation.
7.
This must be applied to the several virtues.
But it is not enough to make these general statements [about virtue and vice]: we must go on and apply them to particulars [i.e. to the several virtues and vices]. For in reasoning about matters of conduct general statements are too vague,* and do not convey so much truth as particular propositions. It is with particulars that conduct is concerned:† our statements, therefore, when applied to these particulars, should be found to hold good.
These particulars then [i.e. the several virtues and vices and the several acts and affections with which they deal], we will take from the following table.‡
Moderation in the feelings of fear and confidence is courage: of those that exceed, he that exceeds in fearlessness has no name (as often happens), but he that exceeds in confidence is foolhardy, while he that exceeds in fear, but is deficient in confidence, is cowardly.
Moderation in respect of certain pleasures and also (though to a less extent) certain pains is temperance, while excess is profligacy. But defectiveness in the matter of these pleasures is hardly ever found, and so this sort of people also have as yet received no name: let us put them down as “void of sensibility.”
In the matter of giving and taking money, moderation is liberality, excess and deficiency are prodigality and illiberality. But both vices exceed and fall short in giving and taking in contrary ways: the prodigal exceeds in spending, but falls short in taking; while the illiberal man exceeds in taking, but falls short in spending. (For the present we are but giving an outline or summary, and aim at nothing more; we shall afterwards treat these points in greater detail.)
But, besides these, there are other dispositions in the matter of money: there is a moderation which is called magnificence (for the magnificent is not the same as the liberal man: the former deals with large sums, the latter with small), and an excess which is called bad taste or vulgarity, and a deficiency which is called meanness; and these vices differ from those which are opposed to liberality: how they differ will be explained later.
With respect to honour and disgrace, there is a moderation which is high-mindedness, an excess which may be called vanity, and a deficiency which is little-mindedness.
But just as we said that liberality is related to magnificence, differing only in that it deals with small sums, so here there is a virtue related to high-mindedness, and differing only in that it is concerned with small instead of great honours. A man may have a due desire for honour, and also more or less than a due desire: he that carries this desire to excess is called ambitious, he that has not enough of it is called unambitious, but he that has the due amount has no name. There are also no abstract names for the characters, except “ambition,” corresponding to ambitious. And on this account those who occupy the extremes lay claim to the middle place. And in common parlance, too, the moderate man is sometimes called ambitious and sometimes unambitious, and sometimes the ambitious man is praised and sometimes the unambitious. Why this is we will explain afterwards; for the present we will follow out our plan and enumerate the other types of character.
In the matter of anger also we find excess and deficiency and moderation. The characters themselves hardly have recognized names, but as the moderate man is here called gentle, we will call his character gentleness; of those who go into extremes, we may take the term wrathful for him who exceeds, with wrathfulness for the vice, and wrathless for him who is deficient, with wrathlessness for his character.
Besides these, there are three kinds of moderation, bearing some resemblance to one another, and yet different. They all have to do with intercourse in speech and action, but they differ in that one has to do with the truthfulness of this intercourse, while the other two have to do with its pleasantness—one of the two with pleasantness in matters of amusement, the other with pleasantness in all the relations of life. We must therefore speak of these qualities also in order that we may the more plainly see how, in all cases, moderation is praiseworthy, while the extreme courses are neither right nor praiseworthy, but blamable.
In these cases also names are for the most part wanting, but we must try, here as elsewhere, to coin names ourselves, in order to make our argument clear and easy to follow.
In the matter of truth, then, let us call him who observes the mean a true [or truthful] person, and observance of the mean truth [or truthfulness]: pretence, when it exaggerates, may be called boasting, and the person a boaster; when it understates, let the names be irony and ironical.
With regard to pleasantness in amusement, he who observes the mean may be called witty, and his character wittiness; excess may be called buffoonery, and the man a buffoon; while boorish may stand for the person who is deficient, and boorishness for his character.
With regard to pleasantness in the other affairs of life, he who makes himself properly pleasant may be called friendly, and his moderation friendliness; he that exceeds may be called obsequious if he have no ulterior motive, but a flatterer if he has an eye to his own advantage; he that is deficient in this respect, and always makes himself disagreeable, may be called a quarrelsome or peevish fellow.
Moreover, in mere emotions* and in our conduct with regard to them, there are ways of observing the mean; for instance, shame (αἰδώς), is not a virtue, but yet the modest (αἰδήμων) man is praised. For in these matters also we speak of this man as observing the mean, of that man as going beyond it (as the shame-faced man whom the least thing makes shy), while he who is deficient in the feeling, or lacks it altogether, is called shameless; but the term modest (αἰδήμων) is applied to him who observes the mean.
Righteous indignation, again, hits the mean between envy and malevolence. These have to do with feelings of pleasure and pain at what happens to our neighbours. A man is called righteously indignant when he feels pain at the sight of undeserved prosperity, but your envious man goes beyond him and is pained by the sight of any one in prosperity, while the malevolent man is so far from being pained that he actually exults in the misfortunes of his neighbours.
But we shall have another opportunity of discussing these matters.
As for justice, the term is used in more senses than one; we will, therefore, after disposing of the above questions, distinguish these various senses, and show how each of these kinds of justice is a kind of moderation.
And then we will treat of the intellectual virtues in the same way.
8.
The two vicious extremes are opposed to one another and to the intermediate virtue.
There are, as we said, three classes of disposition, viz. two kinds of vice, one marked by excess, the other by deficiency, and one kind of virtue, the observance of the mean. Now, each is in a way opposed to each, for the extreme dispositions are opposed both to the mean or moderate disposition and to one another, while the moderate disposition is opposed to both the extremes. Just as a quantity which is equal to a given quantity is also greater when compared with a less, and less when compared with a greater quantity, so the mean or moderate dispositions exceed as compared with the defective dispositions, and fall short as compared with the excessive dispositions, both in feeling and in action; e.g. the courageous man seems foolhardy as compared with the coward, and cowardly as compared with the foolhardy; and similarly the temperate man appears profligate in comparison with the insensible, and insensible in comparison with the profligate man; and the liberal man appears prodigal by the side of the illiberal man, and illiberal by the side of the prodigal man.
And so the extreme characters try to displace the mean or moderate character, and each represents him as falling into the opposite extreme, the coward calling the courageous man foolhardy, the foolhardy calling him coward, and so on in other cases.
But while the mean and the extremes are thus opposed to one another, the extremes are strictly contrary to each other rather than to the mean; for they are further removed from one another than from the mean, as that which is greater than a given magnitude is further from that which is less, and that which is less is further from that which is greater, than either the greater or the less is from that which is equal to the given magnitude.
Sometimes, again, an extreme, when compared with the mean, has a sort of resemblance to it, as foolhardiness to courage, or prodigality to liberality; but there is the greatest possible dissimilarity between the extremes.
Again, “things that are as far as possible removed from each other” is the accepted definition of contraries, so that the further things are removed from each other the more contrary they are.
In comparison with the mean, however, it is sometimes the deficiency that is the more opposed, and sometimes the excess; e.g. foolhardiness, which is excess, is not so much opposed to courage as cowardice, which is deficiency; but insensibility, which is lack of feeling, is not so much opposed to temperance as profligacy, which is excess.
The reasons for this are two. One is the reason derived from the nature of the matter itself: since one extreme is, in fact, nearer and more similar to the mean, we naturally do not oppose it to the mean so strongly as the other; e.g. as foolhardiness seems more similar to courage and nearer to it, and cowardice more dissimilar, we speak of cowardice as the opposite rather than the other: for that which is further removed from the mean seems to be more opposed to it.
This, then, is one reason, derived from the nature of the thing itself. Another reason lies in ourselves: and it is this—those things to which we happen to be more prone by nature appear to be more opposed to the mean: e.g. our natural inclination is rather towards indulgence in pleasure, and so we more easily fall into profligate than into regular habits: those courses, then, in which we are more apt to run to great lengths are spoken of as more opposed to the mean; and thus profligacy, which is an excess, is more opposed to temperance than the deficiency is.
9.
The mean hard to hit, and is a matter of perception, not of reasoning.
We have sufficiently explained, then, that moral virtue is moderation or observance of the mean, and in what sense, viz. (1) as holding a middle position between two vices, one on the side of excess, and the other on the side of deficiency, and (2) as aiming at the mean or moderate amount both in feeling and in action.
And on this account it is a hard thing to be good; for finding the middle or the mean in each case is a hard thing, just as finding the middle or centre of a circle is a thing that is not within the power of everybody, but only of him who has the requisite knowledge.
Thus any one can be angry—that is quite easy; any one can give money away or spend it: but to do these things to the right person, to the right extent, at the right time, with the right object, and in the right manner, is not what everybody can do, and is by no means easy; and that is the reason why right doing is rare and praiseworthy and noble.
He that aims at the mean, then, should first of all strive to avoid that extreme which is more opposed to it, as Calypso* bids Ulysses—
“Clear of these smoking breakers keep thy ship.”
For of the extremes one is more dangerous, the other less. Since then it is hard to hit the mean precisely, we must “row when we cannot sail,” as the proverb has it, and choose the least of two evils; and that will be best effected in the way we have described.
And secondly we must consider, each for himself, what we are most prone to—for different natures are inclined to different things—which we may learn by the pleasure or pain we feel. And then we must bend ourselves in the opposite direction; for by keeping well away from error we shall fall into the middle course, as we straighten a bent stick by bending it the other way.
But in all cases we must be especially on our guard against pleasant things, and against pleasure; for we can scarce judge her impartially. And so, in our behaviour towards her, we should imitate the behaviour of the old counsellors towards Helen,* and in all cases repeat their saying: if we dismiss her we shall be less likely to go wrong.
This then, in outline, is the course by which we shall best be able to hit the mean.
But it is a hard task, we must admit, especially in a particular case. It is not easy to determine, for instance, how and with whom one ought to be angry, and upon what grounds, and for how long; for public opinion sometimes praises those who fall short, and calls them gentle, and sometimes applies the term manly to those who show a harsh temper.
In fact, a slight error, whether on the side of excess or deficiency, is not blamed, but only a considerable error; for then there can be no mistake. But it is hardly possible to determine by reasoning how far or to what extent a man must err in order to incur blame; and indeed matters that fall within the scope of perception never can be so determined. Such matters lie within the region of particulars, and can only be determined by perception.
So much then is plain, that the middle character is in all cases to be praised, but that we ought to incline sometimes towards excess, sometimes towards deficiency; for in this way we shall most easily hit the mean and attain to right doing.
BOOK III.
CHAPTERS 1–5.
THE WILL.
1.
An act is involuntary when done (a) under compulsion, or (b) through ignorance: (a) means not originated by doer, (b) means through ignorance of the circumstances: voluntary then means originated with knowledge of circumstances.
Virtue, as we have seen, has to do with feelings and actions. Now, praise* or blame is given only to what is voluntary; that which is involuntary receives pardon, and sometimes even pity.
It seems, therefore, that a clear distinction between the voluntary and the involuntary is necessary for those who are investigating the nature of virtue, and will also help legislators in assigning rewards and punishments.
That is generally held to be involuntary which is done under compulsion or through ignorance.
“Done under compulsion” means that the cause is external, the agent or patient contributing nothing towards it; as, for instance, if he were carried somewhere by a whirlwind or by men whom he could not resist.
But there is some question about acts done in order to avoid a greater evil, or to obtain some noble end; e.g. if a tyrant were to order you to do something disgraceful, having your parents or children in his power, who were to live if you did it, but to die if you did not—it is a matter of dispute whether such acts are involuntary or voluntary.
Throwing a cargo overboard in a storm is a somewhat analogous case. No one voluntarily throws away his property if nothing is to come of it,* but any sensible person would do so to save the life of himself and the crew.
Acts of this kind, then, are of a mixed nature, but they more nearly resemble voluntary acts. For they are desired or chosen at the time when they are done, and the end or motive of an act is that which is in view at the time. In applying the terms voluntary and involuntary, therefore, we must consider the state of the agent’s mind at the time. Now, he wills the act at the time; for the cause which sets the limbs going lies in the agent in such cases, and where the cause lies in the agent, it rests with him to do or not to do.
Such acts, then, are voluntary, though in themselves [or apart from these qualifying circumstances] we may allow them to be involuntary; for no one would choose anything of this kind on its own account.
And, in fact, for actions of this sort men are sometimes praised,†e.g. when they endure something disgraceful or painful in order to secure some great and noble result: but in the contrary case they are blamed; for no worthy person would endure the extremity of disgrace when there was no noble result in view, or but a trifling one.
But in some cases we do not praise, but pardon, i.e. when a man is induced to do a wrong act by pressure which is too strong for human nature and which no one could bear. Though there are some cases of this kind, I think, where the plea of compulsion is inadmissible,* and where, rather than do the act, a man ought to suffer death in its most painful form; for instance, the circumstances which “compelled” Alcmæon in Euripides† to kill his mother seem absurd.
It is sometimes hard to decide whether we ought to do this deed to avoid this evil, or whether we ought to endure this evil rather than do this deed; but it is still harder to abide by our decisions: for generally the evil which we wish to avoid is something painful, the deed we are pressed to do is something disgraceful; and hence we are blamed or praised according as we do or do not suffer ourselves to be compelled.
What kinds of acts, then, are to be called compulsory?
I think our answer must be that, in the first place, when the cause lies outside and the agent has no part in it, the act is called, without qualification, “compulsory” [and therefore involuntary]; but that, in the second place, when an act that would not be voluntarily done for its own sake is chosen now in preference to this given alternative, the cause lying in the agent, such an act must be called “involuntary in itself,” or “in the abstract,” but “now, and in preference to this alternative, voluntary.” But an act of the latter kind is rather of the nature of a voluntary act: for acts fall within the sphere of particulars; and here the particular thing that is done is voluntary.
It is scarcely possible, however, to lay down rules for determining which of two alternatives is to be preferred; for there are many differences in the particular cases.
It might, perhaps, be urged that acts whose motive is something pleasant or something noble are compulsory, for here we are constrained by something outside us.
But if this were so,* all our acts would be compulsory; for these are the motives of every act of every man.†
Again, acting under compulsion and against one’s will is painful, but action whose motive is something pleasant or noble involves pleasure.‡ It is absurd, then, to blame things outside us instead of our own readiness to yield to their allurements, and, while we claim our noble acts as our own, to set down our disgraceful actions to “pleasant things outside us.”
Compulsory, then, it appears, is that of which the cause is external, the person compelled contributing nothing thereto.
What is done through ignorance is always “not-voluntary,” but is “involuntary”* when the agent is pained afterwards and sorry when he finds what he has done.† For when a man, who has done something through ignorance, is not vexed at what he has done, you cannot indeed say that he did it voluntarily, as he did not know what he was doing, but neither can you say that he did it involuntarily or unwillingly, since he is not sorry.
A man who has acted through ignorance, then, if he is sorry afterwards, is held to have done the deed involuntarily or unwillingly; if he is not sorry afterwards we may say (to mark the distinction) he did the deed “not-voluntarily;” for, as the case is different, it is better to have a distinct name.
Acting through ignorance, however, seems to be different from acting in ignorance. For instance, when a man is drunk or in a rage he is not thought to act through ignorance, but through intoxication or rage, and yet not knowingly, but in ignorance.
Every vicious man, indeed, is ignorant of* what ought to be done and what ought not to be done, and it is this kind of error that makes men unjust and bad generally. But the term “involuntary” is not properly applied to cases in which a man is ignorant of what is fitting.† The ignorance that makes an act involuntary is not this ignorance of the principles which should determine preference (this constitutes vice),—not, I say, this ignorance of the universal (for we blame a man for this), but ignorance of the particulars, of the persons and things affected by the act. These are the grounds of pity and pardon; for he who is ignorant of any of these particulars acts involuntarily.
It may be as well, then, to specify what these particulars are, and how many. They are—first, the doer; secondly, the deed; and, thirdly, the object or person affected by it; sometimes also that wherewith (e.g. the instrument with which) it is done, and that for the sake of which it is done (e.g. for protection), and the way in which it is done (e.g. gently or violently.)
Now, a man cannot (unless he be mad) be ignorant of all these particulars; for instance, he evidently cannot be ignorant of the doer: for how can he not know himself?
But a man may be ignorant of what he is doing; e.g. a man who has said something will sometimes plead that the words escaped him unawares, or that he did not know that the subject was forbidden (as Æschylus pleaded in the case of the Mysteries); or a man might plead that when he discharged the weapon he only intended to show the working of it, as the prisoner did in the catapult case. Again, a man might mistake his son for an enemy, as Merope does,* or a sharp spear for one with a button, or a heavy stone for a pumice-stone. Again, one might kill a man with a drug intended to save him, or hit him hard when one wished merely to touch him (as boxers do when they spar with open hands).
Ignorance, then, being possible with regard to all these circumstances, he who is ignorant of any of them is held to have acted involuntarily, and especially when he is ignorant of the most important particulars; and the most important seem to be the persons affected and the result.†
Besides this, however, the agent must be grieved and sorry for what he has done, if the act thus ignorantly committed is to be called involuntary [not merely not-voluntary].
But now, having found that an act is involuntary when done under compulsion or through ignorance, we may conclude that a voluntary act is one which is originated by the doer with knowledge of the particular circumstances of the act.
For I venture to think that it is incorrect to say that acts done through anger or desire are involuntary.
In the first place, if this be so we can no longer allow that any of the other animals act voluntarily, nor even children.
Again, does the saying mean that none of the acts which we do through desire or anger are voluntary, or that the noble ones are voluntary and the disgraceful ones involuntary? Interpreted in the latter sense, it is surely ridiculous, as the cause of both is the same. If we take the former interpretation, it is absurd, I think, to say that we ought to desire a thing, and also to say that its pursuit is involuntary; but, in fact, there are things at which we ought to be angry, and things which we ought to desire, e.g. health and learning.
Again, it seems that what is done unwillingly is painful, while what is done through desire is pleasant.
Again, what difference is there, in respect of involuntariness, between wrong deeds done upon calculation and wrong deeds done in anger? Both alike are to be avoided, but the unreasoning passions or feelings seem to belong to the man just as much as does the reason, so that the acts that are done under the impulse of anger or desire are also the man’s acts.* To make such actions involuntary, therefore, would be too absurd.
2.
Purpose, a mode of will, means choice after deliberation.
Now that we have distinguished voluntary from involuntary acts, our next task is to discuss choice or purpose. For it seems to be most intimately connected with virtue, and to be a surer test of character than action itself.
It seems that choosing is willing, but that the two terms are not identical, willing being the wider. For children and other animals have will, but not choice or purpose; and acts done upon the spur of the moment are said to be voluntary, but not to be done with deliberate purpose.
Those who say that choice is appetite, or anger, or wish, or an opinion of some sort, do not seem to give a correct account of it.
In the first place, choice is not shared by irrational creatures, but appetite and anger are.
Again, the incontinent man acts from appetite and not from choice or purpose, the continent man from purpose and not from appetite.
Again, appetite may be contrary to purpose, but one appetite can not be contrary to another appetite.*
Again, the object of appetite [or aversion] is the pleasant or the painful, but the object of purpose [as such] is neither painful nor pleasant.
Still less can purpose be anger (θυμός); for acts done in anger seem to be least of all done of purpose or deliberate choice.
Nor yet is it wish, though it seem very like; for we cannot purpose or deliberately choose the impossible, and a man who should say that he did would be thought a fool; but we may wish for the impossible, e.g. to escape death.
Again, while we may wish what never could be effected by our own agency (e.g. the success of a particular actor or athlete), we never purpose or deliberately choose such things, but only those that we think may be effected by our own agency.
Again, we are more properly said to wish the end, to choose the means; e.g. we wish to be healthy, but we choose what will make us healthy: we wish to be happy, and confess the wish, but it would not be correct to say we purpose or deliberately choose to be happy; for we may say roundly that purpose or choice deals with what is in our power.
Nor can it be opinion; for, in the first place, anything may be matter of opinion—what is unalterable and impossible no less than what is in our power; and, in the second place, we distinguish opinion according as it is true or false, not according as it is good or bad, as we do with purpose or choice.
We may say, then, that purpose is not the same as opinion in general; nor, indeed, does any one maintain this.
But, further, it is not identical with a particular kind of opinion. For our choice of good or evil makes us morally good or bad, holding certain opinions does not.
Again, we choose to take or to avoid a good or evil thing; we opine what its nature is, or what it is good for, or in what way; but we cannot opine to take or to avoid.
Again, we commend a purpose for its rightness or correctness, an opinion for its truth.
Again, we choose a thing when we know well that it is good; we may have an opinion about a thing of which we know nothing.
Again, it seems that those who are best at choosing are not always the best at forming opinions, but that some who have an excellent judgment fail, through depravity, to choose what they ought.
It may be said that choice or purpose must be preceded or accompanied by an opinion or judgment; but this makes no difference: our question is not that, but whether they are identical.
What, then, is choice or purpose, since it is none of these?
It seems, as we said, that what is chosen or purposed is willed, but that what is willed is not always chosen or purposed.
The required differentia, I think, is “after previous deliberation.” For choice or purpose implies calculation and reasoning. The name itself, too, seems to indicate this, implying that something is chosen before or in preference to other things.*
3.
We deliberate on what we can do—not on ends, but means.
Now, as to deliberation, do we deliberate about everything, and may anything whatever be matter for deliberation, or are there some things about which deliberation is impossible?
By “matter for deliberation” we should understand, I think, not what a fool or a maniac, but what a rational being would deliberate about.
Now, no one deliberates about eternal or unalterable things, e.g. the system of the heavenly bodies, or the incommensurability of the side and the diagonal of a square.
Again, no one deliberates about things which change, but always change in the same way (whether the cause of change be necessity, or nature, or any other agency), e.g. the solstices and the sunrise;* nor about things that are quite irregular, like drought and wet; nor about matters of chance, like the finding of a treasure.
Again, even human affairs are not always matter of deliberation; e.g. what would be the best constitution for Scythia is a question that no Spartan would deliberate about.
The reason why we do not deliberate about these things is that none of them are things that we can ourselves effect.
But the things that we do deliberate about are matters of conduct that are within our control. And these are the only things that remain; for besides nature and necessity and chance, the only remaining cause of change is reason and human agency in general. Though we must add that men severally deliberate about what they can themselves do.
A further limitation is that where there is exact and absolute knowledge, there is no room for deliberation; e.g. writing: for there is no doubt how the letters should be formed.
We deliberate, then, about things that are brought about by our own agency, but not always in the same way; e.g. about medicine and money-making, and about navigation more than about gymnastic, inasmuch as it is not yet reduced to so perfect a system, and so on; but more about matters of art than matters of science, as there is more doubt about them.
Matters of deliberation, then, are matters in which there are rules that generally hold good, but in which the result cannot be predicted, i.e. in which there is an element of uncertainty. In important matters we call in advisers, distrusting our own powers of judgment.
It is not about ends, but about means that we deliberate. A physician does not deliberate whether he shall heal, nor an orator whether he shall persuade, nor a statesman whether he shall make a good system of laws, nor a man in any other profession about his end; but, having the proposed end in view, we consider how and by what means this end can be attained; and if it appear that it can be attained by various means, we further consider which is the easiest and best; but if it can only be attained by one means, we consider how it is to be attained by this means, and how this means itself is to be secured, and so on, until we come to the first link in the chain of causes, which is last in the order of discovery.
For in deliberation we seem to inquire and to analyze in the way described, just as we analyze a geometrical figure in order to learn how to construct it* (and though inquiry is not always deliberation—mathematical inquiry, for instance, is not—deliberation is always inquiry); that which is last in the analysis coming first in the order of construction.
If we come upon something impossible, we give up the plan; e.g. if it needs money, and money cannot be got: but if it appear possible, we set to work. By possible I mean something that can be done by us; and what can be done by our friends can in a manner be done by us; for it is we who set our friends to work.
Sometimes we have to find out instruments, sometimes how to use them; and so on with the rest: sometimes we have to find out what agency will produce the desired effect, sometimes how or through whom this agency is to be set at work.
It appears, then, that a man, as we have already said, originates his acts; but that he deliberates about that which he can do himself, and that what he does is done for the sake of something else.† For he cannot deliberate about the end, but about the means to the end; nor, again, can he deliberate about particular facts, e.g. whether this be a loaf, or whether it be properly backed: these are matters of immediate perception. And if he goes on deliberating for ever he will never come to a conclusion.
But the object of deliberation and the object of choice or purpose are the same, except that the latter is already fixed and determined; when we say, “this is chosen” or “purposed,” we mean that it has been selected after deliberation. For we always stop in our inquiry how to do a thing when we have traced back the chain of causes to ourselves, and to the commanding part of ourselves; for this is the part that chooses.
This may be illustrated by the ancient constitutions which Homer describes; for there the kings announce to the people what they have chosen.
Since, then, a thing is said to be chosen or purposed when, being in our power, it is desired after deliberation, choice or purpose may be defined as deliberate desire for something in our power; for we first deliberate, and then, having made our decision thereupon, we desire in accordance with deliberation.
Let this stand, then, for an account in outline of choice or purpose, and of what it deals with, viz. means to ends.
4.
We wish for
Wish, we have already said, is for the end; but whereas some hold that the object of wish is the good others hold that it is what seems good.
Those who maintain that the object of wish* is the good have to admit that what those wish for who choose wrongly is not object of wish (for if so it would be good; but it may so happen that it was bad); on the other hand, those who maintain that the object of wish is what seems good have to admit that there is nothing which is naturally object of wish, but that each wishes for what seems good to him—different and even contrary things seeming good to different people.
As neither of these alternatives quite satisfies us, perhaps we had better say that the good is the real object of wish (without any qualifying epithet), but that what seems good is object of wish to each man. The good man, then, wishes for the real object of wish; but what the bad man wishes for may be anything whatever; just as, with regard to the body, those who are in good condition find those things healthy that are really healthy, while those who are diseased find other things healthy (and it is just the same with things bitter, sweet, hot, heavy, etc.): for the good or ideal man judges each case correctly, and in each case what is true seems true to him.
For, corresponding to each of our trained faculties, there is a special form of the noble and the pleasant, and perhaps there is nothing so distinctive of the good or ideal man as the power he has of discerning these special forms in each case, being himself, as it were, their standard and measure.
What misleads people seems to be in most cases pleasure; it seems to be a good thing, even when it is not. So they choose what is pleasant as good, and shun pain as evil.
5.
Virtue and vice are alike voluntary, our acts are our own; for we are punished for them; if this be our character, we have made it by repeated acts; even bodily vices are blamable when thus formed. We cannot plead that our notion of good depends on our nature; for (1) vice would still be as voluntary as virtue, (2) we help to make ourselves what we are.
We have seen that, while we wish for the end, we deliberate upon and choose the means thereto.
Actions that are concerned with means, then, will be guided by choice, and so will be voluntary.
But the acts in which the virtues are manifested are concerned with means.*
Therefore virtue depends upon ourselves: and vice likewise. For where it lies with us to do, it lies with us not to do. Where we can say no, we can say yes. If then the doing a deed, which is noble, lies with us, the not doing it, which is disgraceful, lies with us; and if the not doing, which is noble, lies with us, the doing, which is disgraceful, also lies with us. But if the doing and likewise the not doing of noble or base deeds lies with us, and if this is, as we found, identical with being good or bad, then it follows that it lies with us to be worthy or worthless men.
And so the saying—
“None would be wicked, none would not be blessed,”
seems partly false and partly true: no one indeed is blessed against his will; but vice is voluntary.
If we deny this, we must dispute the statements made just now, and must contend that man is not the originator and the parent of his actions, as of his children.
But if those statements commend themselves to us, and if we are unable to trace our acts to any other sources than those that depend upon ourselves, then that whose source is within us must itself depend upon us and be voluntary.
This seems to be attested, moreover, by each one of us in private life, and also by the legislators; for they correct and punish those that do evil (except when it is done under compulsion, or through ignorance for which the agent is not responsible), and honour those that do noble deeds, evidently intending to encourage the one sort and discourage the other. But no one encourages us to do that which does not depend on ourselves, and which is not voluntary: it would be useless to be persuaded not to feel heat or pain or hunger and so on, as we should feel them all the same.
I say “ignorance for which the agent is not responsible,” for the ignorance itself is punished by the law, if the agent appear to be responsible for his ignorance, e.g. for an offence committed in a fit of drunkenness the penalty is doubled: for the origin of the offence lies in the man himself; he might have avoided the intoxication, which was the cause of his ignorance. Again, ignorance of any of the ordinances of the law, which a man ought to know and easily can know, does not avert punishment. And so in other cases, where ignorance seems to be the result of negligence, the offender is punished, since it lay with him to remove this ignorance; for he might have taken the requisite trouble.
It may be objected that it was the man’s character not to take the trouble.
We reply that men are themselves responsible for acquiring such a character by a dissolute life, and for being unjust or profligate in consequence of repeated acts of wrong, or of spending their time in drinking and so on. For it is repeated acts of a particular kind that give a man a particular character.
This is shown by the way in which men train themselves for any kind of contest or performance: they practise continually.
Not to know, then, that repeated acts of this or that kind produce a corresponding character or habit, shows an utter want of sense.
Moreover, it is absurd to say that he who acts unjustly does not wish to be unjust, or that he who behaves profligately does not wish to be profligate.
But if a man knowingly does acts which must make him unjust, he will be voluntarily unjust; though it does not follow that, if he wishes it, he can cease to be unjust and be just, any more than he who is sick can, if he wishes it, be whole. And it may be that he is voluntarily sick, through living incontinently and disobeying the doctor. At one time, then, he had the option not to be sick, but he no longer has it now that he has thrown away his health. When you have discharged a stone it is no longer in your power to call it back; but nevertheless the throwing and casting away of that stone rests with you; for the beginning of its flight depended upon you.*
Just so the unjust or the profligate man at the beginning was free not to acquire this character, and therefore he is voluntarily unjust or profligate; but now that he has acquired it, he is no longer free to put it off.
But it is not only our mental or moral vices that are voluntary; bodily vices also are sometimes voluntary, and then are censured. We do not censure natural ugliness, but we do censure that which is due to negligence and want of exercise. And so with weakness and infirmity: we should never reproach a man who was born blind, or had lost his sight in an illness or by a blow—we should rather pity him; but we should all censure a man who had blinded himself by excessive drinking or any other kind of profligacy.
We see, then, that of the vices of the body it is those that depend on ourselves that are censured, while those that do not depend on ourselves are not censured. And if this be so, then in other fields also those vices that are blamed must depend upon ourselves.
Some people may perhaps object to this.
“All men,” they may say, “desire that which appears good to them, but cannot control this appearance; a man’s character, whatever it be, decides what shall appear to him to be the end.”
If, I answer, each man be in some way responsible for his habits or character, then in some way he must be responsible for this appearance also.
But if this be not the case, then a man is not responsible for, or is not the cause of, his own evil doing, but it is through ignorance of the end that he does evil, fancying that thereby he will secure the greatest good: and the striving towards the true end does not depend on our own choice, but a man must be born with a gift of sight, so to speak, if he is to discriminate rightly and to choose what is really good: and he is truly well-born who is by nature richly endowed with this gift; for, as it is the greatest and the fairest gift, which we cannot acquire or learn from another, but must keep all our lives just as nature gave it to us, to be well and nobly born in this respect is to be well-born in the truest and completest sense.
Now, granting this to be true, how will virtue be any more voluntary than vice?
For whether it be nature or anything else that determines what shall appear to be the end, it is determined in the same way for both alike, for the good man as for the bad, and both alike refer all their acts of whatever kind to it.
And so whether we hold that it is not merely nature that decides what appears to each to be the end (whatever that be), but that the man himself contributes something; or whether we hold that the end is fixed by nature, but that virtue is voluntary, inasmuch as the good man voluntarily takes the steps to that end—in either case vice will be just as voluntary as virtue; for self is active in the bad man just as much as in the good man, in choosing the particular acts at least, if not in determining the end.
If then, as is generally allowed, the virtues are voluntary (for we do, in fact, in some way help to make our character, and, by being of a certain character, give a certain complexion to our idea of the end), the vices also must be voluntary; for all this applies equally to them.
We have thus described in outline the nature of the virtues in general, and have said that they are forms of moderation or modes of observing the mean, and that they are habits or trained faculties, and that they show themselves in the performance of the same acts which produce them, and that they depend on ourselves and are voluntary, and that they follow the guidance of right reason. But our particular acts are not voluntary in the same sense as our habits: for we are masters of our acts from beginning to end when we know the particular circumstances; but we are masters of the beginnings only of our habits or characters, while their growth by gradual steps is imperceptible, like the growth of disease. Inasmuch, however, as it lay with us to employ or not to employ our faculties in this way, the resulting characters are on that account voluntary.
Now let us take up each of the virtues again in turn, and say what it is, and what its subject is, and how it deals with it; and in doing this, we shall at the same time see how many they are. And, first of all, let us take courage.
CHAPTER 6.—
THE SEVERAL MORAL VIRTUES AND VICES.
6.
Of courage and the opposite vices.
We have already said that courage is moderation or observance of the mean with respect to feelings of fear and confidence.
Now, fear evidently is excited by fearful things, and these are, roughly speaking, evil things; and so fear is sometimes defined as “expectation of evil.”
Fear, then, is excited by evil of any kind, e g by disgrace, poverty, disease, friendlessness, death; but it does not appear that every kind gives scope for courage. There are things which we actually ought to fear, which it is noble to fear and base not to fear, e.g. disgrace. He who fears disgrace is an honourable man, with a due sense of shame, while he who fears it not is shameless (though some people stretch the word courageous so far as to apply it to him; for he has a certain resemblance to the courageous man, courage also being a kind of fearlessness). Poverty, perhaps, we ought not to fear, nor disease, nor generally those things that are not the result of vice, and do not depend upon ourselves. But still to be fearless in regard to these things is not strictly courage; though here also the term is sometimes applied in virtue of a certain resemblance. There are people, for instance, who, though cowardly in the presence of the dangers of war, are yet liberal and bold in the spending of money.
On the other hand, a man is not to be called cowardly for fearing outrage to his children or his wife, or for dreading envy and things of that kind, nor courageous for being unmoved by the prospect of a whipping.
In what kind of terrors, then, does the courageous man display his quality? Surely in the greatest; for no one is more able to endure what is terrible. But of all things the most terrible is death; for death is our limit, and when a man is once dead it seems that there is no longer either good or evil for him.
It would seem, however, that even death does not on all occasions give scope for courage, e.g. death by water or by disease.
On what occasions then? Surely on the noblest occasions: and those are the occasions which occur in war; for they involve the greatest and the noblest danger.
This is confirmed by the honours which courage receives in free states and at the hands of princes.
The term courageous, then, in the strict sense, will be applied to him who fearlessly faces an honourable death and all sudden emergencies which involve death; and such emergencies mostly occur in war.
Of course the courageous man is fearless in the presence of illness also, and at sea, but in a different way from the sailors; for the sailors, because of their experience, are full of hope when the landsmen are already despairing of their lives and filled with aversion at the thought of such a death.
Moreover, the circumstances which especially call out courage are those in which prowess may be displayed, or in which death is noble; but in these forms of death there is neither nobility nor room for prowess.
7.
Fear is not excited in all men by the same things, but yet we commonly speak of fearful things that surpass man’s power to face. Such things, then, inspire fear in every rational man. But the fearful things that a man may face differ in importance and in being more or less fearful (and so with the things that inspire confidence). Now, the courageous man always keeps his presence of mind (so far as a man can). So though he will fear these fearful things, he will endure them as he ought and as reason bids him, for the sake of that which is noble;* for this is the end or aim of virtue.
But it is possible to fear these things too much or too little, and again to take as fearful what is not really so. And thus men err sometimes by fearing the wrong things, sometimes by fearing in the wrong manner or at the wrong time, and so on.
And all this applies equally to things that inspire confidence.
He, then, that endures and fears what he ought from the right motive, and in the right manner, and at the right time, and similarly feels confidence, is courageous.
For the courageous man regulates both his feeling and his action according to the merits of each case and as reason bids him.
But the end or motive of every manifestation of a habit or exercise of a trained faculty is the end or motive of the habit or trained faculty itself.
Now, to the courageous man courage is essentially a fair or noble thing.
Therefore the end or motive of his courage is also noble; for everything takes its character from its end.
It is from a noble motive, therefore, that the courageous man endures and acts courageously in each particular case.*
Of the characters that run to excess, he that exceeds in fearlessness has no name (and this is often the case, as we have said before); but a man would be either a maniac or quite insensible to pain who should fear nothing, not even earthquakes and breakers, as they say is the case with the Celts.
He that is over-confident in the presence of fearful things is called foolhardy. But the foolhardy man is generally thought to be really a braggart, and to pretend a courage which he has not: at least he wishes to seem what the courageous man really is in the presence of danger; so he imitates him where he can. And so your foolhardy man is generally a coward at bottom: he blusters so long as he can do so safely,* but turns tail when real danger comes.
He who is over-fearful is a coward; for he fears what he ought not, and as he ought not, etc.
He is also deficient in confidence; but his character rather displays itself in excess of fear in the presence of pain.
The coward is also despondent, for he is frightened at everything. But it is the contrary with the courageous man; for confidence implies hopefulness.
Thus the coward and the foolhardy and the courageous man display their characters in the same circumstances, behaving differently under them: for while the former exceed or fall short, the latter behaves moderately and as he ought; and while the foolhardy are precipitate and eager before danger comes, but fall away in its presence, the courageous are keen in action, but quiet enough beforehand.
Courage then, as we have said, is observance of the mean with regard to things that excite confidence or fear, under the circumstances which we have specified, and chooses its course and sticks to its post because it is noble to do so, or because it is disgraceful not to do so.
But to seek death as a refuge from poverty, or love, or any painful thing, is not the act of a brave man, but of a coward. For it is effeminacy thus to fly from vexation; and in such a case death is accepted not because it is noble, but simply as an escape from evil.
8.
Of courage improperly so called.
Courage proper, then, is something of this sort. But besides this there are five other kinds of courage so called.
First, “political courage,” which most resembles true courage.
Citizens seem often to face dangers because of legal pains and penalties on the one hand, and honours on the other. And on this account the people seem to be most courageous in those states where cowards are disgraced and brave men honoured.
This, too, is the kind of courage which inspires Homer’s characters, e.g. Diomede and Hector.
“Polydamas will then reproach me first,”*
says Hector; and so Diomede:
- “Hector one day will speak among his folk
- And say, ‘The son of Tydeus at my hand—‘”†
This courage is most like that which we described above, because its impulse is a virtuous one, viz-a sense of honour (αἰδώς), and desire for a noble thing (glory), and aversion to reproach, which is disgraceful.
We might, perhaps, put in the same class men who are forced to fight by their officers; but they are inferior, inasmuch as what impels them is not a sense of honour, but fear, and what they shun is not disgrace, but pain. For those in authority compel them in Hector’s fashion—
- “Whoso is seen to skulk and shirk the fight
- Shall nowise save his carcase from the dogs.”‡
And the same thing is done by commanders who order their men to stand, and flog them if they run, or draw them up with a ditch in their rear, and so on: all alike, I mean, employ compulsion.
But a man ought to be courageous, not under compulsion, but because it is noble to be so.
Secondly, experience in this or that matter is sometimes thought to be a sort of courage; and this indeed is the ground of the Socratic notion that courage is knowledge.
This sort of courage is exhibited by various persons in various matters, but notably by regular troops in military affairs; for it seems that in war there are many occasions of groundless alarm, and with these the regulars are better acquainted; so they appear to be courageous, simply because the other troops do not understand the real state of the case.
Again, the regular troops by reason of their experience are more efficient both in attack and defence; for they are skilled in the use of their weapons, and are also furnished with the best kind of arms for both purposes. So they fight with the advantage of armed over unarmed men, or of trained over untrained men; for in athletic contests also it is not the bravest men that can fight best, but those who are strongest and have their bodies in the best order.
But these regular troops turn cowards whenever the danger rises to a certain height and they find themselves inferior in numbers and equipment; then they are the first to fly, while the citizen-troops stand and are cut to pieces, as happened at the temple of Hermes.* For the citizens deem it base to fly, and hold death preferable to saving their lives on these terms; but the regulars originally met the danger only because they fancied they were stronger, and run away when they learn the truth, fearing death more than disgrace. But that is not what we mean by courageous.
Thirdly, people sometimes include rage within the meaning of the term courage.
Those who in sheer rage turn like wild beasts on those who have wounded them are taken for courageous, because the courageous man also is full of rage; for rage is above all things eager to rush on danger; so we find in Homer, “Put might into his rage,” and “roused his wrath and rage,” and “fierce wrath breathed through his nostrils,” and “his blood boiled.” For all these expressions seem to signify the awakening and the bursting out of rage.
The truly courageous man, then, is moved to act by what is noble, rage helping him: but beasts are moved by pain, i.e. by blows or by fear; for in a wood or a marsh they do not attack man. And so beasts are not courageous, since it is pain and rage that drives them to rush on danger, without foreseeing any of the terrible consequences. If this be courage, then asses must be called courageous when they are hungry; for though you beat them they will not leave off eating. Adulterers also are moved to do many bold deeds by their lust.
Being driven to face danger by pain or rage, then, is not courage proper. However, this kind of courage, whose impulse is rage, seems to be the most natural, and, when deliberate purpose and the right motive are added to it, to become real courage.
Again, anger is a painful state, the act of revenge is pleasant; but those who fight from these motives [i.e. to avoid the pain or gain the pleasure] may fight well, but are not courageous: for they do not act because it is noble to act so, or as reason bids, but are driven by their passions; though they bear some resemblance to the courageous man.
Fourthly, the sanguine man is not properly called courageous: he is confident in danger because he has often won and has defeated many adversaries. The two resemble one another, since both are confident; but whereas the courageous man is confident for the reasons specified above, the sanguine man is confident because he thinks he is superior and will win without receiving a scratch. (People behave in the same sort of way when they get drunk; for then they become sanguine.) But when he finds that this is not the case, he runs away; while it is the character of the courageous man, as we saw, to face that which is terrible to a man even when he sees the danger, because it is noble to do so and base not to do so.
And so (it is thought) it needs greater courage to be fearless and cool in sudden danger than in danger that has been foreseen; for behaviour in the former case must be more directly the outcome of formed character, since it is less dependent on preparation. When we see what is coming we may choose to meet it, as the result of calculation and reasoning, but when it comes upon us suddenly we must choose according to our character.
Fifthly, those who are unaware of their danger sometimes appear to be courageous, and in fact are not very far removed from the sanguine persons we last spoke of, only they are inferior in that they have not necessarily any opinion of themselves, which the sanguine must have. And so while the latter hold their ground for some time, the former, whose courage was due to a false belief, run away the moment they perceive or suspect that the case is different; as the Argives did when they engaged the Spartans under the idea that they were Sicyonians.*
Thus we have described the character of the courageous man, and of those who are taken for courageous.
But there is another point to notice.
9.
How courage involves both pain and pleasure.
Courage is concerned, as we said, with feelings both of confidence and of fear, yet it is not equally concerned with both, but more with occasions of fear: it is the man who is cool and behaves as he ought on such occasions that is called courageous, rather than he who behaves thus on occasions that inspire confidence.
And so, as we said, men are called courageous for enduring painful things.
Courage, therefore, brings pain, and is justly praised; for it is harder to endure what is painful than to abstain from what is pleasant.
I do not, of course, mean to say that the end of courage is not pleasant, but that it seems to be hidden from view by the attendant circumstances, as is the case in gymnastic contests also. Boxers, for instance, have a pleasant end in view, that for which they strive, the crown and the honours; but the blows they receive are grievous to flesh and blood, and painful, and so are all the labours they undergo; and as the latter are many, while the end is small, the pleasantness of the end is hardly apparent.
If, then, the case of courage is analogous, death and wounds will be painful to the courageous man and against his will, but he endures them because it is noble to do so or base not to do so.
And the more he is endowed with every virtue, and the happier he is, the more grievous will death be to him; for life is more worth living to a man of his sort than to any one else, and he deprives himself knowingly of the very best things; and it is painful to do that. But he is no less courageous because he feels this pain; nay, we may say he is even more courageous, because in spite of it he chooses noble conduct in battle in preference to those good things.
Thus we see that the rule that the exercise of a virtue is pleasant* does not apply to all the virtues, except in so far as the end is attained.
Still there is, perhaps, no reason why men of this character should not be less efficient as soldiers than those who are not so courageous, but have nothing good to lose; for such men are reckless of risk, and will sell their lives for a small price.
Here let us close our account of courage; it will not be hard to gather an outline of its nature from what we have said.
10.
Of temperance.
After courage, let us speak of temperance, for these two seem to be the virtues of the irrational parts of our nature.
We have already said that temperance is moderation or observance of the mean with regard to pleasures (for it is not concerned with pains so much, nor in the same manner); profligacy also manifests itself in the same field.
Let us now determine what kind of pleasures these are.
First, let us accept as established the distinction between the pleasures of the body and the pleasures of the soul, such as the pleasures of gratified ambition or love of learning.
When he who loves honour or learning is delighted by that which he loves, it is not his body that is affected, but his mind. But men are not called either temperate or profligate for their behaviour with regard to these pleasures; nor for their behaviour with regard to any other pleasures that are not of the body. For instance, those who are fond of gossip and of telling stories, and spend their days in trifles, are called babblers, but not profligate; nor do we apply this term to those who are pained beyond measure at the loss of money or friends.
Temperance, then, will be concerned with the pleasures of the body, but not with all of these even: for those who delight in the use of their eyesight, in colours and forms and painting, are not called either temperate or profligate; and yet it would seem that it is possible to take delight in these things too as one ought, and also more or less than one ought.
And so with the sense of hearing: a man is never called profligate for taking an excessive delight in music or in acting, nor temperate for taking a proper delight in them.
Nor are these terms applied to those who delight (unless it be accidentally) in smells. We do not say that those who delight in the smell of fruit or roses or incense are profligate, but rather those who delight in the smell of unguents and savoury dishes; for the profligate delights in these smells because they remind him of the things that he lusts after.
You may, indeed, see other people taking delight in the smell of food when they are hungry; but only a profligate takes delight in such smells [constantly], as he alone is [constantly] lusting after such things.
The lower animals, moreover, do not get pleasure through these senses, except accidentally. It is not the scent of a hare that delights a dog, but the eating of it; only the announcement comes through his sense of smell. The lion rejoices not in the lowing of the ox, but in the devouring of him; but as the lowing announces that the ox is near, the lion appears to delight in the sound itself. So also, it is not seeing a stag or a wild goat that pleases him, but the anticipation of a meal.
Temperance and profligacy, then, have to do with those kinds of pleasure which are common to the lower animals, for which reason they seem to be slavish and brutal; I mean the pleasures of touch and taste.
Taste, however, seems to play but a small part here, or perhaps no part at all. For it is the function of taste to distinguish flavours, as is done by winetasters and by those who season dishes; but it is by no means this discrimination of objects that gives delight (to profligates, at any rate), but the actual enjoyment of them, the medium of which is always the sense of touch, alike in the pleasures of eating, of drinking, and of sexual intercourse.
And hence a certain gourmand wished that his throat were longer than a crane’s, thereby implying that his pleasure was derived from the sense of touch.
That sense, then, with which profligacy is concerned is of all senses the commonest or most widespread; and so profligacy would seem to be deservedly of all vices the most censured, inasmuch as it attaches not to our human, but to our animal nature.
To set one’s delight in things of this kind, then, and to love them more than all things, is brutish.
And further, the more manly sort even of the pleasures of touch are excluded from the sphere of profligacy, such as the pleasures which the gymnast finds in rubbing and the warm bath; for the profligate does not cultivate the sense of touch over his whole body, but in certain parts only.
11.
Now, of our desires or appetites some appear to be common to the race, others to be individual and acquired.
Thus the desire of food is natural [or common to the race]; every man when he is in want desires meat or drink, or sometimes both, and sexual intercourse, as Homer says, when he is young and vigorous.
But not all men desire to satisfy their wants in this or that particular way, nor do all desire the same things; and therefore such desire appears to be peculiar to ourselves, or individual.
Of course it is also partly natural: different people are pleased by different things, and yet there are some things which all men like better than others.
Firstly, then, in the matter of our natural or common desires but few err, and that only on one side, viz. on the side of excess; e.g. to eat or drink of whatever is set before you till you can hold no more is to exceed what is natural in point of quantity, for natural desire or appetite is for the filling of our want simply. And so such people are called “belly-mad,” implying that they fill their bellies too full.
It is only utterly slavish natures that acquire this vice.
Secondly, with regard to those pleasures that are individual [i.e. which attend the gratification of our individual desires] many people err in various ways.
Whereas people are called fond of this or that because they delight either in wrong things, or to an unusual degree, or in a wrong fashion, profligates exceed in all these ways. For they delight in some things in which they ought not to delight (since they are hateful things), and if it be right to delight in any of these things they delight in them more than is right and more than is usual.
It is plain, then, that excess in these pleasures is profligacy, and is a thing to be blamed.
But in respect of the corresponding pains the case is not the same here as it was with regard to courage: a man is not called temperate for bearing them, and profligate for not bearing them; but the profligate man is called profligate for being more pained than he ought at not getting certain pleasant things (his pain being caused by his pleasure* ), and the temperate man is called temperate because the absence of these pleasant things or the abstinence from them is not painful to him.
The profligate, then, desires all pleasant things or those that are most intensely pleasant, and is led by his desire so as to choose these in preference to all other things. And so he is constantly pained by failing to get them and by lusting after them: for all appetite involves pain; but it seems a strange thing to be pained for the sake of pleasure.
People who fall short in the matter of pleasure, and take less delight than they ought in these things, are hardly found at all; for this sort of insensibility is scarcely in human nature. And indeed even the lower animals discriminate kinds of food, and delight in some and not in others; and a being to whom nothing was pleasant, and who found no difference between one thing and another, would be very far removed from being a man. We have no name for such a being, because he does not exist.
But the temperate man observes the mean in these things. He takes no pleasure in those things that the profligate most delights in (but rather disdains them), nor generally in the wrong things, nor very much in any of these things,* and when they are absent he is not pained, nor does he desire them, or desires them but moderately, not more than he ought, nor at the wrong time, etc.; but those things which, being pleasant, at the same time conduce to health and good condition, he will desire moderately and in the right manner, and other pleasant things also, provided they are not injurious, or incompatible with what is noble, or beyond his means; for he who cares for them then, cares for them more than is fitting, and the temperate man is not apt to do that, but rather to be guided by right reason.
12.
How profligacy is more voluntary than cowardice.
Profligacy seems to be more voluntary than cowardice.
For a man is impelled to the former by pleasure, to the latter by pain; but pleasure is a thing we choose, while pain is a thing we avoid. Pain puts us beside ourselves and upsets the nature of the sufferer, while pleasure has no such effect. Profligacy, therefore, is more voluntary.
Profligacy is for these reasons more to be blamed than cowardice, and for another reason too, viz. that it is easier to train one’s self to behave rightly on these occasions [i.e. those in which profligacy is displayed]; for such occasions are constantly occurring in our lives, and the training involves no risk; but with occasions of fear the contrary is the case.
Again, it would seem that the habit of mind or character called cowardice is more voluntary than the particular acts in which it is exhibited. It is not painful to be a coward, but the occasions which exhibit cowardice put men beside themselves through fear of pain, so that they throw away their arms and altogether disgrace themselves; and hence these particular acts are even thought to be compulsory.
In the case of the profligate, on the contrary, the particular acts are voluntary (for they are done with appetite and desire), but the character itself less so; for no one desires to be a profligate.
The term “profligacy” we apply also to childish faults,* for they have some sort of resemblance. It makes no difference for our present purpose which of the two is named after the other, but it is plain that the later is named after the earlier.
And the metaphor, I think, is not a bad one: what needs “chastening” or “correction”† is that which inclines to base things and which has great powers of expansion. Now, these characteristics are nowhere so strongly marked as in appetite and in childhood; children too [as well as the profligate] live according to their appetites, and the desire for pleasant things is most pronounced in them. If then this element be not submissive and obedient to the governing principle, it will make great head: for in an irrational being the desire for pleasant things is insatiable and ready to gratify itself in any way, and the gratification of the appetite increases the natural tendency, and if the gratifications are great and intense they even thrust out reason altogether. The gratifications of appetite, therefore, should be moderate and few, and appetite should be in no respect opposed to reason (this is what we mean by submissive and “chastened”), but subject to reason as a child should be subject to his tutor.
And so the appetites of the temperate man should be in harmony with his reason; for the aim of both is that which is noble: the temperate man desires what he ought, and as he ought, and when he ought; and this again is what reason prescribes.
This, then, may be taken as an account of temperance.
BOOK IV.
THE SEVERAL MORAL VIRTUES AND VICES—Continued.
1.
Of liberality.
Liberality, of which we will next speak, seems to be moderation in the matter of wealth. What we commend in a liberal man is his behaviour, not in war, nor in those circumstances in which temperance is commended, nor yet in passing judgment, but in the giving and taking of wealth, and especially in the giving—wealth meaning all those things whose value can be measured in money.
But both prodigality and illiberality are at once excess and defect in the matter of wealth.
Illiberality always means caring for wealth more than is right; but prodigality sometimes stands for a combination of vices. Thus incontinent people, who squander their money in riotous living, are called prodigals. And so prodigals are held to be very worthless individuals, as they combine a number of vices.
But we must remember that this is not the proper use of the term; for the term “prodigal” (ἄσωτος) is intended to denote a man who has one vice, viz. that of wasting his substance: for he is ἄσωτος,* or “prodigal,” who is destroyed through his own fault, and the wasting of one’s substance is held to be a kind of destruction of one’s self, as one’s life is dependent upon it. This, then, we regard as the proper sense of the term “prodigality.”
Anything that has a use may be used well or ill.
Now, riches is abundance of useful things (τὰ χρήσιμα).
But each thing is best used by him who has the virtue that is concerned with that thing.
Therefore he will use riches best who has the virtue that is concerned with wealth* (τὰ χρήματα), i.e. the liberal man.
Now, the ways of using wealth are spending and giving, while taking and keeping are rather the ways of acquiring wealth. And so it is more distinctive of the liberal man to give to the right people than to take from the right source and not to take from the wrong source. For it is more distinctive of virtue to do good to others than to have good done to you, and to do what is noble than not to do what is base. And here it is plain that doing good and noble actions go with the giving, while receiving good and not doing what is base goes with the taking.
Again, we are thankful to him who gives, not to him who does not take; and so also we praise the former rather than the latter.
Again, it is easier not to take than to give; for we are more inclined to be too stingy with our own goods than to take another’s.
Again, it is those who give that are commonly called liberal; while those who abstain from taking are not praised for their liberality especially, but rather for their justice; and those who take are not praised at all.
Again, of all virtuous characters the liberal man is perhaps the most beloved, because he is useful; but his usefulness lies in his giving.
But virtuous acts, we said, are noble, and are done for the sake of that which is noble. The liberal man, therefore, like the others, will give with a view to, or for the sake of, that which is noble, and give rightly; i.e. he will give the right things to the right persons at the right times—in short, his giving will have all the characteristics of right giving.
Moreover, his giving will be pleasant to him, or at least painless; for virtuous acts are always pleasant or painless—certainly very far from being painful.
He who gives to the wrong persons, or gives from some other motive than desire for that which is noble, is not liberal, but must be called by some other name.
Nor is he liberal who gives with pain; for that shows that he would prefer* the money to the noble action, which is not the feeling of the liberal man.
The liberal man, again, will not take from wrong sources; for such taking is inconsistent with the character of a man who sets no store by wealth.
Nor will he be ready to beg a favour; for he who confers benefits on others is not usually in a hurry to receive them.
But from right sources he will take (e.g. from his own property), not as if there were anything noble in taking, but simply as a necessary condition of giving. And so he will not neglect his property, since he wishes by means of it to help others. But he will refuse to give to any casual person, in order that he may have wherewithal to give to the right persons, at the right times, and where it is noble to give.
It is very characteristic of the liberal man* to go even to excess in giving, so as to leave too little for himself; for disregard of self is part of his character.
In applying the term liberality we must take account of a man’s fortune; for it is not the amount of what is given that makes a gift liberal, but the liberal habit or character of the doer; and this character proportions the gift to the fortune of the giver. And so it is quite possible that the giver of the smaller sum may be the more liberal man, if his means be smaller.
Those who have inherited a fortune seem to be more liberal than those who have made one; for they have never known want; and all men are particularly fond of what themselves have made, as we see in parents and poets.
It is not easy for a liberal man to be rich, as he is not apt to take or to keep, but is apt to spend, and cares for money not on its own account, but only for the sake of giving it away.
Hence the charge often brought against fortune, that those who most deserve wealth are least blessed with it. But this is natural enough; for it is just as impossible to have wealth without taking trouble about it, as it is to have anything else.
Nevertheless the liberal man will not give to the wrong people, nor at the wrong times; for if he did, he would no longer be displaying true liberality, and, after spending thus, would not have enough to spend on the right occasions. For, as we have already said, he is liberal who spends in proportion to his fortune, on proper objects, while he who exceeds this is prodigal. And so princes* are not called prodigal, because it does not seem easy for them to exceed the measure of their possessions in gifts and expenses.
Liberality, then, being moderation in the giving and taking of wealth, the liberal man will give and spend the proper amount on the proper objects, alike in small things and in great, and that with pleasure; and will also take the proper amount from the proper sources. For since the virtue is moderation in both giving and taking, the man who has the virtue will do both rightly. Right taking is consistent with right giving, but any other taking is contrary to it. Those givings and takings, then, that are consistent with one another are found in the same person, while those that are contrary to one another manifestly are not.
But if a liberal man happen to spend anything in a manner contrary to what is right and noble, he will be pained, but moderately and in due measure; for it is a characteristic of virtue to be pleased and pained on the right occasions and in due measure.
The liberal man, again, is easy to deal with in money matters; it is not hard to cheat him, as he does not value wealth, and is more apt to be vexed at having failed to spend where he ought, than to be pained at having spent where he ought not—the sort of man that Simonides would not commend.*
The prodigal, on the other hand, errs in these points also; he is not pleased on the right occasions nor in the right way, nor pained: but this will be clearer as we go on.
We have already said that both prodigality and illiberality are at once excess and deficiency, in two things, viz. giving and taking (expenditure being included in giving). Prodigality exceeds in giving and in not taking, but falls short in taking; illiberality falls short in giving, but exceeds in taking—in small things, we must add.
Now, the two elements of prodigality are not commonly united in the same person:† it is not easy for a man who never takes to be always giving; for private persons soon exhaust their means of giving, and it is to private persons that the name is generally applied.‡
A prodigal of this kind [i.e. in whom both the elements are combined], we must observe, would seem to be not a little better than an illiberal man. For he is easily cured by advancing years and by lack of means, and may come to the middle course. For he has the essential points of the liberal character; he gives and abstains from taking, though he does neither well nor as he ought. If then he can be trained to this, or if in any other way this change in his nature can be effected, he will be liberal; for then he will give to whom he ought, and will not take whence he ought not. And so he is generally thought to be not a bad character; for to go too far in giving and in not taking does not show a vicious or ignoble nature so much as a foolish one.
A prodigal of this sort, then, seems to be much better than an illiberal man, both for the reasons already given, and also because the former does good to many, but the latter to no one, not even to himself.
But most prodigals, as has been said, not only give wrongly, but take from wrong sources, and are in this respect illiberal. They become grasping because they wish to spend, but cannot readily do so, as their supplies soon fail. So they are compelled to draw from other sources. At the same time, since they care nothing for what is noble, they will take quite recklessly from any source whatever; for they long to give, but care not a whit how the money goes or whence it comes.
And so their gifts are not liberal; for they are not noble, nor are they given with a view to that which is noble, nor in the right manner. Sometimes they enrich those who ought to be poor, and will give nothing to men of well-regulated character, while they give a great deal to those who flatter them, or furnish them with any other pleasure. And thus the greater part of them are profligates; for, being ready to part with their money, they are apt to lavish it on riotous living, and as they do not shape their lives with a view to that which is noble, they easily fall away into the pursuit of pleasure.
The prodigal, then, if he fail to find guidance, comes to this, but if he get training he may be brought to the moderate and right course.
But illiberality is incurable; for old age and all loss of power seems to make men illiberal.
It also runs in the blood more than prodigality; the generality of men are more apt to be fond of money than of giving.
Again, it is far-reaching, and has many forms; for there seem to be many ways in which one can be illiberal.
It consists of two parts—deficiency in giving, and excess of taking; but it is not always found in its entirety; sometimes the parts are separated, and one man exceeds in taking, while another falls short in giving. Those, for instance, who are called by such names as niggardly, stingy, miserly, all fall short in giving, but do not covet other people’s goods, or wish to take them.
Some are impelled to this conduct by a kind of honesty, or desire to avoid what is disgraceful—I mean that some of them seem, or at any rate profess, to be saving, in order that they may never be compelled to do anything disgraceful; e.g. the cheeseparer* (and those like him), who is so named because of the extreme lengths to which he carries his unwillingness to give.
But others are moved to keep their hands from their neighbours’ goods only by fear, believing it to be no easy thing to take the goods of others, without having one’s own goods taken in turn; so they are content with neither taking nor giving.
Others, again, exceed in the matter of taking so far as to make any gain they can in any way whatever, e.g. those who ply debasing trades, brothel-keepers and such like, and usurers who lend out small sums at a high rate. For all these make money from improper sources to an improper extent.
The common characteristic of these last seems to be the pursuit of base gain; for all of them endure reproach for the sake of gain, and that a small gain. For those who make improper gains in improper ways on a large scale are not called illiberal, e.g. tyrants who sack cities and pillage temples; they are rather called wicked, impious, unjust. The dice-sharper, however, and the man who steals clothes at the bath, or the common thief, are reckoned among the illiberal; for they all make base gains; i.e. both the thief and the sharper ply their trade and endure reproach for gain, and the thief for the sake of his booty endures the greatest dangers, while the sharper makes gain out of his friends, to whom he ought to give. Both then, wishing to make gain in improper ways, are seekers of base gain; and all such ways of making money are illiberal.
But illiberality is rightly called the opposite of liberality; for it is a worse evil than prodigality, and men are more apt to err in this way than in that which we have described as prodigality.
Let this, then, be taken as our account of liberality, and of the vices that are opposed to it.
2.
Of magnificence.
Our next task would seem to be an examination of magnificence. For this also seems to be a virtue that is concerned with wealth.
But it does not, like liberality, extend over the whole field of money transactions, but only over those that involve large expenditure; and in these it goes beyond liberality in largeness. For, as its very name (μεγαλοπρέπεια) suggests, it is suitable expenditure on a large scale. But the largeness is relative: the expenditure that is suitable for a man who is fitting out a war-ship is not the same as that which is suitable for the chief of a sacred embassy.
What is suitable, then, is relative to the person, and the occasion, and the business on hand. Yet he who spends what is fitting on trifling or moderately important occasions is not called magnificent; e.g. the man who can say, in the words of the poet—
“To many a wandering beggar did I give;”
but he who spends what is fitting on great occasions. For the magnificent man is liberal, but a man may be liberal without being magnificent.
The deficiency of this quality is called meanness; the excess of it is called vulgarity, bad taste, etc.; the characteristic of which is not spending too much on proper objects, but spending ostentatiously on improper objects and in improper fashion. But we will speak of them presently.
But the magnificent man is like a skilled artist; he can see what a case requires, and can spend great sums tastefully. For, as we said at the outset, a habit or type of character takes its complexion from the acts in which it issues and the things it produces. The magnificent man’s expenses, therefore, must be great and suitable.
What he produces then will also be of the same nature; for only thus will the expense be at once great and suitable to the result.
The result, then, must be proportionate to the expenditure, and the expenditure proportionate to the result, or even greater.
Moreover, the magnificent man’s motive in thus spending his money will be desire for that which is noble; for this is the common characteristic of all the virtues.
Further, he will spend gladly and lavishly; for a minute calculation of cost is mean. He will inquire how the work can be made most beautiful and most elegant, rather than what its cost will be, and how it can be done most cheaply.
So the magnificent man must be liberal also; for the liberal man, too, will spend the right amount in the right manner; only, both the amount and the manner being right, magnificence is distinguished from liberality (which has the same* sphere of action) by greatness—I mean by actual magnitude of amount spent: and secondly, where the amount spent is the same, the result of the magnificent man’s expenditure will be more magnificent.*
For the excellence of a possession is not the same as the excellence of a product or work of art: as a possession, that is most precious or estimable which is worth most, e.g. gold; as a work of art, that is most estimable which is great and beautiful: for the sight of such a work excites admiration, and a magnificent thing is always admirable; indeed, excellence of work on a great scale is magnificence.
Now, there is a kind of expenditure which is called in a special sense estimable or honourable, such as expenditure on the worship of the gods (e.g. offerings, temples, and sacrifices), and likewise all expenditure on the worship of heroes, and again all public service which is prompted by a noble ambition; e.g. a man may think proper to furnish a chorus or a war-ship, or to give a public feast, in a handsome style.
But in all cases, as we have said, we must have regard to the person who spends, and ask who he is, and what his means are; for expenditure should be proportionate to circumstances, and suitable not only to the result but to its author.
And so a poor man cannot be magnificent: he has not the means to spend large sums suitably: if he tries, he is a fool; for he spends disproportionately and in a wrong way; but an act must be done in the right way to be virtuous. But such expenditure is becoming in those who have got the requisite means, either by their own efforts or through their ancestors or their connections, and who have birth and reputation, etc.; for all these things give a man a certain greatness and importance.
The magnificent man, then, is properly a man of this sort, and magnificence exhibits itself most properly in expenditure of this kind, as we have said; for this is the greatest and most honourable kind of expenditure: but it may also be displayed on private occasions, when they are such as occur but once in a man’s life, e.g. a wedding or anything of that kind; or when they are of special interest to the state or the governing classes, e.g. receiving strangers and sending them on their way, or making presents to them and returning their presents; for the magnificent man does not lavish money on himself, but on public objects; and gifts to strangers bear some resemblance to offerings to the gods.
But a magnificent man will build his house too in a style suitable to his wealth; for even a fine house is a kind of public ornament. And he will spend money more readily on things that last; for these are the noblest. And on each occasion he will spend what is suitable—which is not the same for gods as for men, for a temple as for a tomb.
And since every expenditure may be great after its kind, great expenditure on a great occasion being most magnificent,* and then in a less degree that which is great for the occasion, whatever it be (for the greatness of the result is not the same as the greatness of the expense; e.g. the most beautiful ball or the most beautiful bottle that can be got is a magnificent present for a child, though its price is something small and mean), it follows that it is characteristic of the magnificent man to do magnificently that which he does, of whatever kind it be (for such work cannot easily be surpassed), and to produce a result proportionate to the expense.
This, then, is the character of the magnificent man.
The man who exceeds (whom we call vulgar) exceeds, as we said, in spending improperly. He spends great sums on little objects, and makes an unseemly display; e.g. if he is entertaining the members of his club, he will give them a wedding feast; if he provides the chorus for a comedy, he will bring his company on the stage all dressed in purple, as they did at Megara. And all this he will do from no desire for what is noble or beautiful, but merely to display his wealth, because he hopes thereby to gain admiration, spending little where he should spend much, and much where he should spend little.
But the mean man will fall short on every occasion, and, even when he spends very large sums, will spoil the beauty of his work by niggardliness in a trifle, never doing anything without thinking twice about it, and considering how it can be done at the least possible cost, and bemoaning even that, and thinking he is doing everything on a needlessly large scale.
Both these characters, then, are vicious, but they do not bring reproach, because they are neither injurious to others nor very offensive in themselves.
3.
Of high-mindedness
High-mindedness would seem from its very name (μεγαλοψυχία) to have to do with great things; let us first ascertain what these are.
It will make no difference whether we consider the quality itself, or the man who exhibits the quality.
By a high-minded man we seem to mean one who claims much and deserves much: for he who claims much without deserving it is a fool; but the possessor of a virtue is never foolish or silly. The man we have described, then, is high-minded.
He who deserves little and claims little is temperate [or modest], but not high-minded: for high-mindedness [or greatness of soul] implies greatness, just as beauty implies stature; small men may be neat and well proportioned, but cannot be called beautiful.
He who claims much without deserving it is vain (though not every one who claims more than he deserves is vain).
He who claims less than he deserves is little-minded, whether his deserts be great or moderate, or whether they be small and he claims still less: but the fault would seem to be greatest in him whose deserts are great; for what would he do if his deserts were less than they are?
The high-minded man, then, in respect of the greatness of his deserts occupies an extreme position, but in that he behaves as he ought, observes the mean; for he claims that which he deserves, while all the others claim too much or too little.
If, therefore, he deserves much and claims much, and most of all deserves and claims the greatest things, there will be one thing with which he will be especially concerned. For desert has reference to external good things. Now, the greatest of external good things we may assume to be that which we render to the Gods as their due, and that which people in high stations most desire, and which is the prize appointed for the noblest deeds. But the thing that answers to this description is honour, which, we may safely say, is the greatest of all external goods. Honours and dishonours, therefore, are the field in which the high-minded man behaves as he ought.
And indeed we may see, without going about to prove it, that honour is what high-minded men are concerned with; for it is honour that they especially claim and deserve.
The little-minded man falls short, whether we compare his claims with his own deserts or with what the high-minded man claims for himself.
The vain or conceited man exceeds what is due to himself, though he does not exceed the high-minded man in his claims.*
But the high-minded man, as he deserves the greatest things, must be a perfectly good or excellent man; for the better man always deserves the greater things, and the best possible man the greatest possible things. The really high-minded man, therefore, must be a good or excellent man. And indeed greatness in every virtue or excellence would seem to be necessarily implied in being a high-minded or great-souled man.
It would be equally inconsistent with the highminded man’s character to run away swinging his arms, and to commit an act of injustice; for what thing is there for love of which he would do anything unseemly, seeing that all things are of little account to him?
Survey him point by point and you will find that the notion of a high-minded man that is not a good or excellent man is utterly absurd. Indeed, if he were not good, he could not be worthy of honour; for honour is the prize of virtue, and is rendered to the good as their due.
High-mindedness, then, seems to be the crowning grace, as it were, of the virtues; it makes them greater, and cannot exist without them. And on this account it is a hard thing to be truly high-minded; for it is impossible without the union of all the virtues.
The high-minded man, then, exhibits his character especially in the matter of honours and dishonours and at great honour from good men he will be moderately pleased, as getting nothing more than his due, or even less; for no honour can be adequate to complete virtue; but nevertheless he will accept it, as they have nothing greater to offer him. But honour from ordinary men and on trivial grounds he will utterly despise; for that is not what he deserves. And dishonour likewise he will make light of; for he will never merit it.
But though it is especially in the matter of honours, as we have said, that the high-minded man displays his character, yet he will also observe the mean in his feelings with regard to wealth and power and all kinds of good and evil fortune, whatever may befall him, and will neither be very much exalted by prosperity, nor very much cast down by adversity; seeing that not even honour affects him as if it were a very important thing. For power and wealth are desirable for honour’s sake (at least, those who have them wish to gain honour by them). But he who thinks lightly of honour must think lightly of them also.
And so high-minded men seem to look down upon everything.
But the gifts of fortune also are commonly thought to contribute to high-mindedness. For those who are well born are thought worthy of honour, and those who are powerful or wealthy; for they are in a position of superiority, and that which is superior in any good thing is always held in greater honour. And so these things do make people more high-minded in a sense; for such people find honour from some. But in strictness it is only the good man that is worthy of honour, though he that has both goodness and good fortune is commonly thought to be more worthy of honour. Those, however, who have these good things without virtue, neither have any just claim to great things, nor are properly to be called high-minded; for neither is possible without complete virtue.
But those who have these good things readily come to be supercilious and insolent. For without virtue it is not easy to bear the gifts of fortune becomingly; and so, being unable to bear them, and thinking themselves superior to everybody else, such people look down upon others, and yet themselves do whatever happens to please them. They imitate the high-minded man without being really like him, and they imitate him where they can; that is to say, they do not exhibit virtue in their acts, but they look down upon others. For the high-minded man never looks down upon others without justice (for he estimates them correctly), while most men do so for quite irrelevant reasons.
The high-minded man is not quick to run into petty dangers, and indeed does not love danger, since there are few things that he much values; but he is ready to incur a great danger, and whenever he does so is unsparing of his life, as a thing that is not worth keeping at all costs.
It is his nature to confer benefits, but he is ashamed to receive them; for the former is the part of a superior, the latter of an inferior. And when he has received a benefit, he is apt to confer a greater in return; for thus his creditor will become his debtor and be in the position of a recipient of his favour.
It seems, moreover, that such men remember the benefits which they have conferred better than those which they have received (for the recipient of a benefit is inferior to the benefactor, but such a man wishes to be in the position of a superior), and that they like to be reminded of the one, but dislike to be reminded of the other; and this is the reason why we read* that Thetis would not mention to Zeus the services she had done him, and why the Lacedæmonians, in treating with the Athenians, reminded them of the benefits received by Sparta rather than of those conferred by her.
It is characteristic of the high-minded man, again, never or reluctantly to ask favours, but to be ready to confer them, and to be lofty in his behaviour to those who are high in station and favoured by fortune, but affable to those of the middle ranks; for it is a difficult thing and a dignified thing to assert superiority over the former, but easy to assert it over the latter. A haughty demeanour in dealing with the great is quite consistent with good breeding, but in dealing with those of low estate is brutal, like showing off one’s strength upon a cripple.
Another of his characteristics is not to rush in wherever honour is to be won, nor to go where others take the lead, but to hold aloof and to shun an enterprise, except when great honour is to be gained, or a great work to be done—not to do many things, but great things and notable.
Again, he must be open in his hate and in his love (for it is cowardly to dissemble your feelings and to care less for truth than for what people will think of you), and he must be open in word and in deed (for his consciousness of superiority makes him outspoken, and he is truthful except in so far as he adopts an ironical tone in his intercourse with the masses), and he must be unable to fashion his life to suit another, except he be a friend; for that is servile: and so all flatterers or hangers on of great men are of a slavish nature, and men of low natures become flatterers.
Nor is he easily moved to admiration; for nothing is great to him.
He readily forgets injuries; for it is not consistent with his character to brood on the past, especially on past injuries, but rather to overlook them.
He is no gossip; he will neither talk about himself nor about others; for he cares not that men should praise him, nor that others should be blamed (though, on the other hand, he is not very ready to bestow praise); and so he is not apt to speak evil of others, not even of his enemies, except with the express purpose of giving offence.
When an event happens that cannot be helped or is of slight importance, he is the last man in the world to cry out or to beg for help; for that is the conduct of a man who thinks these events very important.
He loves to possess beautiful things that bring no profit, rather than useful things that pay; for this is characteristic of the man whose resources are in himself.
Further, the character of the high-minded man seems to require that his gait should be slow, his voice deep, his speech measured; for a man is not likely to be in a hurry when there are few things in which he is deeply interested, nor excited when he holds nothing to be of very great importance: and these are the causes of a high voice and rapid movements.
This, then, is the character of the high-minded man.
But he that is deficient in this quality is called little-minded; he that exceeds, vain or conceited.
Now these two also do not seem to be bad—for they do no harm—though they are in error.
For the little-minded man, though he deserves good things, deprives himself of that which he deserves, and so seems to be the worse for not claiming these good things, and for misjudging himself; for if he judged right he would desire what he deserves, as it is good. I do not mean to say that such people seem to be fools, but rather too retiring But a misjudgment of this kind does seem actually to make them worse; for men strive for that which they deserve, and shrink from noble deeds and employments of which they think themselves unworthy, as well as from mere external good things.
But vain men are fools as well as ignorant of themselves, and make this plain to all the world; For they undertake honourable offices for which they are unfit, and presently stand convicted of incapacity; they dress in fine clothes and put on fine airs and so on; they wish everybody to know of their good fortune; they talk about themselves, as if that were the way to honour.
But little-mindedness is more opposed to high-mindedness than vanity is; for it is both commoner and worse.
High-mindedness, then, as we have said, has to do with honour on a large scale.
4.
Of a similar virtue in smaller matters.
But it appears (as we said at the outset) that there is also a virtue concerned with honour, which bears the same relation to high-mindedness that liberality bears to magnificence; i.e. both the virtue in question and liberality have nothing to do with great things, but cause us to behave properly in matters of moderate or of trifling importance. Just as in the taking and giving of money it is possible to observe the mean, and also to exceed or fall short of it, so it is possible in desire for honour to go too far or not far enough, or, again, to desire honour from the right source and in the right manner.
A man is called ambitious or fond of honour (ϕιλότιμος) in reproach, as desiring honour more than he ought, and from wrong sources; and a man is called unambitious, or not fond of honour (ἀϕιλότιμος) in reproach, as not desiring to be honoured even for noble deeds.
But sometimes a man is called ambitious or fond of honour in praise, as being manly and fond of noble things; and sometimes a man is called unambitious or not fond of honour in praise, as being moderate and temperate (as we said at the outset).
It is plain, then, that there are various senses in which a man is said to be fond of a thing, and that the term fond of honour has not always the same sense, but that as a term of praise it means fonder than most men, and as a term of reproach it means fonder than is right. But, as there is no recognized term for the observance of the mean, the extremes fight, so to speak, for what seems an empty place. But wherever there is excess and defect there is also a mean: and honour is in fact desired more than is right, and less: therefore* it may also be desired to the right degree: this character then is praised, being observance of the mean in the matter of honour, though it has no recognized name. Compared with ambition, it seems to be lack of ambition; compared with lack of ambition, it seems to be ambition; compared with both at once, it seems in a way to be both at once. This, we may observe, also happens in the case of the other virtues. But in this case the extreme characters seem to be opposed to one another [instead of to the moderate character], because the character that observes the mean has no recognized name.
5.
Of gentleness.
Gentleness is moderation with respect to anger. But it must be noted that we have no recognized name for the mean, and scarcely any recognized names for the extremes. And so the term gentleness, which properly denotes an inclination towards deficiency in anger (for which also we have no recognized name), is applied to the mean.*
The excess may be called wrathfulness; for the emotion concerned is wrath or anger, though the things that cause it are many and various.
He then who is angry on the right occasions and with the right persons, and also in the right manner, and at the right season, and for the right length of time, is praised; we will call him gentle, therefore, since gentleness is used as a term of praise. For the man who is called gentle wishes not to lose his balance, and not to be carried away by his emotions or passions, but to be angry only in such manner, and on such occasions, and for such period as reason shall prescribe. But he seems to err rather on the side of deficiency; he is loth to take vengeance and very ready to forgive.
But the deficiency—call it wrathlessness or what you will—is censured. Those who are not angered by what ought to anger them seem to be foolish, and so do those who are not angry as and when and with whom they ought to be; for such a man seems to feel nothing and to be pained by nothing, and, as he is never angered, to lack spirit to defend himself. But to suffer one’s self to be insulted, or to look quietly on while one’s friends are being insulted, shows a slavish nature.
It is possible to exceed in all points, i.e. to be angry with persons with whom one ought not, and at things at which one ought not to be angry, and more than one ought, and more quickly, and for a longer time. All these errors, however, are not found in the same person. That would be impossible; for evil is self-destructive, and, if it appears in its entirety, becomes quite unbearable.
So we find that wrathful men get angry very soon, and with people with whom and at things at which they ought not, and more than they ought; but they soon get over their anger, and that is a very good point in their character. And the reason is that they do not keep in their anger, but, through the quickness of their temper, at once retaliate, and so let what is in them come to light, and then have done with it.
But those who are called choleric are excessively quick-tempered, and apt to be angered at anything and on any occasion; whence the name (ἀκρόχολοι).
Sulky men are hard to appease and their anger lasts long, because they keep it in. For so soon as we retaliate we are relieved: vengeance makes us cease from our anger, substituting a pleasant for a painful state. But the sulky man, as he does not thus relieve himself, bears the burden of his wrath about with him; for no one even tries to reason him out of it, as he does not show it, and it takes a long time to digest one’s anger within one’s self. Such men are exceedingly troublesome to themselves and their dearest friends.
Lastly, hard (χαλεπός) is the name we give to those who are offended by things that ought not to offend them, and more than they ought, and for a longer time, and who will not be appeased without vengeance or punishment.
Of the two extremes the excess is the more opposed to gentleness; for it is commoner (as men are naturally more inclined to vengeance); and a hard-tempered person is worse to live with [than one who is too easy-tempered].
What we said some time ago* is made abundantly manifest by what we have just been saying; it is not easy to define how, and with whom, and at what, and for how long one ought to be angry—how far it is right to go, and at what point misconduct begins. He who errs slightly from the right course is not blamed, whether it be on the side of excess or of deficiency; for sometimes we praise those who fall short and call them gentle, and sometimes those who behave hardly are called manly, as being able to rule. But what amount and kind of error makes a man blamable can scarcely be defined; for it depends upon the particular circumstances of each case, and can only be decided by immediate perception.
But so much at least is manifest, that on the one hand the habit which observes the mean is to be praised, i.e. the habit which causes us to be angry with the right persons, at the right things, in the right manner, etc.; and that, on the other hand, all habits of excess or deficiency deserve censure—slight censure if the error be trifling, graver censure if it be considerable, and severe censure if it be great.
It is evident, therefore, that we must strive for the habit which observes the mean.
This then may be taken as our account of the habits which have to do with anger.
6.
Of agreeableness.
In the matter of social intercourse, i.e. the living with others and joining with them in conversation and in common occupations, some men show themselves what is called obsequious — those who to please you praise everything, and never object to anything, but think they ought always to avoid giving pain to those whom they meet. Those who take the opposite line, and object to everything and never think for a moment what pain they may give, are called cross and contentious.
It is sufficiently plain that both these habits merit censure, and that the habit which takes the middle course between them is to be commended—the habit which makes a man acquiesce in what he ought and in the right manner, and likewise refuse to acquiesce. This habit or type of character has no recognized name, but seems most nearly to resemble friendliness (ϕιλία). For the man who exhibits this moderation is the same sort of man that we mean when we speak of an upright friend, except that then affection also is implied. This differs from friendliness in that it does not imply emotion and affection for those with whom we associate; for he who has this quality acquiesces when he ought, not because he loves or hates, but because that is his character. He will behave thus alike to those whom he knows and to those whom he does not know, to those with whom he is intimate and to those with whom he is not intimate, only that in each case he will behave as is fitting; for we are not bound to show the same consideration to strangers as to intimates, nor to take the same care not to pain them.
We have already said in general terms that such a man will behave as he ought in his intercourse with others, but we must add that, while he tries to contribute to the pleasure of others and to avoid giving them pain, he will always be guided by reference to that which is noble and fitting. It seems to be with the pleasures and pains of social intercourse that he is concerned. Now, whenever he finds that it is not noble, or is positively hurtful to himself, to contribute to any of these pleasures, he will refuse to acquiesce and will prefer to give pain. And if the pleasure is such as to involve discredit, and no slight discredit, or some injury to him who is the source of it, while his opposition will give a little pain, he will not acquiesce, but will set his face against it. But he will behave differently according as he is in the company of great people or ordinary people, of intimate friends or mere acquaintances, and so on, rendering to each his due; preferring, apart from other considerations, to promote pleasure, and loth to give pain, but regulating his conduct by consideration of the consequences, if they be considerable—by consideration, I mean, of what is noble and fitting. And thus for the sake of great pleasure in the future he will inflict a slight pain now.
The man who observes the mean, then, is something of this sort, but has no recognized name.
The man who always makes himself pleasant, if he aims simply at pleasing and has no ulterior object in view, is called obsequious; but if he does so in order to get some profit for himself, either in the way of money or of money’s worth, he is a flatterer.
But he who sets his face against everything is, as we have already said, cross and contentious.
But the extremes seem here to be opposed to one another [instead of to the mean], because there is no name for the mean.
7.
Of truthfulness.
The moderation which lies between boastfulness and irony (which virtue also lacks a name) seems to display itself in almost the same field.
It will be as well to examine these qualities also; for we shall know more about human character, when we have gone through each of its forms; and we shall be more fully assured that the virtues are modes of observing the mean, when we have surveyed them all and found that this is the case with every one of them.
We have already spoken of the characters that are displayed in social intercourse in the matter of pleasure and pain; let us now go on to speak in like manner of those who show themselves truthful or untruthful in what they say and do, and in the pretensions they put forward.
First of all, then, the boaster seems to be fond of pretending to things that men esteem, though he has them not, or not to such extent as he pretends; the ironical man, on the other hand, seems to disclaim what he has, or to depreciate it; while he who observes the mean, being a man who is “always himself” (αὐθέκαστός τις), is truthful in word and deed, confessing the simple facts about himself, and neither exaggerating nor diminishing them.
Now, each of these lines of conduct may be pursued either with an ulterior object or without one.
When he has no ulterior object in view, each man speaks and acts and lives according to his character.
But falsehood in itself is vile and blamable; truth is noble and praiseworthy in itself.
And so the truthful man, as observing the mean, is praiseworthy, while the untruthful characters are both blamable, but the boastful more than the ironical.
Let us speak then of each of them, and first of the truthful character.
We must remember that we are not speaking of the man who tells the truth in matters of business, or in matters which come within the sphere of injustice and justice (for these matters would belong to another virtue); the man we are considering is the man who in cases where no such important issues are involved is truthful in his speech and in his life, because that is his character.
Such a man would seem to be a good man (ἐπιεικής). For he who loves truth, and is truthful where nothing depends upon it, will still more surely tell the truth where serious interests are involved; he will shun falsehood as a base thing here, seeing that he shunned it elsewhere, apart from any consequences: but such a man merits praise.
He inclines rather towards under-statement than over-statement of the truth; and this seems to be the more suitable course, since all exaggeration is offensive.
On the other hand, he who pretends to more than he has with no ulterior object [the boaster proper] seems not to be a good character (for if he were he would not take pleasure in falsehood), but to be silly rather than bad.
But of boasters who have an ulterior object, he whose object is reputation or honour is not very severely censured (just as the boaster proper is not), but he whose object is money, or means of making money, is held in greater reproach.
But we must observe that what distinguishes the boaster proper from the other kinds of boasters, is not his faculty of boasting, but his preference for boasting: the boaster proper is a boaster by habit, and because that is his character; just as there is on the one hand the liar proper, who delights in falsehood itself, and on the other hand the liar who lies through desire of honour or gain.
Those who boast with a view to reputation pretend to those things for which a man is commended or is thought happy; those whose motive is gain pretend to those things which are of advantage to others, and whose absence may escape detection, e.g. to skill in magic or in medicine. And so it is usually something of this sort that men pretend to and boast of; for the conditions specified are realized in them.
Ironical people, on the other hand, with their depreciatory way of speaking of themselves, seem to be of a more refined character; for their motive in speaking thus seems to be not love of gain, but desire to avoid parade: but what they disclaim seems also* to be especially that which men esteem—of which Socrates was an instance.
But those who disclaim† petty advantages which they evidently possess are called affected (βαυκοπανο[Editor: illegible character]ργοι), and are more easily held in contempt. And sometimes this self-depreciation is scarcely distinguishable from boasting, as for instance dressing like a Spartan; for there is something boastful in extreme depreciation as well as in exaggeration.
But those who employ irony in moderation, and speak ironically in matters that are not too obvious and palpable, appear to be men of refinement.
Finally, the boaster seems to be especially the opposite of the truthful man; for he is worse than the ironical man.
8.
Of wittiness.
Again, since relaxation is an element in our life, and one mode of relaxation is amusing conversation, it seems that in this respect also there is a proper way of mixing with others; i.e. that there are things that it is right to say, and a right way of saying them: and the same with hearing; though here also it will make a difference what kind of people they are in whose presence you are speaking, or to whom you are listening.
And it is plain that it is possible in these matters also to go beyond, or to fall short of, the mean.
Now, those who go to excess in ridicule seem to be buffoons and vulgar fellows, striving at all costs for a ridiculous effect, and bent rather on raising a laugh than on making their witticisms elegant and inoffensive to the subject of them. While those who will never say anything laughable themselves, and frown on those who do, are considered boorish and morose. But those who jest gracefully are called witty, or men of ready wit (εὐτράπελοι), as it were ready or versatile men.
For* a man’s character seems to reveal itself in these sallies or playful movements, and so we judge of his moral constitution by them, as we judge of his body by its movements.
But through the prominence given to ridiculous things, and the excessive delight which most people take in amusement and jesting, the buffoon is often called witty because he gives delight. But that there is a difference, and a considerable difference, between the two is plain from what we have said.
An element in the character that observes the mean in these matters is tact. A man of tact will only say and listen to such things as it befits an honest man and a gentleman to say and listen to; for there are things that it is quite becoming for such a man to say and to listen to in the way of jest, and the jesting of a gentleman differs from that of a man of slavish nature, and the jesting of an educated from that of an uneducated man.
This one may see by the difference between the old comedy and the new: the fun of the earlier writers is obscenity, of the later innuendo; and there is no slight difference between the two as regards decency.
Can good jesting, then, be defined as making jests that befit a gentleman, or that do not pain the hearer, or that even give him pleasure? Nay, surely a jest that gives pleasure to the hearer is something quite indefinite, for different things are hateful and pleasant to different people.
But the things that he will listen to will be of the same sort [as those that he will say, whatever that be]: jests that a man can listen to he can, we think, make himself.
So then there are jests that he will not make [though we cannot exactly define them]; for to make a jest of a man is to vilify him in a way, and the law forbids certain kinds of vilification, and ought perhaps also to forbid certain kinds of jesting.
The refined and gentlemanly man, therefore, will thus regulate his wit, being as it were a law to himself.
This then is the character of him who observes the mean, whether we call him a man of tact or a man of ready wit.
The buffoon, on the other hand, cannot resist an opportunity for a joke, and, if he can but raise a laugh, will spare neither himself nor others, and will say things which no man of refinement would say, and some of which he would not even listen to.
The boor, lastly, is wholly useless for this kind of intercourse; he contributes nothing, and takes everything in ill part. And yet recreation and amusement seem to be necessary ingredients in our life.
In conclusion, then, the modes just described of observing the mean in social life are three in number,* and all have to do with conversation or joint action of some kind: but they differ in that one has to do with truth, while the other two are concerned with what is pleasant; and of the two that are concerned with pleasure, one finds its field in our amusements, the other in all other kinds of social intercourse.
9.
Of the feeling of shame
Shame (αἰδώς) cannot properly be spoken of as a virtue; for it is more like a feeling or emotion than a habit or trained faculty. At least, it is defined as a kind of fear of disgrace, and its effects are analogous to those of the fear that is excited by danger; for men blush when they are ashamed, while the fear of death makes them pale. Both then seem to be in a way physical, which is held to be a mark of a feeling or emotion, rather than of a habit or trained faculty.
Again, it is a feeling which is not becoming at all times of life, but only in youth; it is thought proper for young people to be ready to feel shame, because, as their conduct is guided by their emotions, they often are misled, but are restrained from wrong actions by shame.
And so we praise young men when they are ready to feel shame, but no one would praise a man of more advanced years for being apt to be ashamed; for we consider that he ought not to do anything which could make him ashamed of himself.
Indeed, shame is not the part of a good man, since it is occasioned by vile acts (for such acts should not be done: nor does it matter that some acts are really shameful, others shameful in public estimation only; for neither ought to be done, and so a man ought not to be ashamed); it is the part of a worthless man and the result* of being such as to do something shameful.
But supposing a man’s character to be such that, if he were to do one of these shameful acts, he would be ashamed, it is absurd for him to fancy that he is a good man on that account; for shame is only felt at voluntary acts, and a good man will never voluntarily do vile acts.
At the utmost, shame would be hypothetically good; that is to say, supposing he were to do the act, a good man would be ashamed: but there is nothing hypothetical about the virtues.
Again, granting that it is bad to be shameless, or not to be ashamed to do shameful things, it does not therefore follow that it is good to do them and be ashamed of it.
Continence,* in the same way, is not a virtue, but something between virtue and vice.
But we will explain this point about continence later;† let us now treat of justice.
BOOK V.
THE SEVERAL MORAL VIRTUES AND VICES—concluded. JUSTICE.
1.
Preliminary Two senses of justice distinguished justice (l) = obedience to law = complete virtue.
We now have to inquire about justice and injustice, and to ask what sort of acts they are concerned with, and in what sense justice observes the mean, and what are the extremes whose mean is that which is just. And in this inquiry we will follow the same method as before.
We see that all men intend by justice to signify the sort of habit or character that makes men apt to do what is just, and which further makes them act justly* and wish what is just; while by injustice they intend in like manner to signify the sort of character that makes men act unjustly and wish what is unjust. Let us lay this down, then, as an outline to work upon.
We thus oppose justice and injustice, because a habit or trained faculty differs in this respect both from a science and a faculty or power. I mean that whereas both of a pair of opposites come under the same science or power, a habit which produces a certain result does not also produce the opposite result; e.g. health produces healthy manifestations only, and not unhealthy; for we say a man has a healthy gait when he walks like a man in health.
[Not that the two opposites are unconnected.] In the first place, a habit is often known by the opposite habit, and often by its causes and results: if we know what good condition is, we can learn from that what bad condition is; and, again, from that which conduces to good condition we can infer what good condition itself is, and conversely from the latter can infer the former. For instance, if good condition be firmness of flesh, it follows that bad condition is flabbiness of flesh, and that what tends to produce firmness of flesh conduces to good condition.
And, in the second place, if one of a pair of opposite terms have more senses than one, the other term will also, as a general rule, have more than one; so that here, if the term “just” have several senses, the term “unjust” also will have several.
And in fact it seems that both “justice” and “injustice” have several senses, but, as the different things covered by the common name are very closely related, the fact that they are different escapes notice and does not strike us, as it does when there is a great disparity—a great difference, say, in outward appearance—as it strikes every one, for instance, that the κλείς (clavis, collar-bone) which lies under the neck of an animal is different from the κλείς (clavis, key) with which we fasten the door.
Let us then ascertain in how many different senses we call a man unjust.
Firstly, he who breaks the laws is considered unjust, and, secondly, he who takes more than his share, or the unfair man.
Plainly, then, a just man will mean (1) a law-abiding and (2) a fair man.
A just thing then will be (1) that which is in accordance with the law, (2) that which is fair; and the unjust thing will be (1) that which is contrary to law, (2) that which is unfair.
But since the unjust man, in one of the two senses of the word, takes more than his share, the sphere of his action will be good things—not all good things, but those with which good and ill fortune are concerned, which are always good in themselves, but not always good for us—the things that we men pray for and pursue, whereas we ought rather to pray that what is good in itself may be good for us, while we choose that which is good for us.
But the unjust man does not always take more than his share; he sometimes take less, viz. of those things which are bad in the abstract; but as the lesser evil is considered to be in some sort good, and taking more means taking more good, he is said to take more than his share. But in any case he is unfair; for this is a wider term which includes the other.
We found that the law-breaker is unjust, and the law-abiding man is just. Hence it follows that whatever is according to law is just in one sense of the word. [And this, we see, is in fact the case;] for what the legislator prescribes is according to law, and is always said to be just.
Now, the laws prescribe about all manner of things, aiming at the common interest of all, or of the best men, or of those who are supreme in the state (position in the state being determined by reference to personal excellence, or to some other such standard); and so in one sense we apply the term just to whatever tends to produce and preserve the happiness of the community, and the several elements of that happiness. The law bids us display courage (as not to leave our ranks, or run, or throw away our arms), and temperance (as not to commit adultery or outrage), and gentleness (as not to strike or revile our neighbours), and so on with all the other virtues and vices, enjoining acts and forbidding them, rightly when it is a good law, not so rightly when it is a hastily improvised one.
Justice, then, in this sense of the word, is complete virtue, with the addition that it is displayed towards others. On this account it is often spoken of as the chief of the virtues, and such that “neither evening nor morning star is so lovely;” and the saying has become proverbial, “Justice sums up all virtues in itself.”
It is complete virtue, first of all, because it is the exhibition of complete virtue: it is also complete because he that has it is able to exhibit virtue in dealing with his neighbours, and not merely in his private affairs; for there are many who can be virtuous enough at home, but fail in dealing with their neighbours.
This is the reason why people commend the saying of Bias, “Office will show the man;” for he that is in office ipso facto stands in relation to others,* and has dealings with them.
This, too, is the reason why justice alone of all the virtues is thought to be another’s good, as implying this relation to others; for it is another’s interest that justice aims at—the interest, namely, of the ruler or of our fellow-citizens.
While then the worst man is he who displays vice both in his own affairs and in his dealings with his friends, the best man is not he who displays virtue in his own affairs merely, but he who displays virtue towards others; for this is the hard thing to do.
Justice, then, in this sense of the word, is not a part of virtue, but the whole of it; and the injustice which is opposed to it is not a part of vice, but the whole of it.
How virtue differs from justice in this sense is plain from what we have said; it is one and the same character differently viewed:† viewed in relation to others, this character is justice; viewed simply as a certain character,‡ it is virtue.
2.
Of justice (2) = fairness, how related to justice (1). What is just in distribution distinguished from what is just in correction.
We have now to examine justice in that sense in which it is a part of virtue—for we maintain that there is such a justice—and also the corresponding kind of injustice.
That the word is so used is easily shown. In the case of the other kinds of badness, the man who displays them, though he acts unjustly [in one sense of the word], yet does not take more than his share: for instance, when a man throws away his shield through cowardice, or reviles another through ill temper, or through illiberality refuses to help another with money. But when he takes more than his share, he displays perhaps no one of these vices, nor does he display them all, yet he displays a kind of badness (for we blame him), namely, injustice [in the second sense of the word].
We see, then, that there is another sense of the word injustice, in which it stands for a part of that injustice which is coextensive with badness, and another sense of the word unjust, in which it is applied to a part only of those things to which it is applied in the former sense of “contrary to law.”
Again, if one man commits adultery with a view to gain, and makes money by it, and another man does it from lust, with expenditure and loss of money, the latter would not be called grasping, but profligate, while the former would not be called profligate, but unjust [in the narrower sense]. Evidently, then, he would be called unjust because of his gain.
* Once more, acts of injustice, in the former sense, are always referred to some particular vice, as if a man commits adultery, to profligacy; if he deserts his comrade in arms, to cowardice; if he strikes another, to anger: but in a case of unjust gain, the act is referred to no other vice than injustice.
It is plain then that, besides the injustice which is coextensive with vice, there is a second kind of injustice, which is a particular kind of vice, bearing the same name* as the first, because the same generic conception forms the basis of its definition; i.e. both display themselves in dealings with others, but the sphere of the second is limited to such things as honour, wealth, security (perhaps some one name might be found to include all this class† ), and its motive is the pleasure of gain, while the sphere of the first is coextensive with the sphere of the good man’s action.
We have ascertained, then, that there are more kinds of justice than one, and that there is another kind besides that which is identical with complete virtue; we now have to find what it is, and what are its characteristics.
We have already distinguished two senses in which we speak of things as unjust, viz. (1) contrary to law, (2) unfair; and two senses in which we speak of things as just, viz. (1) according to law, (2) fair.
The injustice which we have already considered corresponds to unlawful.
But since unfair is not the same as unlawful, but differs from it as the part from the whole (for unfair is always unlawful, but unlawful is not always unfair), unjust and injustice in the sense corresponding to unfair will not be the same as unjust and injustice in the sense corresponding to unlawful, but different as the part from the whole; for this injustice is a part of complete injustice, and the corresponding justice is a part of complete justice. We must therefore speak of justice and injustice, and of that which is just and that which is unjust, in this limited sense.
We may dismiss, then, the justice which coincides with complete virtue and the corresponding injustice, the former being the exercise of complete virtue towards others, the latter of complete vice.
It is easy also to see how we are to define that which is just and that which is unjust in their corresponding senses [according to law and contrary to law]. For the great bulk, we may say, of the acts which are according to law are the acts which the law commands with a view to complete virtue; for the law orders us to display all the virtues and none of the vices in our lives.
But the acts which tend to produce complete virtue are those of the acts according to law which are prescribed with reference to the education of a man as a citizen. As for the education of the individual as such, which tends to make him simply a good man, we may reserve the question whether it belongs to the science of the state or not; for it is possible that to be a good man is not the same as to be a good citizen of any state whatever.*
But of justice as a part of virtue, and of that which is just in the corresponding sense, one kind is that which has to do with the distribution of honour, wealth, and the other things that are divided among the members of the body politic (for in these circumstances it is possible for one man’s share to be unfair or fair as compared with another’s); and another kind is that which has to give redress in private transactions.
The latter kind is again subdivided; for private transactions are (1) voluntary, (2) involuntary.
“Voluntary transactions or contracts” are such as selling, buying, lending at interest, pledging, lending without interest, depositing, hiring: these are called “voluntary contracts,” because the parties enter into them of their own will.
“Involuntary transactions,” again, are of two kinds: one involving secrecy, such as theft, adultery, poisoning, procuring, corruption of slaves, assassination, false witness; the other involving open violence, such as assault, seizure of the person, murder, rape, maiming, slander, contumely.
3.
Of what is just in ditribution and its rule of geometrical proportion.
The unjust man [in this limited sense of the word], we say, is unfair, and that which is unjust is unfair.
Now, it is plain that there must be a mean which lies between what is unfair on this side and on that. And this is that which is fair or equal; for any act that admits of a too much and a too little admits also of that which is fair.
If then that which is unjust be unfair, that which is just will be fair, which indeed is admitted by all without further proof.
But since that which is fair or equal is a mean between two extremes, it follows that what is just will be a mean.
But equality or fairness implies two terms at least.*
It follows, then, that that which is just is both a mean quantity and also a fair amount relatively to something else and to certain persons—in other words, that, on the one hand, as a mean quantity it implies certain other quantities, i.e. a more and a less; and, on the other hand, as an equal or fair amount it involves two quantities,† and as a just amount it involves certain persons.
That which is just, then, implies four terms at least: two persons to whom justice is done, and two things.
And there must be the same “equality” [i.e. the same ratio] between the persons and the things: as the things are to one another, so must the persons be. For if the persons be not equal, their shares will not be equal; and this is the source of disputes and accusations, when persons who are equal do not receive equal shares, or when persons who are not equal receive equal shares.
This is also plainly indicated by the common phrase “according to merit.” For in distribution all men allow that what is just must be according to merit or worth of some kind, but they do not all adopt the same standard of worth; in democratic states they take free birth as the standard,* in oligarchic states they take wealth, in others noble birth, and in the true aristocratic state virtue or personal merit.
We see, then, that that which is just is in some sort proportionate. For not abstract numbers only, but all things that can be numbered, admit of proportion; proportion meaning equality of ratios, and requiring four terms at least.
That discrete proportion† requires four terms is evident at once. Continuous proportion also requires four terms: for in it one term is employed as two and is repeated; for instance, a/b = b/c. The term b then is repeated; and so, counting b twice over, we find that the terms of the proportion are four in number.
That which is just, then, requires that there be four terms at least, and that the ratio between the two pairs be the same, i.e. that the persons stand to one another in the same ratio as the things.
Let us say, then, a/b = c/d, or alternandoa/c = b/d.
The sums of these new pairs then will stand to one another in the original ratio [i.e. a + c/b + d = a/b or c/d ].
But these are the pairs which the distribution joins together;‡ and if the things be assigned in this manner, the distribution is just.
This joining, then, of a to c and of b to d is that which is just in distribution; and that which is just in this sense is a mean quantity, while that which is unjust is that which is disproportionate; for that which is proportionate is a mean quantity, but that which is just is, as we said, proportionate.
This proportion is called by the mathematicians a geometrical proportion; for it is when four terms are in geometrical proportion that the sum [of the first and third] is to the sum [of the second and fourth] in the original ratio [of the first to the second or the third to the fourth].
But this proportion [as applied in justice] cannot be a continuous proportion; for one term cannot represent both a person and a thing.
That which is just, then, in this sense is that which is proportionate; but that which is unjust is that which is disproportionate. In the latter case one quantity becomes more or too much, the other less or too little. And this we see in practice; for he who wrongs another gets too much, and he who is wronged gets too little of the good in question: but of the evil conversely; for the lesser evil stands in the place of good when compared with the greater evil: for the lesser evil is more desirable than the greater, but that which is desirable is good, and that which is more desirable is a greater good.
This then is one form of that which is just.
4.
Of that which is just in correction, and its rule of arithmetical proportion.
It remains to treat of the other form, viz. that which is just in the way of redress, the sphere of which is private transactions, whether voluntary or involuntary.
This differs in kind from the former.
For that which is just in the distribution of a common stock of good things is always in accordance with the proportion above specified (even when it is a common fund that has to be divided, the sums which the several participants take must bear the same ratio to one another as the sums they have put in), and that which is unjust in the corresponding sense is that which violates this proportion.
But that which is just in private transactions* is indeed fair or equal in some sort, and that which is unjust is unfair or unequal; but the proportion to be observed here is not a geometrical proportion as above, but an arithmetical one.
For it makes no difference whether a good man defrauds a bad one, or a bad man a good one, nor whether a man who commits an adultery be a good or a bad man; the law looks only to the difference created by the injury, treating the parties themselves as equal, and only asking whether the one has done, and the other suffered, injury or damage.
That which is unjust, then, is here something unequal [or unfair] which the judge tries to make equal [or fair]. For even when one party is struck and the other strikes, or one kills and the other is killed, that which is suffered and that which is done may be said to be unequally or unfairly divided; the judge then tries to restore equality by the penalty or loss which he inflicts upon the offender, subtracting it from his gain.
For in such cases, though the terms are not always quite appropriate, we generally talk of the doer’s “gain” (e.g. the striker’s) and the sufferer’s “loss;” but when the suffering has been assessed by the court, what the doer gets is called “loss” or penalty, and what the sufferer gets is called “gain.”
What is fair or equal, then, is a mean between more or too much and less or too little; but gain and loss are both more or too much and less or too little in opposite ways, i.e. gain is more or too much good and less or too little evil, and loss the opposite of this.
And in the mean between them, as we found, lies that which is equal or fair, which we say is just.
That which is just in the way of redress, then, is the mean between loss and gain.
When disputes arise, therefore, men appeal to the judge:* and an appeal to the judge is an appeal to that which is just; for the judge is intended to be as it were a living embodiment of that which is just; and men require of a judge that he shall be moderate [or observe the mean], and sometimes even call judges “mediators” (μεσιδίους), signifying that if they get the mean they will get that which is just.
That which is just, then, must be a sort of mean, if the judge be a “mediator.”
But the judge restores equality; it is as if he found a line divided into two unequal parts, and were to cut off from the greater that by which it exceeds the half, and to add this to the less.
But when the whole is equally divided, the parties are said to have their own, each now receiving an equal or fair amount.
But the equal or fair amount is here the arithmetic mean between the more or too much and the less or too little. And so it is called δίκαιον (just) because there is equal division (δίχα); δίκαιον being in fact equivalent to δίχαιον, and δικαστής (judge) to διχαστής.
If you cut off a part from one of two equal lines and add it to the other, the second is now greater than the first by two such parts (for if you had only cut off the part from the first without adding it to the second, the second would have been greater by only one such part); the second exceeds the mean by one such part, and the mean also exceeds the first by one.
Thus we can tell how much to take away from him who has more or too much, and how much to add to him who has less or too little: to the latter’s portion must be added that by which it falls short of the mean, and from the former’s portion must be taken away that by which it exceeds the mean.
To illustrate this, let AA′, BB′, CC′ be three equal lines:—
From AA′ let AE be cut off; and let CD [equal to AE] be added to CC′; then the whole DCC′ exceeds EA′ by CD and CZ [equal to AE or CD], and exceeds BB′ by CD.
And this* holds good not only in geometry, but in the arts also; they could not exist unless that which is worked upon received an impression corresponding in kind and quantity and quality to the exertions of the artist.
But these terms, “loss” and “gain,” are borrowed from voluntary exchange. For in voluntary exchange having more than your own is called gaining, and having less than you started with is called losing (in buying and selling, I mean, and in the other transactions in which the law allows free play); but when the result to each is neither more nor less but the very same amount with which he started, then they say that they have their own, and are neither losers nor gainers. That which is just, then, is a mean between a gain and a loss, which are both contrary to the intention,* and consists in having after the transaction the equivalent of that which you had before it.
5.
Simple requital is not identical with what is just, but proportionate requital is what is just in exchange; and this is effected by means of money. We can now give a general definition of justice (2).
Some people, indeed, go so far as to think that simple requital is just. And so the Pythagoreans used to teach; for their definition of what is just was simply that what a man has done to another should be done to him.
But this simple requital does not correspond either with that which is just in distribution or with that which is just in the way of redress (though they try to make out that this is the meaning of the Rhadamanthine rule—
“To suffer that which thou hast done is just”);
for in many cases it is quite different. For instance, if an officer strike a man, he ought not to be struck in return; and if a man strike an officer, he ought not merely to be struck, but to be punished.
Further, it makes a great difference whether what was done to the other was done with his consent or against it.
But it is true that, in the interchange of services, this is the rule of justice that holds society together, viz. requital—but proportionate requital, and not simple repayment of equals for equals. For the very existence of a state depends upon proportionate return. If men have suffered evil, they seek to return it; if not, if they cannot requite an injury, we count their condition slavish. And again, if men have received good, they seek to repay it: for otherwise there is no exchange of services; but it is by this exchange that we are bound together in society.
This is the reason why we set up a temple of the graces [charities, χάριτες] in sight of all men, to remind them to repay that which they receive; for this is the special characteristic of charity or grace. We ought to return the good offices of those who have been gracious to us, and then again to take the lead in good offices towards them.
But proportionate interchange is brought about by “cross conjunction.”
For instance, let A stand for a builder, B for a shoemaker, C for a house, D for shoes.*
The builder then must take some of the shoemaker’s work, and give him his own work in exchange.
Now, the desired result will be brought about if requital take place after proportionate equality has first been established.*
If this be not done, there is no equality, and intercourse becomes impossible; for there is no reason why the work of the one should not be worth more than the work of the other. Their work, then, must be brought to an equality [or appraised by a common standard of value].
This is no less true of the other arts and professions [than of building and shoemaking]; for they could not exist if that which the patient [client or consumer] receives did not correspond in quantity and quality with that which the agent [artist or producer] does or produces.†
For it is not between two physicians that exchange of services takes place, but between a physician and a husbandman, and generally between persons of different professions and of unequal worth; these unequal persons, then, have to be reduced to equality [or measured by a common standard].*
All things or services, then, which are to be exchanged must be in some way reducible to a common measure.
For this purpose money was invented, and serves as a medium of exchange; for by it we can measure everything, and so can measure the superiority and inferiority of different kinds of work—the number of shoes, for instance, that is equivalent to a house or to a certain quantity of food.
What is needed then is that so many shoes shall bear to a house (or a measure of corn) the same ratio that a builder [or a husbandman] bears to a shoemaker.† For unless this adjustment be effected, no dealing or exchange of services can take place; and it cannot be effected unless the things to be exchanged can be in some way made equal.
We want, therefore, some one common measure of value, as we said before.
This measure is, in fact, the need for each other’s services which holds the members of a society together; for if men had no needs, or no common needs, there would either be no exchange, or a different sort of exchange from that which we know.
But money has been introduced by convention as a kind of substitute for need or demand; and this is why we call it νόμισμα, because its value is derived, not from nature, but from law (νόμος), and can be altered or abolished at will.
Requital then will take place after the wares have been so equated [by the adjustment of prices] that the quantity of shoemaker’s work bears to the quantity of husbandman’s work [which exchanges for it] the same ratio that husbandman bears to shoemaker.* But this adjustment must be made,† not at the time of exchange (for then one of the two parties would get both the advantages‡ ), but while they are still in possession of their own wares; if this be done, they are put on an equal footing and can make an exchange, because this kind of equality can be established between them.
If A stand for a husbandman and C for a certain quantity of his work (or corn), B will stand for a shoemaker, and D for that quantity of shoemaker’s work that is valued as equal to C.
If they could not requite each other in this way, interchange of services would be impossible.
That it is our need which forms, as it were, a common bond to hold society together, is seen from the fact that people do not exchange unless they are in need of one another’s services (each party of the services of the other, or at least one party of the service of the other), as when that which one has, e.g. wine, is needed by other people who offer to export corn in return. This article, then [the corn to be exported], must be made equal [to the wine that is imported].*
But even if we happen to want nothing at the moment, money is a sort of guarantee that we shall be able to make an exchange at any future time when we happen to be in need; for the man who brings money must always be able to take goods in exchange.
Money is, indeed, subject to the same conditions as other things: its value is not always the same; but still it tends to be more constant than the value of anything else.
Everything, then, must be assessed in money; for this enables men always to exchange their services, and so makes society possible.
Money, then, as a standard, serves to reduce things to a common measure, so that equal amounts of each may be taken; for there would be no society if there were no exchange, and no exchange if there were no equality, and no equality if it were not possible to reduce things to a common measure.
In strictness, indeed, it is impossible to find any common measure for things so extremely diverse; but our needs give a standard which is sufficiently accurate for practical purposes.
There must, then, be some one common symbol for this, and that a conventional symbol; so we call it money (νόμισμα, νόμος). Money makes all things commensurable, for all things are valued in money. For instance, let A stand for a house, B for ten minæ, C for a bed; and let A = B/2, taking a house to be worth or equal to five minæ, and let C (the bed) = B/10. We see at once, then, how many beds are equal to one house, viz. five.
It is evident that, before money came into use, all exchange must have been of this kind: it makes no difference whether you give five beds for a house, or the value of five beds.
Thus we have described that which is unjust and that which is just. And now that these are determined, we can see that doing justice is a mean between doing and suffering injustice; for the one is having too much, or more, and the other too little, or less than one’s due.
We see also that the virtue justice is a kind of moderation or observance of the mean, but not quite in the same way as the virtues hitherto spoken of. It does indeed choose a mean, but both the extremes fall under the single vice injustice.*
We see also that justice is that habit in respect of which the just man is said to be apt to do deliberately that which is just; that is to say, in dealings between himself and another (or between two other parties), to apportion things, not so that he shall get more or too much, and his neighbour less or too little, of what is desirable, and conversely with what is disadvantageous, but so that each shall get his fair, that is, his proportionate share, and similarly in dealings between two other parties.
Injustice, on the contrary, is the character which chooses what is unjust, which is a disproportionate amount, that is, too much and too little of what is advantageous and disadvantageous respectively.
Thus injustice, as we say, is both an excess and a deficiency, in that it chooses both an excess and a deficiency—in one’s own affairs choosing excess of what is, as a general rule, advantageous, and deficiency of what is disadvantageous; in the affairs of others making a similarly disproportionate assignment, though in which way the proportion is violated will depend upon circumstances.
But of the two sides of the act of injustice, suffering is a lesser wrong than doing the injustice.
Let this, then, be accepted as our account, in general terms, of the nature of justice and injustice respectively, and of that which is just and that which is unjust.
6.
(One can act unjustly without being unjust.) That which is just in the strict sense is between citizens only, for it implies law.
But since it is possible for a man to do an act of injustice without yet being unjust, what acts of injustice are there, such that the doing of them stamps a man at once as unjust in this or that particular way, e.g. as a thief, or an adulterer, or a robber?
Perhaps we ought to reply that there is no such difference in the acts.* A man might commit adultery, knowing what he was about, and yet be acting not from a deliberate purpose at all, but from a momentary passion. In such a case, then, a man acts unjustly, but is not unjust; e.g. is not a thief though he commits a theft, and is not an adulterer though he commits adultery, and so on.†
We have already explained the relation which requital bears to that which is just. But we must not fail to notice that what we are seeking is at once that which is just simply [or without any qualifying epithet], and that which is just in a state or between citizens.* Now, this implies men who associate together in order to supply their deficiencies, being free men, and upon a footing of equality, either absolute or proportionate.
Between those who are not upon this footing, then, we cannot speak of that which is just as between citizens (though there is something that can be called just metaphorically). For the term just cannot be properly applied, except where men have a law to appeal to,† and the existence of law implies the existence of injustice; for the administration of the law is the discrimination of what is just from what is unjust.
But injustice implies an act of injustice (though an act of injustice does not always imply injustice) which is taking too much of the goods and too little of the evils of life. And so we do not allow an individual to rule over us, but reason or law; for an individual is apt thus to take more for himself, and to become a tyrant.
The magistrate’s function, then, is to secure that which is just, and if that which is just, then that which is equal or fair. But it seems that he gets no advantage from his office, if he is just (for he does not take a larger share of the good things of life, except when that larger share is proportionate to his worth; he works, therefore, in the interests of others, which is the reason why justice is sometimes called “another’s good,” as we remarked before).* Some salary, therefore, must be given him, and this he receives in the shape of honours and privileges; and it is when magistrates are not content with these that they make themselves tyrants.
That which is just as between master and slave, or between father and child, is not the same as this, though like. We cannot speak (without qualification) of injustice towards what is part of one’s self—and a man’s chattels and his children (until they are of a certain age and are separated from their parent) are as it were a part of him—for no one deliberately chooses to injure himself; so that a man cannot be unjust towards himself.
We cannot speak in this case, then, of that which is unjust, or of that which is just as between citizens; for that, we found, is according to law, and subsists between those whose situation implies law, i.e., as we found, those who participate equally or fairly in governing and being governed.
The term just, therefore, is more appropriate to a man’s relations to his wife than to his relations to his children and his chattels, and we do speak in this sense of that which is just in a family; but even this is not the same as that which is just between citizens.*
7.
It is in part natural, in part conventional.
Now, of that which is just as between citizens, part is natural, part is conventional. That is natural which has the same validity everywhere, and does not depend on our accepting or rejecting it; that is conventional which at the outset may be determined in this way or in that indifferently, but which when once determined is no longer indifferent; e.g. that a man’s ransom be a mina, or that a sacrifice consist of a goat and not of two sheep; and, again, those ordinances which are made for special occasions, such as the sacrifice to Brasidas [at Amphipolis], and all ordinances that are of the nature of a decree.
Now, there are people who think that what is just is always conventional, because that which is natural is invariable, and has the same validity everywhere, as fire burns here and in Persia, while that which is just is seen to be not invariable.
But this is not altogether true, though it is true in a way. Among the gods, indeed, we may venture to say it is not true at all; but of that which is just among us part is natural, though all is subject to change. Though all is subject to change, nevertheless, I repeat, part is natural and part not.
Nor is it hard to distinguish, among things that may be other than they are, that which is natural from that which is not natural but dependent on law or convention, though both are alike variable. In other fields we can draw the same distinction; we say, for instance, that the right hand is naturally the stronger, though in any man the left may become equally strong.
And so, of that which is just, that part which is conventional and prescribed with a view to a particular end* varies as measures vary; for the measures of wine and of corn are not everywhere the same, but larger where the dealers buy, and smaller where they sell.† So I say that which is just not by nature but merely by human ordinance is not the same everywhere, any more than constitutions are everywhere the same, though there is but one constitution that is naturally the best everywhere.
The terms “just” and “lawful” in each of their several senses stand for universal notions which embrace a number of particulars; i.e. the acts are many, but the notion is one, for it is applied to all alike.
“That which is unjust,” we must notice, is different from “an act of injustice,” and “that which is just” from “an act of justice:” for a thing is unjust either by nature or by ordinance; but this same thing when done is called “an act of injustice,” though before it was done it could only be called unjust. And so with “an act of justice” (δικαίωμα); though in the latter case we rather employ δικαιοπράγημα as the generic term, and restrict δικαίωμα to the correction of an act of injustice. But as to the several species of acts of justice and injustice, we must postpone for the present the inquiry into their nature and number and the ground which they cover.
8.
The internal conditions of a just or unjust action, and of a just or unjust agent.
Now that we have ascertained what is just and what is unjust, we may say that a man acts unjustly or justly when he does these things voluntarily; but when he does them involuntarily, he does not, strictly speaking, act either unjustly or justly, but only “accidentally,” i.e. he does a thing which happens to be just or unjust.* For whether an act is or is not to be called an act of injustice (or of justice) depends upon whether it is voluntary or involuntary; for if it be voluntary the agent is blamed, and at the same time the act becomes an act of injustice: so something unjust may be done, and yet it may not be an act of injustice, i.e. if this condition of voluntariness be absent.
By a voluntary act I mean, as I explained before, anything which, being within the doer’s control, is done knowingly (i.e. with knowledge of the person, the instrument, and the result; e.g. the person whom and the instrument with which he is striking, and the effect of the blow), without the intervention at any point of accident or constraint; e.g. if another take your hand and with it strike a third person, that is not a voluntary act of yours, for it was not within your control; again, the man you strike may be your father, and you may know that it is a man, or perhaps that it is one of the company, that you are striking but not know that it is your father; and it must be understood that the same distinction is to be made with regard to the result, and, in a word, to the whole act. That then which either is done in ignorance, or, though not done in ignorance, is not under our control, or is done under compulsion, is involuntary; besides which, there are many natural processes in which we knowingly take an active or a passive part, which cannot be called either voluntary or involuntary, such as growing old and dying.
An accidentally unjust act and an accidentally just act are equally possible; e.g. a man might restore a deposit against his will for fear of consequences, and then you could not say that he did what was just or acted justly except accidentally:* and, similarly, a man who against his will was forcibly prevented from restoring a deposit would be said only accidentally to act unjustly or to do that which is unjust.
Voluntary acts, again, are divided into (1) those that are done of set purpose, and (2) those that are done without set purpose; i.e. (1) those that are done after previous deliberation, and (2) those that are done without previous deliberation.
Now, there are three ways in which we may hurt our neighbour. Firstly, a hurt done in ignorance is generally called a mistake when there is a misconception as to the person affected, or the thing done, or the instrument, or the result; e.g. I may not think to hit, or not to hit with this instrument, or not to hit this person, or not to produce this effect, but an effect follows other than that which was present to my mind; I may mean to inflict a prick, not a wound, or not to wound the person whom I wound, or not to deal a wound of this kind.
But [if we draw the distinction more accurately] when the hurt comes about contrary to what might reasonably be expected, it may be called a mishap: but when, though it is not contrary to what might reasonably be expected, there is still no vicious intention, it is a mistake; for a man makes a mistake when he sets the train of events in motion,* but he is unfortunate when an external agency interferes.†
Secondly, when the agent acts with knowledge but without previous deliberation, it is an act of injustice; e.g. when he is impelled by anger or any of the other passions to which man is necessarily or naturally subject. In doing such hurt and committing such errors, the doer acts unjustly and the acts are acts of injustice, though they are not such as to stamp him as unjust or wicked; for the hurt is not done out of wickedness.
But, thirdly, when it is done of set purpose, the doer is unjust and wicked.
On this account acts done in anger are rightly held not to be done of malice aforethought; for he who gave the provocation began it, not he who did the deed in a passion.
Again, in such cases as this last, what men dispute about is usually not whether the deed was done or not, but what the justice of the case is; for it is an apparent injustice that stirs the assailant’s wrath. There is a difference between cases of this kind and disputes about contracts: in the latter the question is a question of fact, and one or other of the parties must be a vicious character, unless his memory be at fault; but in these cases they agree about the facts, but differ as to which side is in the right (whereas the deliberate aggressor knows very well the rights of the case), so that the one thinks that he is wronged, while the other thinks differently.*
But if a man hurt another of set purpose, he acts unjustly, and acts of injustice (i.e. violations of what is proportionate and fair), when so done, stamp the doer as an unjust character.
In like manner a man is a just character when he of set purpose acts justly; but he is said to act justly if he merely do voluntarily that which is just.
Of involuntary injuries, on the other hand, some are pardonable, some unpardonable. Errors that are committed not merely in ignorance but by reason of ignorance are pardonable; but those that are committed not through ignorance but rather in ignorance, through some unnatural or inhuman passion, are not pardonable.†
9.
Sundry questions about doing and suffering injustice
But it may be doubted whether we have sufficiently explained what it is to suffer and to do injustice. First of all, are these terms applicable to such a case as that which is described in those strange verses of Euripides?—
- “A. I slew my mother: that is all my tale.
- P. But say, did both or neither will the deed?”
Is it really possible, I mean, to suffer injustice [or be wronged] voluntarily? or is suffering injustice always involuntary, as doing injustice is always voluntary?
Again, is suffering injustice always one way or the other (as doing injustice is always voluntary), or is it sometimes voluntary and sometimes involuntary?
Similarly with regard to having justice done to you: doing justice is always voluntary [as doing injustice is], so that one might expect that there is the same relation in both cases between the active and the passive, and that suffering injustice and having justice done to you are either both voluntary or both involuntary. But it would surely be absurd to maintain, even with regard to having justice done to you, that it is always voluntary; for some that have justice done to them certainly do not will it.
Again we may raise the question in this [more general] form: Can a man who has that which is unjust done to him always be said to suffer injustice [or be wronged]? or are there further conditions necessary for suffering as there are for doing injustice?
Both what I do and what I suffer may be (as we saw) “accidentally” just; and so also it may be “accidentally” unjust: for doing that which is unjust is not identical with doing injustice, nor is suffering that which is unjust the same as suffering injustice; and similarly with doing justice and having justice done to you. For to have injustice done to you implies some one that does injustice, and to have justice done to you implies some one that does justice.
But if to do injustice means simply to hurt a man voluntarily, and voluntarily means with knowledge of the person, the instrument, and the manner, then the incontinent man, who voluntarily hurts himself, will voluntarily suffer injustice, and it will be possible for a man to do injustice to himself—the possibility of which last is also one of the questions in dispute.
Again, a man might, through incontinence, voluntarily suffer himself to be hurt by another also acting voluntarily; so that in this case also a man might voluntarily suffer injustice.
I think rather that the above definition is incorrect, and that to “hurting with knowledge of the person, the instrument, and the manner,” we must add “against his wish.”* If we define it so, then a man may voluntarily be hurt and suffer that which is unjust, but cannot voluntarily have injustice done to him. (For no one wishes to be hurt,—even the incontinent man does not wish it, but acts contrary to his wish. No one wishes for anything that he does not think good; what the incontinent man does is not that which he thinks he ought to do.) But he that gives, as Glaucus gives to Diomede in Homer—
“Gold for his bronze, fivescore kine’s worth for nine,”
does not suffer injustice; for the giving rests with him, but suffering injustice does not rest with one’s self; there must be some one to do injustice.
It is plain, then, that suffering injustice cannot be voluntary.
There are still two questions that we purposed to discuss: (1) Is it the man who assigns or the man who receives a disproportionately large share that does injustice? (2) Is it possible to do injustice to yourself?
In the former case, i.e. if he who assigns and not he who receives the undue share does injustice, then if a man knowingly and voluntarily gives too much to another and too little to himself, he does injustice to himself. And this is what moderate persons are often thought to do; for the equitable man is apt to take less than his due. But the case is hardly so simple: it may be that he took a larger share of some other good, e.g. of good fame or of that which is intrinsically noble.
Again, the difficulty may be got over by reference to our definition of doing injustice; for in this case nothing is done to the man against his wish, so that no injustice is done him, but at most only harm.
It is plain, moreover, that the man who makes the unjust award does injustice, but not always he who gets more than his share; for a man does not always do injustice when we can say of what he does that it is unjust, but only when we can say that he voluntarily does that which is unjust; and that we can only say of the prime mover in the action, which in this case is the distributor and not the receiver.
Again, there are many senses of the word “do,” and in a certain sense an inanimate instrument, or my hand, or again my slave under my orders, may be said to slay; but though these may be said to do what is unjust, they cannot be said to act unjustly or to do an act of injustice.
Again, if a man unwittingly gives unjust judgment, he does not commit injustice in the sense of contravening that which is just according to law, nor is his judgment unjust in this sense, but in a certain sense it is unjust; for there is a difference between that which is just according to law and that which is just in the primary sense of the word: but if he knowingly gives unjust judgment, he is himself grasping at more than his share, in the shape either of favour with one party or vengeance on the other. The judge, then, who gives unjust judgment on these grounds, takes more than his due, quite as much as if he received a share of the unjust award; for even in the latter case a judge who awards a piece of land would receive, not land, but money.
Men fancy that as it is in their power to act unjustly, so it is an easy matter to be just. But it is not so. To lie with your neighbour’s wife, or to strike your neighbour, or to pass certain coins from your hand to his is easy enough, and always within your power, but to do these acts as the outcome of a certain character is not an easy matter, nor one which is always within your power.*
Similarly men think that to know what is just and what is unjust needs no great wisdom, since any one can inform himself about those things which the law prescribes (though these things are only accidentally, not essentially, just): but to know how these acts must be done and how these distributions must be made in order to be just,—that indeed is a harder matter than to know what conduces to health; though that is no easy matter. It is easy enough to know the meaning of honey, and wine, and hellebore, and cautery, and the knife, but to know how, and to whom, and when they must be applied in order to produce health, is so far from being easy, that to have this knowledge is to be a physician.
For the same reason, some people think that the just man is as able to act unjustly as justly, for he is not less but rather more capable than another of performing the several acts, e.g. of lying with a woman or of striking a blow, as the courageous man is rather more capable than another of throwing away his shield and turning his back and running away anywhere. But to play the coward or to act unjustly means not merely to do such an act (though the doer might be said “accidentally” to act unjustly),* but to do it in a certain frame of mind; just as to act the part of a doctor and to heal does not mean simply to apply the knife or not to apply it, to give or to withhold a drug, but to do this in a particular fashion.
Justice, lastly, implies persons who participate in those things that, generally speaking, are good, but who can have too much or too little of them. For some—for the gods perhaps—no amount of them is too much; and for others—for the incurably vicious—no amount is beneficial, they are always hurtful; but for the rest of mankind they are useful within certain limits: justice, therefore, is essentially human.
10.
Of equity
We have next to speak of equity and of that which is equitable, and to inquire how equity is related to justice, and that which is equitable to that which is just. For, on consideration, they do not seem to be absolutely identical, nor yet generically different. At one time we praise that which is equitable and the equitable man, and even use the word metaphorically as a term of praise synonymous with good, showing that we consider that the more equitable a thing is the better it is. At another time we reflect and find it strange that what is equitable should be praiseworthy, if it be different from what is just; for, we argue, if it be something else, either what is just is not good, or what is equitable is not good;† if both be good, they are the same.
These are the reflections which give rise to the difficulty about what is equitable. Now, in a way, they are all correct and not incompatible with one another; for that which is equitable, though it is better than that which is just (in one sense of the word), is yet itself just, and is not better than what is just in the sense of being something generically distinct from it. What is just, then, and what is equitable are generically the same, and both are good, though what is equitable is better.
But what obscures the matter is that though what is equitable is just, it is not identical with, but a correction of, that which is just according to law.
The reason of this is that every law is laid down in general terms, while there are matters about which it is impossible to speak correctly in general terms. Where, then, it is necessary to speak in general terms, but impossible to do so correctly, the legislator lays down that which holds good for the majority of cases, being quite aware that it does not hold good for all.
The law, indeed, is none the less correctly laid down because of this defect; for the defect lies not in the law, nor in the lawgiver, but in the nature of the subject-matter, being necessarily involved in the very conditions of human action.
When, therefore, the law lays down a general rule, but a particular case occurs which is an exception to this rule, it is right, where the legislator fails and is in error through speaking without qualification, to make good this deficiency, just as the lawgiver himself would do if he were present, and as he would have provided in the law itself if the case had occurred to him.
What is equitable, then, is just, and better than what is just in one sense of the word—not better than what is absolutely just, but better than that which fails through its lack of qualification. And the essence of what is equitable is that it is an amendment of the law, in those points where it fails through the generality of its language.
The reason why the law does not cover all cases is that there are matters about which it is impossible to lay down a law, so that they require a special decree. For that which is variable needs a variable rule, like the leaden rule employed in the Lesbian style of masonry; as the leaden rule has no fixed shape, but adapts itself to the outline of each stone, so is the decree adapted to the occasion.
We have ascertained, then, what the equitable course is, and have found that it is just, and also better than what is just in a certain sense of the word. And after this it is easy to see what the equitable man is: he who is apt to choose such a course and to follow it, who does not insist on his rights to the damage of others, but is ready to take less than his due, even when he has the law to back him, is called an equitable man; and this type of character is called equitableness, being a sort of justice, and not a different kind of character.
11.
Can a man wrong himself?
The foregoing discussion enables us to answer the question whether it be possible or not for a man to act unjustly to himself.
That which is just in one sense of the word we found to be those manifestations of the several virtues which the law prescribes: e.g. the law does not order a man to kill himself; and what the law does not order it forbids: and, further, when a man, contrary to the law, voluntarily inflicts hurt without provocation, he acts unjustly (voluntarily meaning with knowledge of the person and the instrument). Now, the man who kills himself in a rage voluntarily acts thus against right reason and does what the law forbids: he acts unjustly therefore.
But unjustly to whom? To the state surely, not to himself; for he suffers voluntarily, but no one can have an injustice done him voluntarily. And upon this ground the state actually punishes him, i.e. it pronounces a particular kind of disfranchisement upon the man who destroys himself, as one who acts unjustly towards the state.
Again, if we take the word unjust in the other sense, in which it is used to designate not general badness, but a particular species of vice, we find that in this sense also it is impossible to act unjustly to one’s self. (This, we found, is different from the former sense of the word: the unjust man in this second sense is bad in the same way as the coward is bad, i.e. as having a particular form of vice, not as having a completely vicious character, nor do we mean to say that he displays a completely vicious character when we say that he acts unjustly). For if it were possible, it would be possible for the same thing at the same time to be taken from and added to the same person. But this is impossible; and, in fact, a just deed or an unjust deed always implies more persons than one.
Further, an act of injustice, besides being voluntary, if not deliberate, must be prior to hurt received (for he who, having received some hurt, repays the same that he received is not held to act unjustly); but he who hurts himself suffers that very hurt at the same time that he inflicts it.
Again, if it were possible for a man to act unjustly to himself, it would be possible to suffer injustice voluntarily.
Further, a man cannot act unjustly without doing an act of injustice of some particular kind; but no one commits adultery with his own wife, or burglariously breaks through his own walls, or steals his own property.
But the whole question about acting unjustly to one’s self is settled (without going into detail) by the answer we gave* to the question whether a man could voluntarily suffer injustice.
(It is plain that to suffer and to do injustice are both bad, for the one is to get less and the other more than the mean amount, which corresponds to what is healthy in medicine, or to what promotes good condition in gymnastics: but, though both are bad, to do injustice is the worse; for to do injustice is blamable and implies vice (either completely formed vice, what we call vice simply, or else that which is on the way to become vice; for a voluntary act of injustice does not always imply injustice), but to have injustice done to you is no token of a vicious and unjust character.
In itself, then, to be unjustly treated is less bad, but there is nothing to prevent its being accidentally the greater evil. Science, however, does not concern itself with these accidents, but calls a plcurisy a greater malady than a stumble; and yet the latter might, on occasion, accidentally become the greater, as, for instance, if a stumble were to cause you to fall and be caught or slain by the enemy.)
Though we cannot apply the term just to a man’s behaviour towards himself, yet we can apply it metaphorically and in virtue of a certain resemblance to the relations between certain parts of a man’s self—not, however, in all senses of the word just, but in that sense in which it is applied to the relations of master and slave, or husband and wife; for this is the sort of relation that exists between the rational and the irrational parts of the soul.
And it is this distinction of parts that leads people to fancy that there is such a thing as injustice to one’s self: one part of a man can have something done to it by another part contrary to its desires; and so they think that the term just can be applied to the relations of these parts to one another, just as to the relations of ruler and ruled.*
We may now consider that we have concluded our examination of justice and the other moral virtues.
BOOK VI.
THE INTELLECTUAL VIRTUES.
1.
Must be studied because (a) reason prescribes the mean, (b) they are a part of human excellence. The intellect is (1) scientific, (2) calculative: we want the virtue of each.
We said above that what we should choose is neither too much nor too little, but “the mean,” and that “the mean” is what “right reason” prescribes. This we now have to explain.
Each of the virtues we have discussed implies (as every mental habit implies) some aim which the rational man keeps in view when he is regulating his efforts; in other words, there must be some standard for determining the several modes of moderation, which we say lie between excess and deficiency, and are in accordance with “right reason.” But though this is quite true, it is not sufficiently precise. In any kind of occupation which can be reduced to rational principles, it is quite true to say that we must brace ourselves up and relax ourselves neither too much nor too little, but “in moderation,” “as right reason orders;” but this alone would not tell one much; e.g. a man would hardly learn how to treat a case by being told to treat it as the art of medicine prescribes, and as one versed in that art would treat it.
So in the case of mental habits or types of character also it is not enough that the rule we have laid down is correct; we need further to know precisely what this right reason is, and what is the standard which it affords.
* The virtues or excellences of the mind or soul, it will be remembered, we divided† into two classes, and called the one moral and the other intellectual. The moral excellences or virtues we have already discussed in detail; let us now examine the other class, the intellectual excellences, after some preliminary remarks about the soul.
We said before that the soul consists of two parts, the rational and the irrational part. We will now make a similar division of the former, and will assume that there are two rational faculties: (1) that by which we know those things that depend on invariable principles, (2) that by which we know those things that are variable. For to generically different objects must correspond generically different faculties, if, as we hold, it is in virtue of some kind of likeness or kinship with their objects that our faculties are able to know them.
Let us call the former the scientific or demonstrative, the latter the calculative or deliberative faculty. For to deliberate is the same as to calculate, and no one deliberates about things that are invariable. One division then of the rational faculty may be fairly called the calculative faculty.
Our problem, then, is to find what each of these faculties becomes in its full development, or in its best state; for that will be its excellence or virtue.
But its excellence will bear direct reference to its proper function.
2.
The function of the intellect, both in practice and speculation, is to attain truth.
Now, the faculties which guide us in action and in the apprehension of truth are three: sense, reason,* and desire.
The first of these cannot originate action, as we see from the fact that brutes have sense but are incapable of action.
If we take the other two we find two modes of reasoning, viz. affirmation and negation [or assent and denial], and two corresponding modes of desire, viz. pursuit and avoidance [or attraction and repulsion].
Now, moral virtue is a habit or formed faculty of choice or purpose, and purpose is desire following upon deliberation.
It follows, then, that if the purpose is to be all it should be, both the calculation or reasoning must be true and the desire right, and that the very same things must be assented to by the former and pursued by the latter.
This kind of reasoning, then, and this sort of truth has to do with action.
But speculative reasoning that has to do neither with action nor production is good or bad according as it is true or false simply: for the function of the intellect is always the apprehension of truth; but the function of the practical intellect is the apprehension of truth in agreement with right desire.
Purpose, then, is the cause—not the final but the efficient cause or origin—of action, and the origin of purpose is desire and calculation of means; so that purpose necessarily implies on the one hand the faculty of reason and its exercise, and on the other hand a certain moral character or state of the desires; for right action and the contrary kind of action are alike impossible without both reasoning and moral character.
Mere reasoning, however, can never set anything going, but only reasoning about means to an end—what may be called practical reasoning (which practical reasoning also regulates production; for in making anything you always have an ulterior object in view—what you make is desired not as an end in itself, but only as a means to, or a condition of, something else; but what you do is an end in itself, for well-doing or right action is the end, and this is the object of desire).
Purpose, then, may be called either a reason that desires, or a desire that reasons; and this faculty of originating action constitutes a man.
No past event can be purposed; e.g. no one purposes to have sacked Troy; for no one deliberates about that which is past, but about that which is to come, and which is variable: but the past cannot be undone; so that Agathon is right when he says—
- “This thing alone not God himself can do—
- To make undone that which hath once been done.”
We have thus found that both divisions of the reason, or both the intellectual faculties, have the attainment of truth for their function; that developed state of each, then, in which it best attains truth will be its excellence or virtue.
3.
Of the five modes of attaining truth: (1) of demonstrative science of things invariable.
Let us describe these virtues then, starting afresh from the beginning.
Let us assume that the modes in which the mind arrives at truth, either in the way of affirmation or negation, are five in number, viz. art, science, prudence, wisdom, reason;* for conception and opinion may be erroneous.
What science is we may learn from the following considerations (for we want a precise account, and must not content ourselves with metaphors). We all suppose that what we know with scientific knowledge is invariable; but of that which is variable we cannot say, so soon as it is out of sight, whether it is in existence or not. The object of science, then, is necessary. Therefore it is eternal: for whatever is of its own nature necessary is eternal: and what is eternal neither begins nor ceases to be.
Further, it is held that all science can be taught, and that what can be known in the way of science can be learnt. But all teaching starts from something already known, as we have explained in the Analytics; for it proceeds either by induction or by syllogism. Now, it is induction that leads the learner up to universal principles, while syllogism starts from these. There are principles, then, from which syllogism starts, which are not arrived at by syllogism, and which, therefore, must be arrived at by induction.*
Science, then, may be defined as a habit or formed faculty of demonstration, with all the further qualifications which are enumerated in the Analytics. It is necessary to add this, because it is only when the principles of our knowledge are accepted and known to us in a particular way, that we can properly be said to have scientific knowledge; for unless these principles are better known to us than the conclusions based upon them, our knowledge will be merely accidental.†
This, then, may be taken as our account of science.
4.
Of knowledge of things variable, viz. (2) of art in what we make;
That which is variable includes that which man makes and that which man does; but making or production is different from doing or action (here we adopt the popular distinctions). The habit or formed faculty of acting with reason or calculation, then, is different from the formed faculty of producing with reason or calculation. And so the one cannot include the other; for action is not production, nor is production action.
Now, the builder’s faculty is one of the arts, and may be described as a certain formed faculty of producing with calculation; and there is no art which is not a faculty of this kind, nor is there any faculty of this kind which is not an art: an art, then, is the same thing as a formed faculty of producing with correct calculation.
And every art is concerned with bringing something into being, i.e. with contriving or calculating how to bring into being some one of those things that can either be or not be, and the cause of whose production lies in the producer, not in the thing itself which is produced. For art has not to do with that which is or comes into being of necessity, nor with the products of nature; for these have the cause of their production in themselves.
Production and action being different, art of course has to do with production, and not with action. And, in a certain sense, its domain is the same as that of chance or fortune, as Agathon says—
“Art waits on fortune, fortune waits on art.”
Art, then, as we said, is a certain formed faculty or habit of production with correct reasoning or calculation, and the contrary of this (ἀτεχνία) is a habit of production with incorrect calculation, the field of both being that which is variable.
5.
and (3) of prudence in what we do, the virtue of the calculative intellect.
In order to ascertain what prudence is, we will first ask who they are whom we call prudent.
It seems to be characteristic of a prudent man that he is able to deliberate well about what is good or expedient for himself, not with a view to some particular end, such as health or strength, but with a view to well-being or living well.
This is confirmed by the fact that we apply the name sometimes to those who deliberate well in some particular field, when they calculate well the means to some particular good end, in matters that do not fall within the sphere of art. So we may say, generally, that a man who can deliberate well is prudent.
But no one deliberates about that which cannot be altered, nor about that which it is not in his power to do.
Now science, we saw, implies demonstration; but things whose principles or causes are variable do not admit of demonstration; for everything that depends upon these principles or causes is also variable; and, on the other hand, things that are necessarily determined do not admit of deliberation. It follows, therefore, that prudence cannot be either a science or an art: it cannot be a science, because the sphere of action is that which is alterable; it cannot be an art, because production is generically different from action.
It follows from all this that prudence is a formed faculty that apprehends truth by reasoning or calculation, and issues in action, in the domain of human good and ill; for while production has another end than itself, this is not so with action, since good action or well doing is itself the end.
For this reason Pericles and men who resemble him are considered prudent, because they are able to see what is good for themselves and for men; and this we take to be the character of those who are able to manage a household or a state.
This, too, is the reason why we call temperance σωϕροσύνη, signifying thereby that it is the virtue which preserves prudence. But what temperance preserves is this particular kind of judgment. For it is not any kind of judgment that is destroyed or perverted by the presentation of pleasant or painful objects (not such a judgment, for instance, as that the angles of a triangle are equal to two right angles), but only judgments about matters of practice. For the principles of practice [or the causes which originate action]* are the ends for the sake of which acts are done; but when a man is corrupted by pleasure or pain, he straightway loses sight of the principle, and no longer sees that this is the end for the sake of which, and as a means to which, each particular act should be chosen and done; for vice is apt to obliterate the principle.
Our conclusion then is that prudence is a formed faculty which apprehends truth by reasoning or calculation, and issues in action, in the field of human good.
Moreover, art [or the artistic faculty] has its excellence [or perfect development] in something other than itself, but this is not so with prudence. Again, in the domain of art voluntary error is not so bad as involuntary, but it is worse in the case of prudence, as it is in the case of all the virtues or excellences. It is plain, then, that prudence is a virtue or excellence, and not an art.
And the rational parts of the soul or the intellectual faculties being two in number, prudence will be the virtue of the second, [the calculative part or] the faculty of opinion; for opinion deals with that which is variable, and so does prudence.
But it is something more than “a formed faculty of apprehending truth by reasoning or calculation;” as we see from the fact that such a faculty may be lost, but prudence, once acquired, can never be lost.*
6.
(4) Of intuitive reason as the basis of demonstrative science.
Science is a mode of judging that deals with universal and necessary truths; but truths that can be demonstrated depend upon principles, and (since science proceeds by demonstrative reasoning) every science has its principles. The principles, then, on which the truths of science depend cannot fall within the province of science, nor yet of art or prudence; for a scientific truth is one that can be demonstrated, but art and prudence have to do with that which is variable.
Nor can they fall within the province of wisdom; for it is characteristic of the wise man to have a demonstrative knowledge of certain things.
But the habits of mind or formed faculties by which we apprehend truth without any mixture of error, whether in the domain of things invariable or in the domain of things variable, are science, prudence, wisdom, and reason.† If then no one of the first three (prudence, science, wisdom) can be the faculty which apprehends these principles, the only possible conclusion is that they are apprehended by reason.
7.
(5) Of wisdom as the union of science and intuitive reason. Comparison of the two intellectual virtues, wisdom and prudence.
The term σοϕία (wisdom* ) is sometimes applied in the domain of the arts to those who are consummate masters of their art; e.g. it is applied to Phidias as a master of sculpture, and to Polyclitus for his skill in portrait-statues; and in this application it means nothing else than excellence of art or perfect development of the artistic faculty.
But there are also men who are considered wise, not in part nor in any particular thing (as Homer says in the Margites—
- “Him the gods gave no skill with spade or plough,
- Nor made him wise in aught”),
but generally wise. In this general sense, then, wisdom plainly will be the most perfect of the sciences.
The wise man, then, must not only know what follows from the principles of knowledge, but also know the truth about those principles. Wisdom, therefore, will be the union of [intuitive] reason with [demonstrative] scientific knowledge, or scientific knowledge of the noblest objects with its crowning perfection, so to speak, added to it. For it would be absurd to suppose that the political faculty or prudence is the highest of our faculties, unless indeed man is the best of all things in the universe.
Now, as the terms wholesome and good mean one thing in the case of men and another in the case of fishes, while white and straight always have the same meaning, we must all allow that wise means one thing always, while prudent means different things; for we should all say that those who are clear-sighted in their own affairs are prudent, and deem them fit to be entrusted with those affairs. (And for this reason we sometimes apply the term prudent even to animals, when they show a faculty of foresight in what concerns their own life.)
Moreover, it is plain that wisdom cannot be the same as statesmanship. If we apply the term wisdom to knowledge of what is advantageous to ourselves, there will be many kinds of wisdom; for the knowledge of what is good will not be one and the same for all animals, but different for each species. It can no more be one than the art of healing can be one and the same for all kinds of living things.
Man may be superior to all other animals, but that will not make any difference here; for there are other things of a far diviner nature than man, as—to take the most conspicuous instance—the heavenly bodies.
It is plain, then, after what we have said, that wisdom is the union of scientific [or demonstrative] knowledge and [intuitive] reason about objects of the noblest nature.
And on this account people call Anaxagoras and Thales and men of that sort wise, but not prudent, seeing them to be ignorant of their own advantage; and say that their knowledge is something out of the common, wonderful, hard of attainment, nay superhuman, but useless, since it is no human good that they seek.
Prudence, on the other hand, deals with human affairs, and with matters that admit of deliberation: for the prudent man’s special function, as we conceive it, is to deliberate well; but no one deliberates about what is invariable, or about matters in which there is not some end, in the sense of some realizable good. But a man is said to deliberate well (without any qualifying epithet) when he is able, by a process of reasoning or calculation, to arrive at what is best for man in matters of practice.
Prudence, moreover, does not deal in general propositions only, but implies knowledge of particular facts also; for it issues in action, and the field of action is the field of particulars.
This is the reason why some men that lack [scientific] knowledge are more efficient in practice than others that have it, especially men of wide experience; for if you know that light meat is digestible and wholesome, but do not know what meats are light, you will not be able to cure people so well as a man who only knows that chicken is light and wholesome.
But prudence is concerned with practice; so that it needs knowledge both of general truths and of particular facts, but more especially the latter.
But here also [i.e. in the domain of practice] there must be a supreme form of the faculty [which we will now proceed to consider].
8.
Prudence compared with statesmanship and other forms of knowledge.
And in fact statesmanship and prudence are the same faculty, though they are differently manifested.
Of this faculty in its application to the state the supreme form is the legislative faculty, but the special form which deals with particular cases is called by the generic name statesmanship. The field of the latter is action and deliberation; for a decree directly concerns action, as the last link in the chain.* And on this account those engaged in this field are alone said to be statesmen, for they alone act like handicraftsmen.
But it is when applied to the individual and to one’s own affairs that this faculty is especially regarded as prudence, and this is the form which receives the generic name prudence or practical wisdom (the other forms being (1) the faculty of managing a household, (2) the legislative faculty, (3) statesmanship [in the narrower sense], which is subdivided into (a) the deliberative, (b) the judicial faculty).
Knowing one’s own good, then, would seem to be a kind of knowledge (though it admits of great variety),† and, according to the general opinion, he who knows and attends to his own affairs is prudent, while statesmen are busybodies, as Euripides says—
- “What? was I wise, who might without a care
- Have lived a unit in the multitude
- Like any other unit? . . .
- For those who would excel and do great things—”
For men generally seek their own good, and fancy that is what they should do; and from this opinion comes the notion that these men are prudent.
And yet, perhaps, it is not possible for a man to manage his own affairs well without managing a household and taking part in the management of a state.
Moreover, how a man is to manage his own affairs is not plain and requires consideration. And this is attested by the fact that a young man may become proficient in geometry or mathematics and wise* in these matters, but cannot possibly, it is thought, become prudent. The reason of this is that prudence deals with particular facts, with which experience alone can familiarize us; but a young man must be inexperienced, for experience is the fruit of years.
Why again, we may ask, can a lad be a mathematician but not wise, nor proficient in the knowledge of nature? And the answer surely is that mathematics is an abstract science, while the principles of wisdom and of natural science are only to be derived from a large experience;† and that thus, though a young man may repeat propositions of the latter kind, he does not really believe them, while he can easily apprehend the meaning of mathematical terms.
Error in deliberation, again, may lie either in the universal or in the particular judgment; for instance, you may be wrong in judging that all water that weighs heavy is unwholesome, or in judging that this water weighs heavy. But prudence [in spite of its universal judgments] plainly is not science; for, as we said,* it deals with the ultimate or particular fact [the last link in the chain], for anything that can be done must be of this nature.
And thus it is in a manner opposed to the intuitive reason also: the intuitive reason deals with primary principles which cannot be demonstrated, while prudence deals with ultimate [particular] facts which cannot be scientifically proved, but are perceived by sense—not one of the special senses, but a sense analogous to that by which we perceive in mathematics that this ultimate [particular] figure is a triangle;† for here too our reasoning must come to a stand. But this faculty [by which we apprehend particular facts in the domain of practice] should, after all, be called sense rather than prudence; for prudence cannot be defined thus.‡
9.
Of deliberation.
Inquiry and deliberation are not the same; for deliberation is a particular kind of inquiry. But we must ascertain what good deliberation is—whether it is a kind of science or opinion, or happy guessing, or something quite different.
It is not science; for we do not inquire about that which we know: but good deliberation is a kind of deliberation, and when we deliberate we inquire and calculate.
Nor is it happy guessing; for we make happy guesses without calculating and in a moment, but we take time to deliberate, and it is a common saying that execution should be swift, but deliberation slow.
Good deliberation, again, is different from sagacity, which is a kind of happy guessing.
Nor is it any kind of opinion.
But since in deliberating ill we go wrong, and in deliberating well we go right, it is plain that good deliberation is a kind of rightness, but a rightness or correctness neither of science nor opinion; for science does not admit of correctness (since it does not admit of error), and correctness of opinion is simply truth; and, further, that concerning which we have an opinion is always something already settled.
Good deliberation, however, is impossible without calculation.
We have no choice left, then, but to say that it is correctness of reasoning (διάνοια); for reasoning is not yet assertion: and whereas opinion is not an inquiry, but already a definite assertion, when we are deliberating, whether well or ill, we are inquiring and calculating.
But as good deliberation is a kind of correctness in deliberation, we must first inquire what deliberation means, and what its field is.*
Now, there are various kinds of correctness, and it is plain that not every kind of correctness in deliberation is good deliberation; for the incontinent man or the vicious man may duly arrive, by a process of calculation, at the end which he has in view,* so that he will have deliberated correctly, though what he gains is a great evil. But to have deliberated well is thought to be a good thing; for it is only a particular kind of correctness in deliberation that is called good deliberation—that, namely, which arrives at what is good.
But, further, what is good may be arrived at by a false syllogism; I mean that a right conclusion as to what is to be done may be arrived at in a wrong way or upon wrong grounds—the middle term being wrong;† so that what leads to a right conclusion as to what should be done is not good deliberation, unless the grounds also be right.
A further difference is that one may arrive at the right conclusion slowly, another rapidly. So we must add yet another condition to the above, and say that good deliberation means coming to a right conclusion as to what is expedient or ought to be done, and coming to it in the right manner and at the right time.
Again, we speak of deliberating well simply, and of deliberating well with a view to a particular kind of end. So good deliberation simply [or without any qualifying epithet] is that which leads to right conclusions as to the means to the end simply; a particular kind of good deliberation is that which leads to right conclusions as to the means to a particular kind of end. And so, when we say that prudent men must deliberate well, good deliberation in this case will be correctness in judging what is expedient to that end of which prudence has a true conception.
10.
Of intelligence
The faculty of intelligence or sound intelligence, in respect of which we say a man is intelligent or of sound intelligence, is not the same as science generally, nor as opinion (for then all men would be intelligent), nor is it identical with any particular science, such as medicine, which deals with matters of health, and geometry, which deals with magnitudes; for intelligence has not to do with what is eternal and unchangeable, nor has it to do with events of every kind, but only with those that one may doubt and deliberate about. And so it has to do with the same matters as prudence; but they are not identical: prudence issues orders, for its scope is that which is to be done or not to be done; while intelligence discerns merely (intelligence being equivalent to sound intelligence, and an intelligent man to a man of sound intelligence).
Intelligence, in fact, is equivalent neither to the possession nor to the acquisition of prudence; but just as the learner in science is said to show intelligence when he makes use of the scientific knowledge which he hears from his teacher, so in the domain of prudence a man is said to show intelligence when he makes use of the opinions which he hears from others in judging, and judging fitly—for soundly [when we speak of sound intelligence] means fitly.
And from this use of the term with regard to learning comes its employment to denote that faculty which we imply when we call a man intelligent; for we often speak of the intelligence of a learner.
11.
Of judgment Of reason or intuitive perception as the basis of the practical intellect.
Judgment (what we mean when we speak of a man of kindly judgment, or say a man has judgment) is a correct discernment of that which is equitable. For the equitable man is thought to be particularly kindly in his judgments, and to pass kindly judgments on some things is considered equitable. But kindly judgment (συγγνώμη) is judgment (γνώμη) which correctly discerns that which is equitable—correctly meaning truly.
Now, all these four formed faculties which we have enumerated not unnaturally tend in the same direction. We apply all these terms—judgment, intelligence, prudence, and reason—to the same persons, and talk of people as having, at a certain age, already acquired judgment and reason, and as being prudent and intelligent. For all these four faculties deal with ultimate and particular* facts, and it is in virtue of a power of discrimination in the matters with which prudence deals that we call a person intelligent, or a man of sound judgment, or kindly judgment; for equitable is a common term that is applicable to all that is good in our dealings with others.
But that which is to be done is always some particular thing, something ultimate. As we have seen, it is the business of the prudent man to know it, and intelligence and judgment also have to do with that which is to be done, which is something ultimate.
And the intuitive reason [the last of the four faculties above enumerated] also deals with ultimate truths, in both senses of the word;* for both primary principles and ultimate facts [in the narrower sense of the word ultimate = particular] are apprehended by the intuitive reason, and not by demonstration: on the one hand, in connection with deductions [of general truths in morals and politics],† reason apprehends the unalterable first principles; on the other hand, in connection with practical calculations, reason apprehends the ultimate [particular] alterable fact (which forms the minor premise [in the practical syllogism]. These particular judgments, we may say, are given by reason, as they are the source of our conception of the final cause or end of man; the universal principle is elicited from the particular facts: these particular facts, therefore, must be apprehended by a sense or intuitive perception; and this is reason.‡
And so it is thought that these faculties are natural, and that while nature never makes a man wise, she does endow men with judgment and intelligence and reason. This is shown by the fact that these powers are believed to accompany certain periods of life, and that a certain age is said to bring reason and judgment, implying that they come by nature.
(The intuitive reason, then, is both beginning and end; for demonstration both starts from and terminates in these ultimate truths.)
And on this account we ought to pay the same respect to the undemonstrated assertions and opinions of men of age and experience and prudence as to their demonstrations. For experience has given them a faculty of vision which enables them to see correctly.*
We have said, then, what prudence is, and what wisdom is, and what each deals with, and that each is the virtue of a different part of the soul.
12.
Of the uses of wisdom and prudence. How prudence is related to cleverness.
But here an objection may be raised. “What is the use of them?” it may be asked. “Wisdom does not consider what tends to make man happy (for it does not ask how anything is brought about). Prudence indeed does this, but why do we need it? Prudence is the faculty which deals with what is just and noble and good for man, i.e. with those things which it is the part of the good man to do; but the knowledge of them no more makes us apter to do them, if (as has been said) the [moral] virtues are habits, than it does in the case of what is healthy and wholesome—healthy and wholesome, that is, not in the sense of conducing to, but in the sense of issuing from, a healthy habit; for a knowledge of medicine and gymnastics does not make us more able to do these things.
“But if it be meant that a man should be prudent, not in order that he may do these acts, but in order that he may become able to do them, then prudence will be no use to those who are good, nor even to those who are not. For it will not matter whether they have prudence themselves, or take the advice of others who have it. It will be enough to do in these matters as we do in regard to health; for if we wish to be in health, we do not go and learn medicine.
“Again, it seems to be a strange thing that prudence, though inferior to wisdom, must yet govern it, since in every field the practical faculty bears sway and issues orders.”
We must now discuss these points; for hitherto we have been only stating objections.
First, then, we may say that both prudence and wisdom must be desirable in themselves, since each is the virtue of one of the parts of the soul, even if neither of them produces anything.
Next, they do produce something.
On the one hand, wisdom produces happiness, not in the sense in which medicine produces health, but in the sense in which health produces health;* that is to say, wisdom being a part of complete virtue, its possession and exercise make a man happy.
On the other hand [in the sphere of action], man performs his function perfectly when he acts in accordance with both prudence and moral virtue; for while the latter ensures the rightness of the end aimed at, the former ensures the rightness of the means thereto.
The fourth† part of the soul, the vegetative part, or the faculty of nutrition, has no analogous excellence; for it has no power to act or not to act.
But as to the objection that prudence makes us no more apt to do what is noble and just, let us take the matter a little deeper, beginning thus:—
We allow, on the one hand, that some who do just acts are not yet just; e.g. those who do what the laws enjoin either unwillingly or unwittingly, or for some external motive and not for the sake of the acts themselves (though they do that which they ought and all that a good man should do). And, on the other hand, it seems that when a man does the several acts with a certain disposition he is good; i.e. when he does them of deliberate purpose, and for the sake of the acts themselves.
Now, the rightness of the purpose is secured by [moral] virtue, but to decide what is proper to be done in order to carry out the purpose belongs not to [moral] virtue, but to another faculty. But we must dwell a little on this point and try to make it quite clear.
There is a faculty which we call cleverness (δεινότης)—the power of carrying out the means to any proposed end, and so achieving it. If then the end be noble, the power merits praise; but if the end be base, the power is the power of the villain. So we apply the term clever both to the prudent man and the villain.*
Now, this power is not identical with prudence, but is its necessary condition. But this power, the “eye of the soul” as we may call it, does not attain its perfect development† without moral virtue, as we said before, and as may be shown thus:—
All syllogisms or deductive reasonings about what is to be done have for their starting point [principle or major premise] “the end or the supreme good is so and so” (whatever it be; any definition of the good will do for the argument). But it is only to the good man that this presents itself as the good; for vice perverts us and causes us to err about the principles of action. So it is plain, as we said, that it is impossible to be prudent without being morally good.
13.
How prudence is related to moral virtue
This suggests a further consideration of moral virtue; for the case is closely analogous to this—I mean that just as prudence is related to cleverness, being not identical with it, but closely akin to it, so is fully developed moral virtue related to natural virtue.
All admit that in a certain sense the several kinds of character are bestowed by nature. Justice, a tendency to temperance, courage, and the other types of character are exhibited from the moment of birth. Nevertheless, we look for developed goodness as something different from this, and expect to find these same qualities in another form. For even in children and brutes these natural virtues are present, but without the guidance of reason they are plainly hurtful. So much at least seems to be plain—that just as a strong-bodied creature devoid of sight stumbles heavily when it tries to move, because it cannot see, so is it with this natural virtue; but when it is enlightened by reason it acts surpassingly well; and the natural virtue (which before was only like virtue) will then be fully developed virtue.
We find, then, that just as there are two forms of the calculative faculty, viz. cleverness and prudence, so there are two forms of the moral qualities, viz. natural virtue and fully developed virtue, and that the latter is impossible without prudence.
On this account some people say that all the virtues are forms of prudence, and in particular Socrates held this view, being partly right in his inquiry and partly wrong—wrong in thinking that all the virtues are actually forms of prudence, but right in saying that they are impossible without prudence.
This is corroborated by the fact that nowadays every one in defining virtue would, after specifying its field, add that it is a formed faculty or habit in accordance with right reason, “right” meaning “in accordance with prudence.”
Thus it seems that every one has a sort of inkling that a formed habit or character of this kind (i.e. in accordance with prudence) is virtue.
Only a slight change is needed in this expression. Virtue is not simply a formed habit in accordance with right reason, but a formed habit implying right reason.* But right reason in these matters is prudence.
So whereas Socrates held that the [moral] virtues are forms of reason (for he held that these are all modes of knowledge), we hold that they imply reason.
It is evident, then, from what has been said that it is impossible to be good in the full sense without prudence, or to be prudent without moral virtue. And in this way we can meet an objection which may be urged. “The virtues,” it may be said, “are found apart from each other; a man who is strongly predisposed to one virtue has not an equal tendency towards all the others, so that he will have acquired this virtue while he still lacks that.” We may answer that though this may be the case with the natural virtues, yet it cannot be the case with those virtues for which we call a man good without any qualifying epithet. The presence of the single virtue of prudence implies the presence of all the moral virtues.
And thus it is plain, in the first place, that, even if it did not help practice, we should yet need prudence as the virtue or excellence of a part of our nature; and, in the second place, that purpose cannot be right without both prudence and moral virtue; for the latter makes us desire the end, while the former makes us adopt the right means to the end.
Nevertheless, prudence is not the mistress of wisdom and of the better part of our nature [the reason], any more than medicine is the mistress of health. Prudence does not employ wisdom in her service, but provides means for the attainment of wisdom—does not rule it, but rules in its interests. To assert the contrary would be like asserting that statesmanship rules the gods, because it issues orders about all public concerns [including the worship of the gods.]
BOOK VII.
CHAPTERS 1–10.
CHARACTERS OTHER THAN VIRTUE AND VICE.
1.
Of continence and incontinence, heroic virtue and brutality. Of method. Statement of opinions about continence.
At this point we will make a fresh start and say that the undesirable forms of moral character are three in number, viz. vice, incontinence, brutality. In the case of two of these it is plain what the opposite is: virtue is the name we give to the opposite of vice, and continence to the opposite of incontinence; but for the opposite of the brutal character it would be most appropriate to take that excellence which is beyond us, the excellence of a hero or a god,—as Homer makes Priam say of Hector that he was surpassingly good—
- “Nor seemed the child
- Of any mortal man, but of a god.”
If, then, superlative excellence raises men into gods, as the stories tell us, it is evident that the opposite of the brutal character would be some such superlative excellence. For just as neither virtue nor vice belongs to a brute, so does neither belong to a god; to the latter belongs something higher than virtue, to the former something specifically different from vice.
But as it is rare to find a godlike man (to employ the phrase in use among the Spartans; for when they admire a man exceedingly they call him σεῖος* ἀνήρ), so also is the brutal character rare among men. It occurs most frequently among the barbarians; it is also produced sometimes by disease and organic injuries; and, thirdly, we apply the name as a term of reproach to those who carry vice to a great pitch.†
However, we shall have to make some mention of this disposition further on,‡ and we have already discussed vice; so we will now speak of incontinence and softness and luxuriousness, and also of continence and hardiness—for we must regard these as the names of states or types of character that are neither identical with virtue and vice respectively nor yet generically different.
And here we must follow our usual method, and, after stating the current opinions about these affections, proceed first to raise objections, and then to establish, if possible, the truth of all the current opinions on the subject, or, if not of all, at least of the greater number and the most important. For if the difficulties can be resolved and the popular notions thus confirmed, we shall have attained as much certainty as the subject allows.
It is commonly thought (1) that continence and hardiness are good and laudable, while incontinence and softness are bad and blamable; and, again (2), that a continent man is identical with one who abides by his calculations, and an incontinent man with one who swerves from them; and (3) that the incontinent man, knowing that an act is bad, is impelled to do it by passion, while the continent man, knowing that his desires are bad, is withheld from following them by reason. Also (4) it is commonly thought that the temperate man is continent and hardy: but while some hold that conversely the latter is always temperate, others think that this is not always so; and while some people hold that the profligate is incontinent, and that the incontinent man is profligate, and use these terms indiscriminately, others make a distinction between them. Again (5), with regard to the prudent man, sometimes people say it is impossible for him to be incontinent; at other times they say that some men who are prudent and clever are incontinent. Lastly (6), people are called incontinent even in respect of anger and honour and gain. These, then, are the common sayings or current opinions.
2.
Statement of difficulties as to how one can know right and do wrong.
But in what sense, it may be objected, can a man judge rightly when he acts incontinently?
Some people maintain that he cannot act so if he really knows what is right; for it would be strange, thought Socrates, if, when real knowledge were in the man, something else should master him and hale him* about like a slave. Socrates, indeed, contested the whole position, maintaining that there is no such thing as incontinence: when a man acts contrary to what is best, he never, according to Socrates, has a right judgment of the case, but acts so by reason of ignorance.
Now, this theory evidently conflicts with experience; and with regard to the passion which sways the incontinent man, if it really is due to ignorance, we must ask what kind of ignorance it is due to. For it is plain that, at any rate, he who acts incontinently does not fancy that the act is good till the passion is upon him.
There are other people who in part agree and in part disagree with Socrates. They allow that nothing is able to prevail against knowledge, but do not allow that men never act contrary to what seems best; and so they say that the incontinent man, when he yields to pleasure, has not knowledge, but only opinion.
But if, in truth, it be only opinion and not knowledge, and if it be not a strong but a weak belief or judgment that opposes the desires (as is the case when a man is in doubt), we pardon a man for not abiding by it in the face of strong desires; but, in fact, we do not pardon vice nor anything else that we call blamable.
Are we, then, to say that it is prudence that opposes desire [in those cases when we blame a man for yielding]? For it is the strongest form of belief. Surely that would be absurd: for then the same man would be at once prudent and incontinent; but no one would maintain that a prudent man could voluntarily do the vilest acts. Moreover, we have already shown that prudence is essentially a faculty that issues in act; for it is concerned with the ultimate thing [the thing to be done], and implies the possession of all the moral virtues.
Again, if a man cannot be continent without having strong and bad desires, the temperate man will not be continent, nor the continent man temperate; for it is incompatible with the temperate character to have either very violent or bad desires.
They must, however, be both strong and bad in the continent man: for if they were good, the habit that hindered from following them would be bad, so that continence would not be always good; if they were weak and not bad, it would be nothing to respect; and if they were bad, but at the same time weak, it would be nothing to admire.
Again, if continence makes a man apt to abide by any opinion whatsoever, it is a bad thing—as, for instance, if it makes him abide by a false opinion: and if incontinence makes a man apt to abandon any opinion whatsoever, there will be a kind of incontinence that is good, an instance of which is Neoptolemus in the Philoctetes of Sophocles; for he merits praise for being prevented from persevering in the plan which Ulysses had persuaded him to adopt, by the pain which he felt at telling a lie.
Again, the well-known argument of the sophists, though fallacious, makes a difficulty: for, wishing to establish a paradoxical conclusion, so that they may be thought clever if they succeed, they construct a syllogism which puzzles the hearer; for his reason is fettered, as he is unwilling to rest in the conclusion, which is revolting to him, but is unable to advance, since he cannot find a flaw in the argument. Thus it may be argued* that folly combined with incontinence is virtue:—by reason of his incontinence a man does the opposite of that which he judges to be good; but he judges that the good is bad and not to be done; the result is that he will do the good and not the bad.
Again, he who pursues and does what is pleasant from conviction, and deliberately chooses these things, would seem [if this doctrine be true] to be better than he who does so, not upon calculation, but by reason of incontinence. For the former is more curable, as his convictions might be changed; but to the incontinent man we may apply the proverb which says, “If water chokes you, what will you wash it down with?” For if he were convinced that what he does is good, a change in his convictions might stop his doing it; but, as it is, though he is convinced that something else is good, he nevertheless does this.
Again, if incontinence and continence may be displayed in anything, who is the man whom we call incontinent simply? For though no one man unites all the various forms of incontinence, there yet are people to whom we apply the term without any qualification.
Something of this sort, then, are the objections that suggest themselves; and of these we must remove some and leave others;† for the resolution of a difficulty is the discovery of the truth.
3.
Solution: to know has many senses; in what sense such a man knows.
We have, then, to inquire (1) whether the incontinent man acts with knowledge or not, and what knowledge means here; then (2) what is to be regarded as the field in which continence and incontinence manifest themselves—I mean whether their field be all pleasures and pains, or certain definite classes of these; then (3), with regard to the continent and the hardy man, whether they are the same or different; and so on with the other points that are akin to this inquiry.
(But we ought to begin by inquiring whether the species of continence and the species of incontinence of which we are here speaking are to be distinguished from other species by the field of their manifestation or by their form or manner—I mean whether a man is to be called incontinent in this special sense merely because he is incontinent or uncontrolled by reason in certain things, or because he is incontinent in a certain manner, or rather on both grounds; and in connection with this we ought to determine whether or no this incontinence and this continence may be displayed in all things. And our answer to these questions will be that the man who is called simply incontinent, without any qualification, does not display his character in all things, but only in those things in which the profligate manifests himself; nor is it simply an uncontrolled disposition with regard to them that makes him what he is (for then incontinence would be the same as profligacy), but a particular kind of uncontrolled disposition. For the profligate is carried along of his own deliberate choice or purpose, holding that what is pleasant at the moment is always to be pursued; while the incontinent man thinks otherwise, but pursues it all the same.)* [Let us now turn to question (1).]
As to the argument that it is true opinion and not knowledge against which men act incontinently, it really makes no difference here; for some of those who merely have opinions are in no doubt at all, but fancy that they have exact knowledge.
If then it be said that those who have opinion more readily act against their judgment because of the weakness of their belief, we would answer that there is no such difference between knowledge and opinion; for some people have just as strong a belief in their mere opinions as others have in what they really know, of which Heraclitus is an instance.*
But we use the word know (ἐπίστασθαι) in two different senses: he who has knowledge which he is not now using is said to know a thing, and also he who is now using his knowledge. Having knowledge, therefore, which is not now present to the mind, about what one ought not to do, will be different from having knowledge which is now present. Only in the latter sense, not in the former, does it seem strange that a man should act against his knowledge.
Again, since these reasonings involve two kinds of premises [a universal proposition for major and a particular for minor], there is nothing to prevent a man from acting contrary to his knowledge though he has both premises, if he is now using the universal only, and not the particular; for the particular is the thing to be done.
Again, different kinds of universal propositions may be involved: one may concern the agent himself, another the thing; for instance, you may reason (1) “all men are benefited by dry things, and I am a man;” and (2) “things of this kind are dry;” but the second minor, “this thing is of this kind,” may be unknown or the knowledge of it may be dormant.†
These distinctions, then, will make a vast difference, so much so that it does not seem strange that a man should act against his knowledge if he knows in one way, though it does seem strange if he knows in another way.
But, again, it is possible for a man to “have knowledge” in yet another way than those just mentioned: we see, I mean, that “having knowledge without using it” includes different modes of having, so that a man may have it in one sense and in another sense not have it; for instance, a man who is asleep, or mad, or drunk. But people who are under the influence of passion are in a similar state; for anger, and sexual desire and the like do evidently alter the condition of the body, and in some cases actually produce madness. It is plain, then, that the incontinent man must be allowed to have knowledge in the same sort of way as those who are asleep, mad, or drunk.*
But to repeat the words of knowledge is no proof that a man really has knowledge [in the full sense of having an effective knowledge]; for even when they are under the influence of these passions people repeat demonstrations and sayings of Empedocles, just as learners string words together before they understand their meaning—the meaning must be ingrained in them, and that requires time. So we must hold that the incontinent repeat words in the same sort of way that actors do.
Again, one may inquire into the cause of this phenomenon [of incontinence] by arguments based upon its special nature,* as follows:—You may have (1) a universal judgment, (2) a judgment about particular facts which fall at once within the province of sense or perception; but when the two are joined together,† the conclusion must in matters of speculation be assented to by the mind, in matters of practice be carried out at once into act; for instance, if you judge (1) “all sweet things are to be tasted,” (2) “this thing before me is sweet”—a particular fact,—then, if you have the power and are not hindered, you cannot but at once put the conclusion [“this is to be tasted”] into practice.
Now, when you have on the one side the universal judgment forbidding you to taste, and on the other side the universal judgment, “all sweet things are pleasant,”‡ with the corresponding particular, “this thing before me is sweet” (but it is the particular judgment which is effective), and appetite is present—then, though the former train of reasoning bids you avoid this, appetite moves you [to take it]; for appetite is able to put the several bodily organs in motion.
And thus it appears that it is in a way under the influence of reason, that is to say of opinion, that people act incontinently—opinion, too, that is, not in itself, but only accidentally, opposed to right reason. For it is the desire, not the opinion, that is opposed to right reason.*
And this is the reason why brutes cannot be incontinent; they have no universal judgments, but only images and memories of particular facts.
As to the process by which the incontinent man gets out of this ignorance and recovers his knowledge, the account of it will be the same as in the case of a man who is drunk or asleep, and will not be peculiar to this phenomenon; and for such an account we must go to the professors of natural science.
But since the minor premise† is an opinion or judgment about a fact of perception, and determines action, the incontinent man, when under the influence of passion, either has it not, or has it in a sense in which, as we explained, having is equivalent, not to knowing in the full sense, but to repeating words as a drunken man repeats the sayings of Empedocles.
And thus, since the minor premise is not universal, and is thought to be less a matter of knowledge than the universal judgment [or major premise], it seems that what Socrates sought to establish really is the case;* for when passion carries a man away, what is present to his mind is not what is regarded as knowledge in the strict sense, nor is it such knowledge that is perverted by his passion, but sensitive knowledge merely.†
4.
Of incontinence in the strict and in the metaphorical sense.
So much, then, for the question whether the incontinent man knows or not, and in what sense it is possible to act incontinently with knowledge. We next have to consider whether a man can be incontinent simply, or only incontinent in some particular way,‡ and, if the former be the case, what is the field in which the character is manifested.
It is evident that it is in the matter of pleasures and pains that both continent and hardy and incontinent and soft men manifest their characters.
Of the sources of pleasure, some are necessary, and others are desirable in themselves but admit of excess: “necessary” are the bodily processes, such as nutrition, the propagation of the species, and generally those bodily functions with which we said that profligacy and temperance have to do; others, though not necessary, are in themselves desirable, such as victory, honour, wealth, and other things of the kind that are good and pleasant.*
Now, those who go to excess in these latter in spite of their own better reason are not called incontinent simply, but with a qualifying epithet, as incontinent with respect to money, or gain, or honour, or anger — not simply, since they are different characters, and only called incontinent in virtue of a resemblance—just as the victor in the last Olympic games was called a man; for though the meaning of the name as applied to him was but slightly different from its common meaning, still it was different.†
And this may be proved thus: incontinence is blamed, not simply as a mistake, but as a kind of vice, either of vice simply, or of some particular vice; but those who are thus incontinent [in the pursuit of wealth, etc.] are not thus blamed.
But of the characters that manifest themselves in the matter of bodily enjoyments, with which we say the temperate and the profligate are concerned, he who goes to excess in pursuing what is pleasant and avoiding what is painful, in the matter of hunger and thirst, and heat and cold, and all things that affect us by touch or taste, and who does this not of deliberate choice, but contrary to his deliberate choice and reasoning, is called incontinent—not with the addition that he is incontinent with respect to this particular thing, as anger, but simply incontinent.
A proof of this is that people are also called soft in these latter matters, but not in any of the former [honour, gain, etc.].
And on this account we group the incontinent with the profligate and the continent and the temperate (but do not class with them any of those who are metaphorically called continent and incontinent), because they are in a way concerned with the same pleasures and pains. They are, in fact, concerned with the same matters, but their behaviour is different; for whereas the other three deliberately choose what they do, the incontinent man does not.
And so a man who, without desire, or with only a moderate desire, pursues excess of pleasure, and avoids even slight pains, would more properly be called profligate than one who is impelled so to act by violent desires; for what would the former do if the violent passions of youth were added, and if it were violent pain to him to forego the satisfaction of his natural appetites?
But some of our desires and pleasures are to be classed as noble and good (for some of the things that please us are naturally desirable), while others are the reverse of this, and others are intermediate between the two, as we explained before,* —such things as money, gain, victory, and honour falling within the first class. With regard both to these, then, and to the intermediate class, men are blamed not for being affected by them, or desiring them, or caring for them, but only for doing so in certain ways and beyond the bounds of moderation. So we blame those who are moved by, or pursue, some good and noble object to an unreasonable extent, as, for instance, those who care too much for honour, or for their children or parents: for these, too, are noble objects, and men are praised for caring about them; but still one might go too far in them also, if one were to fight even against the gods, like Niobe, or to do as did Satyrus, who was nicknamed Philopator from his affection for his father—for he seemed to carry his affection to the pitch of folly.
In these matters, then, there is no room for vice or wickedness for the reason mentioned, viz. that all these are objects that are in themselves desirable, though excess in them is not commendable, and is to be avoided.
Similarly, in these matters there is no room for incontinence strictly so called (for incontinence is not only to be avoided, but is actually blamable), but because of the similarity of the state of mind we do here use the term incontinence with a qualification, saying “incontinent in this or in that,” just as we apply the term “bad physician” or “bad actor” to a man whom we should not call bad simply or without a qualifying epithet. Just as in the latter case, then, the term badness or vice is applied, not simply, but with a qualification, because each of these qualities is not a vice strictly, but only analogous to a vice, so in this case also it is plain that we must understand that only to be strictly incontinence (or continence) which is manifested in those matters with which temperance and profligacy are concerned, while that which is manifested with regard to anger is only metaphorically called so; and therefore we call a man “incontinent in anger,” as “in honour” or “in gain,” adding a qualifying epithet.
5.
Of incontinence in respect of brutal or morbid appetites.
While some things are naturally pleasant (of which some are pleasant in themselves, others pleasant to certain classes of animals or men), other things, though not naturally pleasant, come to be pleasant (1) through organic injuries, or (2) through custom, or again (3) through an originally bad nature and in each of these three classes of things a corresponding character is manifested.
For instance [taking (3) first], there are the brutal characters, such as the creature in woman’s shape that is said to rip up pregnant females and devour the embryos, or the people who take delight, as some of the wild races about the Black Sea are said to take delight, in such things as eating raw meat or human flesh, or giving their children to one another to feast upon; or, again, in such things as are reported of Phalaris.
These, then, are what we call brutal natures [corresponding to (3)]: but in other cases the disposition is engendered by disease or madness; for instance, there was the man who slew and ate his mother, and that other who devoured the liver of his fellow-slave [and these correspond to (1)].
Other habits are either signs of a morbid state, or the result of custom [and so come either under (1) or under (2)]; e.g. plucking out the hair and biting the nails, or eating cinders and earth, or, again, the practice of unnatural vice; for these habits sometimes come naturally,* sometimes by custom, as in the case of those who have been ill treated from their childhood.
Whenever nature is the cause of these morbid habits, no one would think of applying the term incontinence, any more than we should call women incontinent for the part they play in the propagation of the species; nor should we apply the term to those who, by habitual indulgence, have brought themselves into a morbid state.†
Habits of this kind, then, fall without the pale of vice, just as the brutal character does; but when a man who has these impulses conquers or is conquered by them, this is not to be called [continence or] incontinence strictly, but only metaphorically, just as the man who behaves thus in the matter of his angry passions cannot be strictly called incontinent. For even folly, and cowardice, and profligacy, and ill temper, whenever they are carried beyond a certain pitch, are either brutal or morbid. When a man is naturally so constituted as to be frightened at anything, even at the sound of a mouse, his cowardice is brutal [inhuman]; but in the wellknown case of a man who was afraid of a weasel, disease was the cause. And of irrational human beings, those who by nature are devoid of reason, and live only by their senses, are to be called brutal, as some races of remote barbarians, while those in whom the cause is disease (e.g. epilepsy) or insanity are to be called morbidly irrational.
Again, a man may on occasion have one of these impulses without being dominated by it, as, for instance, if Phalaris on some occasion desired to eat the flesh of a child, or to indulge his unnatural lusts, and yet restrained himself; and, again, it is possible not only to have the impulse, but to be dominated by it.
To conclude, then: as in the case of vice there is a human vice that is called vice simply, and another sort that is called with a qualifying epithet “brutal” or “morbid vice” (not simply vice), so also it is plain that there is a sort of incontinence that is called brutal, and another that is called morbid incontinence, while that only is called incontinence simply which can be classed with human profligacy.
We have thus shown that incontinence and continence proper have to do only with those things with which profligacy and temperance have to do, and that in other matters there is a sort of incontinence to which the name is applied metaphorically and with a qualifying epithet.
6.
Incontinence in anger less blamed than in appetite.
The next point we have to consider is that incontinence in anger is less disgraceful than incontinence in appetite.
The angry passions seem to hear something of what reason says, but to mis-hear it, like a hasty servant who starts off before he has heard all you are saying, and so mistakes his errand, or like a dog that barks so soon as he hears a noise, without waiting to find out if it be a friend. Just so our angry passions, in the heat and haste of their nature, hearing something but not hearing what reason orders, make speed to take vengeance. For when reason or imagination announces an insult or slight, the angry passion infers, so to speak, that its author is to be treated as an enemy, and then straightway boils up; appetite, on the other hand, if reason or sense do but proclaim “this is pleasant,” rushes to enjoy it. Thus anger, in some sort, obeys reason, which appetite does not. The latter, therefore, is the more disgraceful; for he who is incontinent in anger succumbs in some sort to reason, while the other succumbs not to reason, but to appetite.
Again, when impulses are natural, it is more excusable to follow them (for even with our appetites it is more pardonable to follow them when they are common to all men, and the more pardonable the commoner they are); but anger and ill temper are more natural than desire for excessive and unnecessary pleasures, as we see in the story of the man who excused himself for beating his father. “He beat his own father,” he said, “and that father beat his, and my son here,” pointing to his child, “will beat me when he is a man; for it runs in the family.” And there is that other story of the man who was being dragged out of the house by his son, and bade him stop at the doorway; for he had dragged his own father so far, but no further.
Again, the more a man is inclined to deliberate malice, the more unjust he is. Now, the hot-tempered man is not given to deliberate malice, nor is anger of that underhand nature, but asserts itself openly. But of appetite we may say what the poets say of Aphrodite: “Craft-weaving daughter of Cyprus;” or what Homer says of her “embroidered girdle,”
“Whose charm doth steal the reason of the wise.”*
If then this incontinence be more unjust, it is more disgraceful than incontinence in anger, and is to be called incontinence simply, and a sort of vice.
Again, when a man commits an outrage, he does not feel pain in doing it, but rather pleasure, while he who acts in anger always feels pain as he is acting. If then the acts which rouse the justest indignation are the more unjust, it follows that incontinence in appetite is more unjust [than incontinence in anger]; for such outrage is never committed in anger.†
Thus it is plain that incontinence in appetite is more disgraceful than incontinence in anger, and that continence and incontinence proper have to do with bodily appetites and pleasures.
But now let us see what differences we find in these bodily appetites and pleasures.
As we said at the outset, some of them are human and natural in kind and degree; others are signs of a brutal nature; others, again, are the result of organic injury or disease.
Now, it is with the first of these only that temperance and profligacy have to do: and for this reason we do not call beasts either temperate or profligate, except it be metaphorically, if we find a whole class of animals distinguished from others by peculiar lewdness and wantonness and voracity; for there is no purpose or deliberate calculation in what they do, but they are in an unnatural state, like madmen.
Brutality is less dangerous than vice, but more horrible; for the noble part is not corrupted here, as in a man who is merely vicious in a human way, but is altogether absent. To ask which is worse, then, would be like comparing inanimate things with animate: the badness of that which lacks the originating principle is always less mischievous; and reason [which the brutal man lacks] is here the originating principle. (To compare these, then, would be like comparing injustice with an unjust man: each is in its own way the worse.* ) For a bad man would do ten thousand times as much harm as a brute.
7.
Incontinence yields to pleasure, softness to pain. Two kinds of incontinence, the hasty and the weak.
With regard to the pleasures and pains of touch and taste, and the corresponding desires and aversions, which we before marked out as the field of profligacy and temperance, it is possible to be so disposed as to succumb to allurements which most people resist, or so as to resist allurements to which most people succumb. When they are exhibited in the matter of pleasures, the former of these characters is called incontinent and the latter continent; when they are exhibited in the matter of pains, the former is called soft and the latter hardy. The character of the general run of men falls between these two, inclining perhaps rather to the worse.
But since some pleasures are necessary, while others are not, and since the necessary pleasures are necessary in certain quantities only, but not in too great nor yet in too small quantities, and since the same is true of appetites and of pains, he who pursues pleasures that fall beyond the pale of legitimate pleasures, or pursues any pleasures to excess,* is called profligate, if he pursues them of deliberate purpose for their own sake and not for any result which follows from them; for such a man must be incapable of remorse—must be incurable therefore; for he who feels no remorse is incurable. In the opposite extreme is he who falls short of the mean (while he who observes the mean is temperate). So with the man who avoids bodily pains, not because he is momentarily overcome, but of deliberate purpose.
But those who act thus without deliberate purpose may do so either to gain pleasure or to escape the pain of desire, and we must accordingly distinguish these from one another.
But all would allow that a man who does something disgraceful without desire, or with only a moderate desire, is worse than if he had a violent desire; and that if a man strike another in cool blood he is worse than if he does it in anger; for what would he do if he were in a passion? The profligate man, therefore, is worse than the incontinent.
Of the characters mentioned, then, we must distinguish softness from profligacy.
The continent character is opposed to the incontinent, and the hardy to the soft; for hardiness implies that you endure, while continence implies that you overcome, and enduring is different from overcoming, just as escaping a defeat is different from winning a victory; so continence is better than hardiness.
But he that gives way to what the generality of men can and do resist is soft and luxurious (for luxury, too, is a kind of softness),—the sort of man that suffers his cloak to trail along the ground rather than be at the pains to pull it up; that plays the invalid, and yet does not consider himself wretched, though it is a wretched man that he imitates.
Similarly with continence and incontinence. If a man give way to violent and excessive pleasures or pains, we do not marvel, but are ready to pardon him if he struggled, like Philoctetes when bitten by the viper in the play of Theodectes, or Cercyon in the Alope of Carcinus; or like people who, in trying to restrain their laughter, burst out into a violent explosion, as happened to Xenophantus. But we do marvel when a man succumbs to and cannot resist what the generality of men are able to hold out against, unless the cause be hereditary disposition or disease (e.g. softness is hereditary in the Scythian kings, and the female is naturally softer than the male).
The man that is given up to amusement is generally thought to be profligate, but in fact he is soft; for amusement is relaxation, since it is a rest from labour; and among those who take too much relaxation are those who are given up to amusement.
There are two kinds of incontinence, the hasty and the weak. Some men deliberate, but, under the influence of passion, do not abide by the result of their deliberations; others are swayed by passion because they do not deliberate; for as it is not easy to tickle a man who has just been tickling you, so there are people who when they see what is coming, and are forewarned and rouse themselves and their reason, are able to resist the impulse, whether it be pleasant or painful. People of quick sensibility or of a melancholic temperament are most liable to incontinence of the hasty sort; such people do not wait to hear the voice of reason, because, in the former case through the rapidity, in the latter case through the intensity of their impressions, they are apt to follow their imagination.
8.
Incontinence compared with vice and virtue.
Again, a profligate man, as we said, is not given to remorse, for he abides by his deliberate purpose; but an incontinent man is always apt to feel remorse. So the case is not as it was put in one of the difficulties we enumerated,* but the former is incurable, the latter is curable. For full-formed vice [profligacy] seems to be like such diseases as dropsy or consumption, incontinence like epilepsy; for the former is chronic, the latter intermittent badness.
Indeed, we may roundly say that incontinence is generically different from vice; for the vicious man knows not, but the incontinent man knows, the nature of his acts.†
But of these incontinent characters, those who momentarily lose their reason are not so bad as those who retain their reason but disobey it;‡ for the latter give way to a slighter impulse, and cannot, like the former, be said to act without deliberation. For an incontinent man is like one who gets drunk quickly and with little wine, i.e. with less than most men.
We have seen that incontinence is not vice, but perhaps we may say that it is in a manner vice. The difference is that the vicious man acts with deliberate purpose, while the incontinent man acts against it. But in spite of this difference their acts are similar; as Demodocus said against the Milesians, “The Milesians are not fools, but they act like fools.” So an incontinent man is not unjust, but will act unjustly.
It is the character of the incontinent man to pursue, without being convinced of their goodness, bodily pleasures that exceed the bounds of moderation and are contrary to right reason; but the profligate man is convinced that these things are good because it is his character to pursue them: the former, then, may be easily brought to a better mind, the latter not. For virtue preserves, but vice destroys the principle; but in matters of conduct the motive [end or final cause] is the principle [beginning or efficient cause] of action, holding the same place here that the hypotheses do in mathematics.* In mathematics no reasoning or demonstration can instruct us about these principles or starting points; so here it is not reason but virtue, either natural or acquired by training, that teaches us to hold right opinions about the principle of action. A man of this character, then, is temperate, while a man of opposite character is profligate.
But there is a class of people who are apt to be momentarily deprived of their right senses by passion, and who are swayed by passion so far as not to act according to reason, but not so far that it has become part of their nature to believe that they ought to pursue pleasures of this kind without limit. These are the incontinent, who are better than the profligate, and not absolutely bad; for the best part of our nature, the principle of right conduct, still survives in them.
To these are opposed another class of people who are wont to abide by their resolutions, and not to be deprived of their senses by passion at least. It is plain from this, then, that the latter is a good type of character, the former not good.
9.
Continence and incontinence not identical with keeping and breaking a resolution.
Now, who is to be called continent? he who abides by any kind of reason and any kind of purpose, or he who abides by a right purpose? And who is to be called incontinent? he who abandons any kind of purpose and any kind of reason, or he who abandons a true reason and a right purpose?—a difficulty which we raised before.* Is it not the case that though “accidentally” it may be any kind, yet “essentially” it is a true reason and a right purpose that the one abides by and the other abandons? For if you choose or pursue A for the sake of B, you pursue and choose B “essentially,” but A “accidentally.” But by “essentially” (καθ’ αὑτό) we mean “absolutely” or “simply” (ἁπλῶς); so that we may say that in a certain sense it may be any kind of opinion, but absolutely or simply it is a true opinion that the one abides by and the other abandons.
But there is another class of persons that are apt to stick to their opinions (I mean those whom we call stubborn or obstinate), because they are averse to persuasion and not readily induced to change their mind. These bear some resemblance to the continent, as the prodigal does to the liberal, and the foolhardy to the courageous, but in many respects are different. For it is changing his mind at the prompting of passion or appetite that the continent man dislikes; he is ready enough on occasion to yield to reason: but it is to reason especially that the obstinate man will not listen, while he often conceives a passion, and is led about by his pleasures.
The opinionated, the ignorant, and the boorish are all obstinate—the opinionated from motives of pleasure and pain; for they delight in the sense of victory when they hold out against argument, and are pained if their opinion comes to naught like a decree that is set aside. They resemble the incontinent man, therefore, rather than the continent.
Sometimes also people abandon their resolutions from something else than incontinence, as, for instance, Neoptolemus in the Philoctetes of Sophocles. It may be said, indeed, that pleasure was his motive in abandoning his resolution: but it was a noble pleasure; for truth was fair in his eyes, but Ulysses had persuaded him to lie. For he who acts with pleasure for motive is not always either profligate, or worthless, or incontinent, but only when his motive is a base pleasure.
Again, as there are people whose character it is to take too little delight in the pleasures of the body, and who swerve from reason in this direction, those who come between these and the incontinent are the continent. For while the incontinent swerve from reason because of an excess, and these because of a deficiency, the continent man holds fast and is not turned aside by the one or the other.
But if continence be a good thing, the characters that are opposed to it must be bad, as in fact they evidently are; only, since the other extreme is found but rarely and in few cases, incontinence comes to be regarded as the only opposite of continence, just as profligacy comes to be regarded as the only opposite of temperance.
We often apply names metaphorically; and so we come to speak metaphorically of the continence of the temperate man. For it is the nature both of the continent and of the temperate man never to do anything contrary to reason for the sake of bodily pleasures; but whereas the former has, the latter has not bad desires, and whereas the latter is of such a nature as to take no delight in what is contrary to reason, the former is of such a nature as to take delight in, but not to be swayed by them.
The incontinent and the profligate also resemble each other, though they are different: both pursue bodily pleasures, but the latter pursues them on principle,* while the former does not.
10.
Prudence is not, but cleverness is, compatible with incontinence.
It is impossible for the same man to be at once prudent and incontinent; for we have shown that a man cannot be prudent without being at the same time morally good.
Moreover, a man is not prudent simply because he knows—he must also be apt to act according to his knowledge; but the incontinent man is not apt to act according to his knowledge (though there is nothing to prevent a man who is clever at calculating means from being incontinent; and so people sometimes think a man prudent and yet incontinent, because this cleverness is related to prudence in the manner before* explained, resembling prudence as an intellectual faculty, but differing from it by the absence of purpose): nor indeed does he know as one who knows and is now using his knowledge, but as one may know who is asleep or drunk.
He acts voluntarily (for in a manner he knows what he is doing and with what object), and yet is not bad: for his purpose is good; so he is only half bad. Moreover, incontinent men are not unjust,† for they are not deliberately malicious—some of them being apt to swerve from their deliberate resolutions, others of melancholic temper and apt to act without deliberating at all. An incontinent man, then, may be compared to a state which always makes excellent decrees and has good laws, but never carries them out; as Anaxandrides jestingly says—
“So willed the state that takes no heed of laws.”
The bad man, on the contrary, may be compared to a state that carries out its laws, but has bad laws.
Both incontinence and continence imply something beyond the average character of men; for the one is more steadfast than most men can be, the other less.
Of the several kinds of incontinence, that of the melancholic temper is more curable than that of those who make resolutions but do not keep them, and that which proceeds from custom than that which rests on natural infirmity: it is easier to alter one’s habit than to change one’s nature. For the very reason why habits are hard to change is that they are a sort of second nature, as Euenus says—
- “Train men but long enough to what you will,
- And that shall be their nature in the end.”
We have now considered the nature of continence and incontinence, of hardiness and softness, and the relation of these types of character to each other.
CHAPTERS 11—14.
OF PLEASURE.
11.
We must now discuss pleasure. Opinions about it.
The consideration of pleasure and pain also falls within the scope of the political philosopher, since he has to construct the end by reference to which we call everything good or bad.
Moreover, this is one of the subjects we are bound to discuss; for we said that moral virtue and vice have to do with pleasures and pains, and most people say that happiness implies pleasure, which is the reason of the name μακάριος, blessed, from χαίρειν, to rejoice.
Now, (1) some people think that no pleasure is good, either essentially or accidentally, for they say that good and pleasure are two distinct things; (2) others think that though some pleasures are good most are bad; (3) others, again, think that even though all pleasures be good, yet it is impossible that the supreme good can be pleasure.
(1) It is argued that pleasure cannot be good, (a) because all pleasure is a felt transition to a natural state, but a transition or process is always generically different from an end, e.g. the process of building is generically different from a house; (b) because the temperate man avoids pleasures; (c) because the prudent man pursues the painless, not the pleasant; (d) because pleasures impede thinking, and that in proportion to their intensity (for instance, the sexual pleasures: no one engaged therein could think at all); (e) because there is no art of pleasure, and yet every good thing has an art devoted to its production; (f) because pleasure is the pursuit of children and brutes.
(2) It is argued that not all pleasures are good, because some are base and disgraceful, and even hurtful; for some pleasant things are unhealthy.
(3) It is argued that pleasure is not the supreme good, because it is not an end, but a process or transition.—These, then, we may take to be the current opinions on the subject.
12.
Answers to arguments against goodness of pleasure. Ambiguity of good and pleasant. Pleasure not a transition, but unimpeded activity.
But that these arguments do not prove that pleasure is not good, or even the highest good, may be shown as follows.
In the first place, since “good” is used in two senses (“good in itself” and “relatively good”), natures and faculties will be called good in two senses, and so also will motions and processes: and when they are called bad, this sometimes means that they are bad in themselves, though for particular persons not bad but desirable; sometimes that they are not desirable even for particular persons, but desirable occasionally and for a little time, though in themselves not desirable; while some of them are not even pleasures, though they seem to be—I mean those that involve pain and are used medicinally, such as those of sick people.
In the second place, since the term good may be applied both to activities and to faculties, those activities that restore us to our natural faculties [or state] are accidentally pleasant.
But in the satisfaction of the animal appetites that which is active is not that part of our faculties* or of our nature which is in want, but that part which is in its normal state; for there are pleasures which involve no previous pain or appetite, such as those of philosophic study, wherein our nature is not conscious of any want.
This is corroborated by the fact that while our natural wants are being filled we do not take delight in the same things which delight us when that process has been completed: when the want has been filled we take delight in things that are pleasant in themselves, while it is being filled in their opposites; for we then take delight in sharp and bitter things, none of which are naturally pleasant or pleasant in themselves. The pleasures, then, which these things give are not real pleasures; for pleasures are related to one another as the things that produce them.
Again, it does not necessarily follow, as some maintain, that there is something else better than pleasure, as the end is better than the process or transition to the end: for a pleasure is not a transition, nor does it always even imply a transition; but it is an activity [or exercise of faculty], and itself an end: further, it is not in becoming something, but in doing something that we feel pleasure: and, lastly, the end is not always something different from the process or transition, but it is only when something is being brought to the completion of its nature that this is the case.
For these reasons it is not proper to say that pleasure is a felt transition, but rather that it is an exercise of faculties that are in their natural state, substituting “unimpeded” for “felt.”
Some people, indeed, think that pleasure is a transition, just because it is in the full sense good, supposing that the exercise of faculty is a transition; but it is in fact something different.*
But to say that pleasures are bad because some pleasant things are unhealthy, is like saying that health is bad because some healthy things are bad for money-making. Both are bad in this respect, but that does not make them bad: even philosophic study is sometimes injurious to health.
As to pleasure being an impediment to thinking, the fact is that neither prudence nor any other faculty is impeded by the pleasure proper to its exercise, but by other pleasures; the pleasure derived from study and learning will make us study and learn more.
That there should be no art devoted to the production of any kind of pleasure, is but natural; for art never produces an activity, but only makes it possible: the arts of perfumery and cookery, however, are usually considered to be arts of pleasure.
As to the arguments that the temperate man avoids pleasure, that the prudent man pursues the painless life, and that children and brutes pursue pleasure, they may all be met in the same way, viz. thus:—
As we have already explained in what sense all pleasures are to be called good in themselves, and in what sense not good, we need only say that pleasures of a certain kind are pursued by brutes and by children, and that freedom from the corresponding pains in pursued by the prudent man—the pleasures, namely, that involve appetite and pain, i.e. the bodily pleasures (for these do so), and excess in them, the deliberate pursuit of which constitutes the profligate. These pleasures, then, the temperate man avoids; but he has pleasures of his own.
13.
Pleasure is good, and the pleasure that consists in the highest activity isthegood. All admit that happiness is pleasant. Bodily pleasures not the only pleasures.
But all admit that pain is a bad thing and undesirable; partly bad in itself, partly bad as in some sort an impediment to activity. But that which is opposed to what is undesirable, in that respect in which it is undesirable and bad, is good. It follows, then, that pleasure is a good thing. And this argument cannot be met, as Speusippus tried to meet it, by the analogy of the greater which is opposed to the equal as well as to the less; for no one would say that pleasure is essentially a bad thing.*
Moreover, there is no reason why a certain kind of pleasure should not be the supreme good, even though some kinds be bad, just as there is no reason why a certain kind of knowledge should not be, though some kinds be bad. Nay, perhaps we ought rather to say that since every formed faculty admits of unimpeded exercise, it follows that, whether happiness be the exercise of all these faculties, or of some one of them, that exercise must necessarily be most desirable when unimpeded: but unimpeded exercise of faculty is pleasure: a certain kind of pleasure, therefore, will be the supreme good, even though most pleasures should turn out to be bad in themselves.
And on this account all men suppose that the happy life is a pleasant one, and that happiness involves pleasure: and the supposition is reasonable; for no exercise of a faculty is complete if it be impeded; but happiness we reckon among complete things; and so, if he is to be happy, a man must have the goods of the body and external goods and good fortune, in order that the exercise of his faculties may not be impeded. And those who say that though a man be put to the rack and overwhelmed by misfortune, he is happy if only he be good, whether they know it or not, talk nonsense.
Because fortune is a necessary condition, some people consider good fortune to be identical with happiness; but it is not really so, for good fortune itself, if excessive, is an impediment, and is then, perhaps, no longer to be called good fortune; for good fortune can only be defined by its relation to happiness.
Again, the fact that all animals and men pursue pleasure is some indication that it is in some way the highest good:
- “Not wholly lost can e’er that saying be
- Which many peoples share.”
But as the nature of man and the best development of his faculties neither are nor are thought to be the same for all, so the pleasure which men pursue is not always the same, though all pursue pleasure. Yet, perhaps, they do in fact pursue a pleasure different from that which they fancy they pursue and would say they pursue—a pleasure which is one and the same for all. For all beings have something divine implanted in them by nature.
But bodily pleasures have come to be regarded as the sole claimants to the title of pleasure, because they are oftenest attained and are shared by all; these then, as the only pleasures they know, men fancy to be the only pleasures that are.
But it is plain that unless pleasure—that is, unimpeded exercise of the faculties—be good, we can no longer say that the happy man leads a pleasant life; for why should he need it if it be not good? Nay, he may just as well lead a painful life: for pain is neither bad nor good, if pleasure be neither; so why should he avoid pain? The life of the good man, then, would be no pleasanter than others unless the exercise of his faculties were pleasanter.
14.
Of the bodily pleasures, and the distinction between naturally and accidentally pleasant.
Those who say that though some pleasures are very desirable — to wit, noble pleasures — the pleasures of the body, with which the profligate is concerned, are not desirable, should consider the nature of these pleasures of the body. Why [if they are bad] are the opposite pains bad? for the opposite of bad is good. Are we to say that the “necessary” pleasures are good in the sense that what is not bad is good? or are they good up to a certain point?
Those faculties and those motions or activities which do not admit of excess beyond what is good,* do not admit of excessive pleasure; but those which admit of excess admit also of excessive pleasure. Now, bodily goods admit of excess, and the bad man is bad because he pursues this excess, not merely because he pursues the necessary pleasures; for men always take some delight in meat, and drink, and the gratification of the sexual appetite, but not always as they ought. But with pain the case is reversed: it is not excess of pain merely that the bad man avoids, but pain generally; [which is not inconsistent with the proposition that pain is bad,] for the opposite of excessive pleasure is not painful, except to the man who pursues the excess.*
But we ought to state not only the truth, but also the cause of the error; for this helps to produce conviction, as, when something has been pointed out to us which would naturally make that seem true which is not, we are more ready to believe the truth. And so we must say why it is that the bodily pleasures seem more desirable.
First of all, then, it is because of its efficacy in expelling pain, and because of the excessiveness of the pain to which it is regarded as an antidote, that men pursue excessive pleasure and bodily pleasure generally. But these remedies produce an intense feeling, and so are pursued, because they appear in strong contrast to the opposite pain.
(The reasons why pleasure is thought to be not good are two, as we said before: (1) some pleasures are the manifestation of a nature that is bad either from birth, as with brutes, or by habit, as with bad men: (2) the remedial pleasures imply want; and it is better to be in a [natural] state than in a transition to such a state; but these pleasures are felt while a want in us is being filled up, and therefore they are only accidentally good.† )
Again, these pleasures are pursued because of their intensity by those who are unable to take delight in other pleasures; thus we see people make themselves thirsty on purpose. When the pleasures they pursue are harmless, we do not blame them (though when they are hurtful the pursuit is bad); for they have no other sources of enjoyment, and the neutral state is painful to many because of their nature: for an animal is always labouring, as physical science teaches, telling us that seeing and hearing is labour and pain, only we are all used to it, as the saying is. And thus in youth, because they are growing, men are in a state resembling drunkenness; and youth is pleasant. But people of a melancholic nature are always wanting something to restore their balance; for their bodies are always vexing them because of their peculiar temperament, and they are always in a state of violent desire. But pain is expelled either by the opposite pleasure or by any pleasure, if it be sufficiently strong; and this is the reason why such men become profligate and worthless.
But pleasures that have no antecedent pain do not admit of excess. These are the pleasures derived from things that are naturally and not merely accidentally pleasant. I call those things accidentally pleasant that have a restorative effect; for as the restoration cannot take place unless that part of the system which remains healthy be in some way active, the restoration itself seems pleasant: but I call those things naturally pleasant that stimulate the activity of a healthy system.*
But nothing can continue to give us uninterrupted pleasure, because our nature is not simple, but contains a second element which makes us mortal beings;* so that if the one element be active in any way, this is contrary to the nature of the other element, but when the two elements are in equilibrium, what we do seems neither painful nor pleasant; for if there were a being whose nature were simple, the same activity would be always most pleasant to him. And on this account God always enjoys one simple pleasure; for besides the activity of movement, there is also activity without movement, and rest admits of truer pleasure than motion. But change is “the sweetest of all things,” as the poet says, because of a certain badness in us: for just as it is the bad man who is especially apt to change, so is it the bad nature that needs change; for it is neither simple nor good.
We have now considered continence and incontinence, and pleasure and pain, and have explained what each is, and how some of them are good and some bad. It remains to consider friendship.
BOOK VIII.
FRIENDSHIP OR LOVE.
1.
Uses of friendship. Differences of opinion about it.
After the foregoing, a discussion of friendship will naturally follow, as it is a sort of virtue, or at least implies virtue, and is, moreover, most necessary to our life. For no one would care to live without friends, though he had all other good things. Indeed, it is when a man is rich, and has got power and authority, that he seems most of all to stand in need of friends; for what is the use of all this prosperity if he have no opportunity for benevolence, which is most frequently and most commendably displayed towards friends? or how could his position be maintained and preserved without friends? for the greater it is, the more is it exposed to danger. In poverty and all other misfortunes, again, we regard our friends as our only refuge. We need friends when we are young to keep us from error, when we get old to tend upon us and to carry out those plans which we have not strength to execute ourselves, and in the prime of life to help us in noble deeds—“two together” [as Homer says]; for thus we are more efficient both in thought and in action.
Love seems to be implanted by nature in the parent towards the offspring, and in the offspring towards the parent, not only among men, but also among birds and most animals; and in those of the same race towards one another, among men especially—for which reason we commend those who love their fellow-men. And when one travels one may see how man is always akin to and dear to man.
Again, it seems that friendship is the bond that holds states together, and that lawgivers are even more eager to secure it than justice. For concord bears a certain resemblance to friendship, and it is concord that they especially wish to retain, and dissension that they especially wish to banish as an enemy. If citizens be friends, they have no need of justice, but though they be just, they need friendship or love also; indeed, the completest realization of justice* seems to be the realization of friendship or love also.
Moreover, friendship is not only an indispensable, but also a beautiful or noble thing: for we commend those who love their friends, and to have many friends is thought to be a noble thing; and some even think that a good man is the same as a friend.†
But there are not a few differences of opinion about the matter. Some hold that it is a kind of likeness, and that those who are like one another are friends; and this is the origin of “Like to like,” and “Birds of a feather flock together,”‡ and other similar sayings. Others, on the contrary, say that “two of a trade never agree.”§
Others go deeper into these questions, and into the causes of the phenomena; Euripides, for instance says—
- “The parched earth loves the rain,
- And the high heaven, with moisture laden, loves
- Earthwards to fall.”
Heraclitus also says, “Opposites fit together,” and “Out of discordant elements comes the fairest harmony,” and “It is by battle that all things come into the world.” Others, and notably Empedocles, take the opposite view, and say that like desires like.
Of these difficulties, all that refer to the constitution of the universe may be dismissed (for they do not properly concern our present inquiry); but those that refer to human nature, and are intimately connected with man’s character and affections, we will discuss—as, for instance, whether friendship can exist in all men, or whether it is impossible for men to be friends if they are bad, and whether there be one form of friendship or rather many. For those who suppose that there is only one kind of friendship, because it admits of degrees, go upon insufficient grounds. Things that differ in kind may differ also in degree (But we have already spoken about this point.* )
2.
Three motives of friendship. Friendship defined.
Perhaps these difficulties will be cleared up if we first ascertain what is the nature of the lovable. For it seems that we do not love anything, but only the lovable, and that the lovable is either good or pleasant or useful. But useful would appear to mean that which helps us to get something good, or some pleasure; so that the good and the pleasant only would be loved as ends.
Now, do men love what is good, or what is good for themselves? for there is sometimes a discrepancy between these two.
The same question may be asked about the pleasant.
It seems that each man loves what is good for himself, and that, while the good is lovable in itself, that is lovable to each man which is good for him. It may be said that each man loves not what is really good for him, but what seems good for him. But this will make no difference; for the lovable we are speaking of will then be the apparently lovable.
The motives of love being thus threefold, the love of inanimate things is not called friendship. For there is no return of affection here, nor any wish for the good of the object: it would be absurd to wish well to wine, for instance; at the most, we wish that it may keep well, in order that we may have it. But it is commonly said that we must wish our friend’s good for his own sake. One who thus wishes the good of another is called a well-wisher, when the wish is not reciprocated; when the well-wishing is mutual, it is called friendship.
But ought we not to add that each must be aware of the other’s well-wishing? For a man often wishes well to those whom he has never seen, but supposes to be good or useful men; and one of these may have the same sentiments towards him. These two, then, are plainly well-wishers one of another; but how could one call them friends when each is unaware of the other’s feelings?
In order to be friends, then, they must be wellwishers one of another, i.e. must wish each other’s good from one of the three motives above mentioned, and be aware of each other’s feelings.
3.
Three kinds of friendship, corresponding to the three motives Perfect friendship is that whose motive is the good.
But these three motives are specifically different from one another; the several affections and friendships based upon them, therefore, will also be specifically different. The kinds of friendship accordingly are three, being equal in number to the motives of love; for any one of these may be the basis of a mutual affection of which each is aware.
Now, those who love one another wish each other’s good in respect of that which is the motive of their love. Those, therefore, whose love for one another is based on the useful, do not love each other for what they are, but only in so far as each gets some good from the other.
It is the same also with those whose affection is based on pleasure; people care for a wit, for instance, not for what he is, but as the source of pleasure to themselves.
Those, then, whose love is based on the useful care for each other on the ground of their own good, and those whose love is based on pleasure care for each other on the ground of what is pleasant to themselves, each loving the other, not as being what he is, but as useful or pleasant.
These friendships, then, are “accidental;” for the object of affection is loved, not as being the person or character that he is, but as the source of some good or some pleasure. Friendships of this kind, therefore, are easily dissolved, as the persons do not continue unchanged; for if they cease to be pleasant or useful to one another, their love ceases. But the useful is nothing permanent, but varies from time to time. On the disappearance, therefore, of that which was the motive of their friendship, the friendship itself is dissolved, since it existed solely with a view to that.
Friendship of this kind seems especially to be found among elderly men (for at that time of life men pursue the useful rather than the pleasant) and those middle-aged and young men who have a keen eye to what is profitable. But friends of this kind do not generally even live together; for sometimes they are by no means pleasant (nor indeed do they want such constant intercourse with others, unless they are useful); for they make themselves pleasant only just so far as they have hopes of getting something good thereby.
With these friendships is generally classed the kind of friendship that exists between host and guest.*
The friendship of young men is thought to be based on pleasure; for young men live by impulse, and, for the most part, pursue what is pleasant to themselves and what is immediately present. But the things in which they take pleasure change as they advance in years. They are quick to make friendships, therefore, and quick to drop them; for their friendship changes as the object which pleases them changes; and pleasure of this kind is liable to rapid alteration.
Moreover, young men are apt to fall in love; for love is, for the most part, a matter of impulse and based on pleasure: so they fall in love, and again soon cease to love, passing from one state to the other many times in one day.
Friends of this kind wish to spend their time together and to live together; for thus they attain the object of their friendship.
But the perfect kind of friendship is that of good men who resemble one another in virtue. For they both alike wish well to one another as good men, and it is their essential character to be good men. And those who wish well to their friends for the friends’ sake are friends in the truest sense; for they have these sentiments towards each other as being what they are, and not in an accidental way: their friendship, therefore, lasts as long as their virtue, and that is a lasting thing.
Again, each is both good simply and good to his friend; for it is true of good men that they are both good simply and also useful to one another.
In like manner they are pleasant too; for good men are both pleasant in themselves and pleasant to one another: for every kind of character takes delight in the acts that are proper to it and those that resemble these; but the acts of good men are the same or similar.
This kind of friendship, then, is lasting, as we might expect, since it unites in itself all the conditions of true friendship. For every friendship has for its motive some good or some pleasure (whether it be such in itself or relatively to the person who loves), and is founded upon some similarity: but in this case all the requisite characteristics belong to the friends in their own nature; for here there is similarity and the rest, viz. what is good simply and pleasant simply, and these are the most lovable things: and so it is between persons of this sort that the truest and best love and friendship is found.
It is but natural that such friendships should be uncommon, as such people are rare. Such a friendship, moreover, requires long and familiar intercourse. For, as the proverb says, it is impossible for people to know one another till they have consumed the requisite quantity of salt together. Nor can they accept one another as friends, or be friends, till each show and approve himself to the other as worthy to be loved. Those who quickly come to treat one another like friends may wish to be friends, but are not really friends, unless they not only are lovable, but know each other to be so; a wish to be friends may be of rapid growth, but not friendship.
This kind of friendship, then, is complete in respect of duration and in all other points, and that which each gets from the other is in all respects identical or similar, as should be the case with friends.
4.
The others are imperfect copies of this.
The friendship of which pleasure is the motive bears some resemblance to the foregoing; for good men, too, are pleasant to each other. So also does that of which the useful is the motive; for good men are useful also to one another. And in these cases, too, the friendship is most likely to endure when that which each gets from the other is the same (e.g. pleasure), and not only the same, but arising from the same source—a friendship between two wits, for instance, rather than one between a lover and his beloved. For the source of pleasure in the latter case is not the same for both: the lover delights to look upon his beloved, the beloved likes to have attentions paid him; but when the bloom of youth is gone, the friendship sometimes vanishes also; for the one misses the beauty that used to please him, the other misses the attentions. But, on the other hand, they frequently continue friends, i.e. when their intercourse has brought them to care for each other’s characters, and they are similar in character.
Those who in matters of love exchange not pleasure but profit, are less truly and less permanently friends. The friendship whose motive is profit ceases when the advantage ceases; for it was not one another that they loved, but the profit.
For pleasure, then, or for profit it is possible even for bad men to be friends with one another, and good men with bad, and those who are neither with people of any kind, but it is evident that the friendship in which each loves the other for himself is only possible between good men; for bad men take no delight in each other unless some advantage is to be gained.
The friendship of good men, again, is the only one that can defy calumny; for people are not ready to accept the testimony of any one else against him whom themselves have tested. Such friendship also implies mutual trust, and the certainty that neither would ever wrong the other, and all else that is implied in true friendship; while in other friendships there is no such security.
For since men also apply the term friends to those who love one another for profit’s sake, as happens with states (for expediency is thought to be the ground on which states make alliances), and also to those who love one another for pleasure’s sake, as children do, perhaps we too ought to apply the name to such people, and to speak of several kinds of friendship—firstly, in the primary and strict sense of the word, the friendship of good men as such; secondly, the other kinds that are so called because of a resemblance to this: for these other people are called friends in so far as their relation involves some element of good, which constitutes a resemblance; for the pleasant, too, is good to those who love pleasant things. But these two latter kinds are not apt to coincide, nor do the same people become friends for the sake both of profit and pleasure; for such accidental properties are not apt to be combined in one subject.
Now that we have distinguished these several kinds of friendship, we may say that bad men will be friends for the sake of pleasure or profit, resembling one another in this respect, while good men, when they are friends, love each other for what they are, i.e. as good men. These, then, we say, are friends simply; the others are friends accidentally and so far as they resemble these.
5.
Intercourse necessary to the maintenance of friendship.
But just as with regard to the virtues we distinguish excellence of character or faculty from excellence manifested, so is it also with friendship: when friends are living together, they take pleasure in, and do good to, each other; when they are asleep or at a distance from one another, they are not acting as friends, but they have the disposition which, if manifested, issues in friendly acts; for distance does not destroy friendship simply, but the manifestation of friendship. But if the absence be prolonged, it is thought to obliterate even friendship; whence the saying—
- “Full many a friendship hath ere now been loosed
- By lack of converse.”
Old men do not seem apt to make friends, nor morose men; for there is little in them that can give pleasure: but no one can pass his days in intercourse with what is painful or not pleasant; for our nature seems, above all things, to shun the painful and seek the pleasant.
Those who accept each other’s company, but do not live together, seem to be rather well-wishers than friends. For there is nothing so characteristic of friendship as living together:* those who need help seek it thus, but even those who are happy desire company; for a solitary life suits them least of all men. But people cannot live together unless they are pleasant to each other, nor unless they take delight in the same things, which seems to be a necessary condition of comradeship.
The truest friendship, then, is that which exists between good men, as we have said again and again. For that, it seems, is lovable and desirable which is good or pleasant in itself, but to each man that which is good or pleasant to him; and the friendship of good men for one another rests on both these grounds.
But it seems that while love is a feeling, friendship is a habit or trained faculty. For inanimate things can equally well be the object of love, but the love of friends for one another implies purpose, and purpose proceeds from a habit or trained faculty. And in wishing well for their sakes to those they love, they are swayed not by feeling, but by habit. Again, in loving a friend they love what is good for themselves; for he who gains a good man for his friend gains something that is good for himself. Each then, loves what is good for himself, and what he gives in good wishes and pleasure is equal to what he gets; for love and equality, which are joined in the popular saying ϕιλότης ἰσότης, are found in the highest degree in the friendship of good men.
6.
Impossible to have many true friends.
Morose men and elderly men are less apt to make friends in proportion as they are harsher in temper, and take less pleasure in society; for delight in society seems to be, more than anything else, characteristic of friendship and productive of it. So young men are quick to make friends, but not old men (for people do not make friends with those who do not please them), nor morose men. Such people may, indeed, be well-wishers, for they wish each other good and help each other in need; but they are by no means friends, since they do not live with nor delight in each other, which things are thought to be, more than anything else, characteristic of friendship.
It is impossible to have friendship, in the full sense of the word, for many people at the same time, just as it is impossible to be in love with many persons at once (for it seems to be something intense, but intense feeling implies a single object); and it is not easy for one man to find at one time many very agreeable persons, perhaps not many good ones. Moreover, they must have tested and become accustomed to each other, which is a matter of great difficulty. But in the way of profit or pleasure, it is quite possible to find many* agreeable persons; for such people are not rare, and their services can be rendered in a short time.
Of these other kinds, that which more nearly resembles true friendship is that whose motive is pleasure, when each renders the same service to the other, and both take pleasure in one another, or in the same things, such as young men’s friendships are wont to be; for a generous spirit is commoner in them than in others. But the friendship whose motive is utility is the friendship of sordid souls. Those who are happy do not need useful, but pleasant friends; it is people to live with that they want, and though they may for a short time put up with what is painful, yet no one could endure anything continually, not even the good itself, if it were painful to him; so they require that their friends shall be pleasant. But they ought, we may say, to require that they shall be good as well as pleasant, and good for them; then all the characteristics of a friend will be combined.
People in exalted positions seem to make distinct classes of friends. They have some who are useful, and others who are pleasant, but seldom any that unite both these qualities; for they do not seek for people who are at once agreeable and virtuous, or people who can be useful to them in noble actions, but they seek for witty persons to satisfy their craving for pleasure, while for other purposes they choose men who are clever at carrying out their instructions: but these two qualities are seldom united in one person.
The good man, indeed, as we have already said, is both pleasant and useful; but such a man does not make friends with a man in a superior station, unless he allows himself inferior in virtue:* only thus does he meet the good man on equal terms, being inferior in one respect in the same ratio as he is superior in another. But great men are by no means wont to behave in this manner.
In the friendships hitherto spoken of the persons are equal, for they do the same and wish the same for each other, or else exchange equal quantities of different things, as pleasure for profit. (We have already explained that the latter less deserve the name of friendship, and are less lasting than the former kind. We may even say that, being at once both like it and unlike it, they seem both to be and not to be friendships. On the ground of their resemblance to the friendship that is based on virtue, they seem to be friendships; for one involves pleasure, the other profit, both of which belong to true friendship; but, again, inasmuch as it is beyond calumny and is lasting, while they are liable to rapid change and different in many other respects, they seem not to be friendships because of their unlikeness to it.)
7.
Of friendship between unequal persons and its rule of proportion. Limits within which this is possible.
But, besides these, there is another kind of friendship, in which the persons are unequal, as that of a father for a son, and generally of an elder for a younger person, or of a man for a woman, or of a ruler of any kind for a subject.
These also are different from one another; for that of parent for child is not the same as that of ruler for subject, nor even that of father for son the same as that of son for father, nor that of man for woman the same as that of woman for man. For each of these classes has a different excellence and a different function, and the grounds of their affection are different; therefore their love and their friendship also are different. What each does for the other, then, is not the same, nor should they expect it to be the same; but when children give to their parents what they owe to those who begat them, and parents on their part give what they owe to their children, then such friendship will be lasting, and what it ought to be. But in all friendships based on inequality, the love on either side should be proportional—I mean that the better of the two (and the more useful, and so on in each case) should receive more love than he gives; for when love is proportioned to desert, then there is established a sort of equality, which seems to be a necessary condition of friendship.
But there seems to be a difference between the equality that prevails in the sphere of justice and that which prevails in friendship: for in the sphere of justice the primary sense of “equal” [or “fair,” ἴσον] is “proportionate to merit,” and “equal in quantity” is only the secondary sense; but in friendship “equal in quantity” is the primary, and “proportionate to merit” the secondary sense.*
This is plainly seen in cases where there comes to be a great distance between the persons in virtue, or vice, or wealth, or in any other respect; for they no longer are, nor expect to be, friends. It is most plainly seen in the case of the gods; for they have the greatest superiority in all good things. But it is seen also in the case of princes; for here also those who are greatly inferior do not claim their friendship; nor do people of no consideration expect to be friends with the best and wisest in the state. It is impossible accurately to determine the limits within which friendship may subsist in such cases: many things may be taken away, and it may remain; but again, if a person be very far removed, as God is, it can no longer be.
This has suggested the objection that, after all, a friend does not wish his friend the greatest of all goods, that he should become a god; for then he would lose a friend—that is, a good; for a friend is a good thing. If then we were right in saying that a friend wishes good to his friend for his (the friend’s) sake, we must add, “the friend remaining what he is:” so far as is compatible with his being a man, he will wish him the greatest good—but perhaps not everything that is good; for every man wishes good most of all to himself.
8.
Of loving and being loved.
Most people seem, from a desire for honour, to wish to be loved rather than to love, and on this account most men are fond of flatterers; for a flatterer is an inferior friend, or pretends to be so and to love more than he is loved: but being loved is thought to come near to being honoured, and that most men strive for.
But they seem to desire honour not for its own sake, but accidentally: it is expectation that makes most men delight in being honoured by those in authority; for they hope to get from them anything they may want: they delight in this honour, therefore, as a token of good things to come. On the other hand, those who desire the honour or respect of good men and men who know, are anxious to confirm their own opinion of themselves; they rejoice, therefore, in the assurance of their worth which they gain from confidence in the judgment of those who declare it.
But men delight in being loved for its own sake; wherefore it would seem that being loved is better than being honoured, and that friendship is desirable for its own sake.
Friendship, however, seems to lie in the loving, rather than in the being loved. This is shown by the delight that mothers take in loving; for some give their children to others to rear, and love them since they know them, but do not look for love in return, if it be impossible to have both, being content to see their children doing well, and loving them, though they receive from them, in their ignorance, nothing of what is due to a mother.
Since friendship lies more in loving [than in being loved], and since we praise those who love their friends, it would seem that the virtue of a friend is to love, so that when people love each other in proportion to their worth, they are lasting friends, and theirs is a lasting friendship.
This is also the way in which persons who are unequal can be most truly friends; for thus they will make themselves equal: but equality and similarity tend to friendship, and most of all the similarity of those who resemble each other in virtue; for such men, being little liable to change, continue as they were in themselves and to one another, and do not ask anything unworthy of one another, or do anything unworthy for one another—nay, rather restrain one another from anything of the sort; for it is characteristic of a good man neither to go wrong himself, nor to let his friend go wrong.
Bad men on the other hand [as friends] have no stability: for they do not even continue like themselves; but for a short space they become friends, rejoicing in each other’s wickedness.
Those, however, who are useful and agreeable to one another continue friends longer, i.e. so long as they continue to furnish pleasure or profit.
The friendship whose motive is utility seems, more than any other kind, to be a union of opposites, as of rich and poor, ignorant and learned; for when a man wants a thing, in his desire to get it he will give something else in exchange. And perhaps we might include the lover and his beloved, the beautiful and the ugly person, in this class. And this is the reason why lovers often make themselves ridiculous by claiming to be loved as they love; if they were equally lovable they might perhaps claim it, but when there is nothing lovable about them the claim is absurd.
But perhaps nothing desires its opposite as such but only accidentally, the desire being really for the mean which is between the two; for this is good. For the dry, for instance, it is good not to become wet, but to come to the intermediate state, and so with the hot, and with the rest of these opposites. But we may dismiss these questions; for, indeed, they are somewhat foreign to our present purpose.
9.
Every society has its own form of friendship as of justice. All societies are summed up in civil society.
It seems, as we said at the outset, that the subject-matter and occasion of friendship and of justice are the same. Every community or association, it is thought, gives some occasion for justice, and also for friendship; at least, people address as friends their partners in a voyage or campaign, and so on with other associations. To what extent soever they are partners, to that extent is there occasion for friendship; for to that extent is there occasion for justice.
Moreover, “friends’ goods are common property,” says the proverb rightly; for friendship implies community. Brothers, indeed, and comrades have all things in common: other friends have certain definite things in common, some more and some less; for friendships also differ in degree. But what justice requires is also different in different cases; it does not require from parents towards children, for instance, the same as from brothers towards one another, nor from comrades the same as from fellow-citizens, and so on through the other kinds of friendship.
Injustice also assumes different forms in these several relations, and increases according to the degree of friendship; e.g. it is a grosser wrong to rob a comrade than a fellow-citizen, and to refuse help to a brother than to a stranger, and to strike one’s father than to strike any other man. The claims of justice, in fact, are such as to increase as friendship increases, both having the same field and growing pari passu.
But all kinds of association or community seem to be, as it were, parts of the political community or association of citizens. For in all of them men join together with a view to some common interest, and in pursuit of some one or other of the things they need for their life. But the association of citizens seems both originally to have been instituted and to continue for the sake of common interests; for this is what legislators aim at, and that which is for the common interest of all is said to be just.
Thus all other associations seem to aim at some particular advantage, e.g. sailors work together for a successful voyage, with a view to making money or something of that sort; soldiers for a successful campaign, whether their ulterior end be riches, or victory, or the founding of a state; and so it is with the members of a tribe or a deme. Some associations, again, seem to have pleasure for their object, as when men join together for a feast or a club dinner; for the object here is feasting and company. But all these associations seem to be subordinate to the association of citizens; for the association of citizens seems to have for its aim, not the interests of the moment, but the interests of our whole life, even when its members celebrate festivals and hold gatherings on such occasions, and render honour to the gods, and provide recreation and amusement for themselves.* For the ancient festivals and assemblies seem to take place after the gathering in of the harvest, being of the nature of a dedication of the first-fruits, as it was at these seasons that people had most leisure.
All associations, then, seem to be parts of the association of citizens; and the several kinds of friendship will correspond to the several kinds of association.
10.
Of the three forms of constitution.
Now, of constitutions there are three kinds, and an equal number of perverted forms, which are, so to speak, corruptions of these. Constitutions proper are kingly government and aristocracy; and, thirdly, there is a form of government based upon an assessment of property, which should strictly be called timocracy, though most people are wont to speak of it as constitutional government simply.
Of these, kingly government is the best and timocracy the worst. The perversion of kingly government is tyranny: both are monarchies, but there is a vast difference between them; for the tyrant seeks his own interest, the king seeks the interest of his subjects. For he is not properly a king who is not self-sufficient and superabundantly furnished with all that is good; such a man wants nothing more; his own advantage, then, will not be his aim, but that of his subjects. A man of another character than this could only be the sort of king that is chosen by lot.*
Tyranny is the opposite of kingly rule, because the tyrant seeks his own good; and of this government it is quite obvious† that it is the worst of all: we may add that the opposite of the best must be the worst.
Kingly government degenerates into tyranny; for tyranny is a vicious form of monarchy: the bad king, then, becomes a tyrant.
Aristocracy degenerates into oligarchy through the vice of the rulers, who, instead of distributing public property and honours according to merit, take all or most of the good things for themselves, and give the offices always to the same people, setting the greatest store by wealth; you have, then, a small number of bad men in power, in place of the best men.
Lastly, timocracy degenerates into democracy: and indeed they border closely upon each other; for even timocracy is intended to be government by the multitude, and all those who have the property qualification are equal.
Democracy is the least bad [of the corrupt forms], for it is but a slight departure from the corresponding form of constitution.
These, then, are the ways in which the several constitutions are most apt to change; for these are the directions in which the change is slightest, and encounters the least resistance.
Likenesses of these forms of government and patterns of them, so to speak, may be found in families. For instance, the association of father and sons has the form of kingly rule; for the father cares for his children. This, also, is the reason why Homer addresses Zeus as father; for kingly government aims at being a paternal government. But in Persia the association of father and son is tyrannical; for fathers there use their sons as slaves. The association of master and slave is also tyrannical; for it is the interest of the master that is secured by it. But this seems to be a legitimate kind of tyranny, while the Persian kind seems to be wrong; for different beings require different kinds of government.
The association of man and wife seems to be aristocratic: for the husband bears rule proportionate to his worth, i.e. he rules in those matters which are his province; but he entrusts to his wife those matters that properly belong to her. But when the man lords it in all things, he perverts this relation into an oligarchical one; for he then takes rule where he is not entitled to it, and not only in those matters in which he is better. Sometimes, on the other hand, the wife rules because she is an heiress. In these cases authority is not proportionate to merit, but is given on the ground of wealth and influence, just as in oligarchies.
The association of brothers resembles a timocracy; for they are equal except in so far as they differ in age. On this account, if they differ very widely in age, their friendship can no longer be a brotherly friendship.
A democratic form of association is chiefly found in those households which have no master (for there all are on a footing of equality), or where the head of the house is weak, and every one does what he likes.
11.
Of the corresponding forms of friendship.
In each of these forms of government friendship has place to the same extent as justice. In the first place, the king shows his friendship for his subjects* by transcendent benefits; for he does good to his subjects, seeing that he is good, and tends them with a view to their welfare, as a shepherd tends his sheep,—whence Homer calls Agamemnon “shepherd of peoples.”
The friendship of a father for his child is of a similar kind, though the benefits conferred are still greater. For the father is the author of the child’s existence, which seems the greatest of all benefits, and of his nurture and education; and we also ascribe these to our forefathers generally: and thus it is in accordance with nature that fathers should rule their children, forefathers their descendants, kings their subjects.
These friendships involve the superiority of one side to the other; and on this account parents receive honour as well [as service].* Moreover, what justice requires here is not the same on both sides, but that which is proportionate to their worth; for this is the rule of friendship also [as well as of justice].
The friendship, again, of man and wife is the same as that which has place in an aristocracy; for both benefit in proportion to their merit, the better getting more good, and each what is fitting; but this is the rule of justice also.
The friendship of brothers resembles that of comrades, for they are equal and of like age; but those with whom that is the case for the most part have the same feelings and character. And the friendship in a timocracy is of the same type as this; for the citizens here wish to be equal and fair; so they take office in turn, and share it equally: their friendship, then, will follow the same rule.
In the corrupt forms, as there is but little room for justice, so there is but little room for friendship, and least of all in the worst; in a tyranny there is little or no friendship. For where ruler and subject have nothing in common, there cannot be any friendship, any more than there can be any justice,—e.g. when the relation is that of a workman to his tools, or of the soul to the body, or of master to slave. The tools and the body and the slave are all benefited by those who use them; but our relations with inanimate objects do not admit of friendship or justice; nor our relations with a horse or an ox; nor our relations with a slave as such. For there is nothing in common between master and slave. The slave is a living tool; the tool is a lifeless slave. As a slave, then, his master’s relations with him do not admit of friendship, but as a man they may: for there seems to be room for some kind of justice in the relations of any man to any one that can participate in law and contract,—and if so, then for some kind of friendship, so far, that is to say, as he deserves the name man.
And so friendships and justice are found to some small extent even in tyrannies, but to a greater extent in democracies than in any other of the corrupt forms; for there the citizens, being equal, have many things in common.
12.
Of the friendship of kinsmen and comrades.
All friendship, as we have already said, implies association; but we may separate from the rest the friendship of kinsmen and that of comrades. The friendships of fellow-citizens, of fellow-tribesmen, of fellow-sailors, etc., seem, as opposed to these, to have more to do with association; for they appear to be founded upon some sort of compact. The friendship of host and guest might also be included in this class.
Kinsmen’s friendship seems to include several species, but to be dependent in all its forms upon the friendship of parent and child. For parents love their children as part of themselves; children love their parents as the source of their being. But parents know their children better than the children know that these are their parents, and that which gives birth is more closely attached to that which proceeds from it, than the offspring is to that which gave it life: for that which proceeds from us belongs to us, as a tooth or a hair, or anything of that sort, to its owner; but we do not belong to it at all, or belong to it in a less degree.
Again, there is a difference in respect of time; for parents love their offspring from the moment of their birth, but children love their parents only after the lapse of time, when they have acquired understanding or sense.
These considerations also show why mothers love their children more than fathers do.
Parents, then, love their children as themselves (for what proceeds from them is as it were a second self when it is severed), but children love their parents as the source of their being, and brothers love each other because they proceed from the same source: for the identity of their relation to this source constitutes an identity between them; so that they say that they are of the same blood and stock, etc. And so they are in a way identical, though they are separate persons.
But friendship between brothers is greatly furthered by common nurture and similarity of age; for those of the same age naturally love one another, as the saying is, and those who are used to one another naturally make comrades of one another, so that the friendship of brothers comes to resemble that of comrades.
Cousins and other kinsfolk become attached to each other for the same reason—I mean because they come of the same stock. But the attachment is more or less close according to the nearness or remoteness of the founder of the family.
The friendship of children for their parents (like that of men for the gods) is friendship for what is good and superior to themselves, as the source of the greatest benefits, namely, of their life and nurture, and their education from their birth upwards.
Friendship of this kind brings with it more, both of pleasure and profit, than that of strangers, in proportion as there is more community of life.
The friendship of brothers has all the characteristics of the friendship of comrades, and has them in a greater degree (provided they are good and generally resemble one another) inasmuch as they belong more to one another and love each other from their birth up, and have more similarity of character, as being of the same stock and brought up together and educated alike; moreover, they have had the longest and the surest experience of one another.
In all other kinsmen’s friendships the same elements will be found in proportion to the relationship.
The friendship of man and wife seems to be natural; for human beings are by nature more apt to join together in couples than to form civil societies, inasmuch as the family is prior in time to the state and more indispensable, and the propagation of the species is a more fundamental characteristic of animal existence. The other animals associate for this purpose alone, but man and wife live together not merely for the begetting of children, but also to satisfy the needs of their life: for the functions of the man and the woman are clearly divided and distinct the one from the other; they supply each other’s wants, therefore, both contributing to the common stock. And so this sort of friendship is thought to bring with it both pleasure and profit. But it will be based on virtue, too, if they be good; for each sex has its own virtue, and both will rejoice in that which is of like nature.
Children also seem to be a bond that knits man and wife together (which is a reason why childless unions are more quickly dissolved); for children are a good which both have in common, but that which people have in common holds them together.
To ask on what terms a man should live with his wife, and generally friend with friend, seems the same as to ask what justice requires in these cases; for what is required of a man towards his friend is different from what is required of him towards a stranger, a comrade, or a fellow-student.
13.
Of the terms of interchange and quarrels hence arising in equal friendships.
There are three kinds of friendship, as we said at the outset, and in each kind there are both equal and unequal friendships; I mean that sometimes two equally good persons make friends, and sometimes a better and a worse,—and so with those who are pleasant to one another, and with those who are friends with a view to profit—sometimes rendering equal services to one another, and sometimes unequal.
Now, those who are equal should effect equality by loving one another, etc., equally, but those who are unequal should effect equality by making what each renders proportionate to the greater or less merit of the other.
But accusations and reproaches arise solely or mostly in friendships whose motive is profit, as we should expect. For those whose friendship is based on virtue are eager to do good to each other (for this is the office of virtue and friendship); and between people who are thus vieing with one another no accusations or quarrels can arise; for a man cannot be embittered against one who loves him and does him a service, but, if he be of a gracious nature, requites him with a like service. And he who renders the greater service will not reproach his friend, since he gets what he desires;* for each desires what is good.
Such quarrels, again, are not apt to arise in friendships whose motive is pleasure; for both get at the same time that which they desire, if they delight in each other’s company; but if one were to accuse the other for not being agreeable to him, he would make himself ridiculous, seeing that he was under no compulsion to associate with him.
But the friendship whose motive is utility is fruitful in accusations; for as the friends here use each other solely with a view to their own advantage, each always wants the larger share and thinks he has less than his due, and reproaches the other with not doing for him so much as he requires and deserves; though, in truth, it is impossible for the one who is doing a service to supply all that the other wants.
But it seems that as the rules of justice are two-fold, the unwritten and those that are set down in laws, so the friendship whose motive is utility is of two kinds—one resting on disposition, the other on contract. And accusations are most apt to arise when the relation is understood in one sense at the commencement, and in the other sense at the conclusion.
That which rests on contract is that in which there are specified conditions, and it is of two kinds: one is purely commercial, on the principle of cash payments; the other is less exacting in point of time, though in it also there is a specified quid pro quo.
In the latter case, what is due is evident and cannot be disputed, but there is an element of friendliness in the deferment of payment; for which reason, in some states, there is no recovery by law in such cases, but it is held that when a man has given credit he must take the consequences.
That which rests on disposition has no specified conditions, but one gives another presents (or whatever else it may be) as a friend. But afterwards he claims as much or more in return, regarding what he gave not as a gift, but as a loan. And thus, wishing to terminate the relation in a different spirit from that in which he entered upon it, he will accuse the other.* And this is apt to happen because all or nearly all men, though they wish for what is noble, choose what is profitable; and while it is noble to do a good service without expecting a return, it is profitable to receive a benefit.
In such cases, then, we should, if we have the power, make an equivalent return for benefits received (for we must not treat a man as a friend if he does not wish it: we should consider that we made a mistake at the beginning, and received a benefit from a person from whom we ought not to have accepted it—for he was not a friend and did not act disinterestedly—and so we ought to terminate the relation in the same way as if we had received a service for a stipulated consideration): and the return should be what we would have agreed* to repay if able; if we were unable, the donor would not even have expected repayment. So we may fairly say that we should repay if we have the power.
But we ought at the outset carefully to consider who it is that is doing us a service, and on what understanding, so that we may accept it on that understanding or else reject it.
It is a debatable question whether the requital is to be measured by, and to be made proportionate to, the value of the service to the recipient or to the benefactor. For the recipients are apt to say that they received what was but a small matter to their benefactors, and what they might just as well have got from others, depreciating the service done them; but the others, on the contrary, are apt to say that what they gave was the best they had, and what could not be got from any one else, and that it was given in a time of danger or on some other pressing occasion.
Perhaps we may say that, if the friendship have profit for its motive, the benefit received should be taken as the measure; for it is the recipient who asks a service, which the other renders in expectation of an equal service in return: the amount of the assistance rendered, then, is determined by the extent to which the former is benefited, and he should repay as much as he received, or even more; for that would be the nobler course.
In friendships based on virtue, on the other hand, such accusations do not occur, but it would seem that the measure of the service is the purpose of him who does it; for virtue and moral character are determined by purpose.
14.
Of the same in unequal friendships.
Quarrels occur also in unequal friendships; for sometimes each claims the larger share, but when this happens the friendship is dissolved. For instance, the better of the two thinks he ought to have the larger share; “the good man’s share is larger,” he says: the more useful of the two makes the same claim; “it is allowed,” he says, “that a useless person should not share equally; for friendship degenerates into gratuitous service unless that which each receives from the friendship be proportionate to the value of what he does.” For such people fancy that the same rule should hold in friendship as in a commercial partnership, where those who put in more take a larger share.
The needy man and the inferior man argue in the contrary way; “it is the office of a good friend,” they say, “to help you when you are in need; for what is the use of being friends with a good man or a powerful man, if you are to get nothing by it?”
It seems that the claims of both are right, and that each ought to receive a larger share than the other, but not of the same things—the superior more honour, the needy man more profit; for honour is the tribute due to virtue and benevolence, while want receives its due succour in the pecuniary gain.
This seems to be recognized in constitutions too: no honour is paid to him who contributes nothing to the common stock of good; the common stock is distributed among those who benefit the community, and of this common stock honour is a part. For he who makes money out of the community must not expect to be honoured by the community also; and no one is content to receive a smaller share in everything. To him, then, who spends money on public objects we pay due honour, and money to him whose services can be paid in money; for, by giving to each what is in proportion to his merit, equality is effected and friendship preserved, as we said before.
The same principles, then, must regulate the intercourse of individuals who are unequal; and he who is benefited by another in his purse or in his character, must give honour in return, making repayment in that which he can command. For friendship exacts what is possible rather than what is due: what is due is sometimes impossible, as, for instance, in the case of the honour due to the gods and to parents; for no one could ever pay all his debt to them; but he who gives them such service as he can command is held to fulfil his obligation.
For this reason it would seem that a man may not disown his father, though a father may disown his son; for he who owes must pay: but whatever a son may do he can never make a full return for what he has received, so that he is always in debt. But the creditor is at liberty to cast off the debtor; a father, therefore, is at liberty to cast off his son. But, at the same time, it is not likely that any one would ever disown a son, unless he were a very great scoundrel; for, natural affection apart, it is but human not to thrust away the support that a son would give. But to the son, if he be a scoundrel, assisting his father is a thing that he wishes to avoid, or at least is not eager to undertake; for the generality of men wish to receive benefits, but avoid doing them as unprofitable. So much, then, for these questions.
BOOK IX.
FRIENDSHIP OR LOVE—continued.
1.
Of the rule of proportion in dissimilar friendships.
In all dissimilar friendships* it is proportionate exchange that maintains equality and preserves the friendship (as we have already said), just as in the association of citizens, where the shoemaker, in exchange for his shoes, receives some return proportionate to his desert, and so on with the weaver and the rest.
Now, in these latter cases, a common measure is supplied by money; money is the standard to which everything is referred, and by which it is measured.
In sentimental friendships, on the other hand, the lover sometimes complains that while he loves excessively he gets no love in return, although, maybe, there is nothing lovable about him; often the beloved complains that whereas the other used to promise everything, he now performs nothing.
Complaints of this sort are wont to arise when, pleasure being the motive of the friendship with one person and profit with the other, they do not both get what they want. For the friendship, being based on these motives, is dissolved whenever they fail to obtain that for the sake of which they made friends; for it was not the other’s self that each loved, but only something which he had, and which is not apt to endure; for which reason these friendships also are not apt to endure. But friendship based on character, being pure, is likely to last, as we said.
Sometimes, again, friends quarrel when they find they are getting something different from what they want, for failing to get what you want is like getting nothing. This may be illustrated by the story of the harper: a man promised him that the better he played, the more he should receive; but when, as dawn drew near, the harper claimed the fulfilment of his promise, the other replied that he had already paid him pleasure* for pleasure. Now, if this was what both wished, there would be nothing more to say: but if the one wanted pleasure and the other profit, and the one has what he wants, while the other has not, the bargain will not be fairly carried out; for it is what a man happens to want that he sets his heart on, and consents for the sake of it to render this particular service.
But whose business is it to fix the value of the service? his who first gives, or rather his who first receives?—for he who first gives seems to leave it to the other. This, they say, was the custom of Protagoras: when he had been giving lessons in any subject, he used to tell his pupil to estimate the value of the knowledge he had acquired, and so much he would take.
Some, however, think the rule should be, “Let a friend be content with his stated wage.”*
But if a man, after being paid in advance, fulfils none of his engagements, because he had promised more than he could perform, he is rightly held chargeable; for he does not fulfil his contract. But the sophists, perhaps, are compelled to adopt this plan [of payment in advance]; for otherwise no one would give anything for what they know.
He, then, who fails to do that for which he has already been paid, is rightly chargeable. But when there is no express agreement about the service rendered, (a) when one voluntarily helps another for that other’s sake, no accusation can arise, as we said: for this is the nature of friendship based on virtue. The return must here be regulated by the purpose of him who renders the first service; for it is purpose that makes both friend and virtue. The same rule would seem to apply also to the relations of a philosopher and his disciples; for desert cannot here be measured in money, and no honour that could be paid him would be an adequate return; but, nevertheless, as in our relations to gods and parents, the possible is accepted as sufficient. (b) If, however, the first gift has been made, not in this spirit, but on the understanding that there shall be some return, the return should, if possible, be such as both deem proportionate to desert: but if this cannot be, it would seem to be not only necessary, but just, that the recipient of the first benefit should assess it; for whatever be the amount of the advantage he has received, or whatever he would have been willing to give for the pleasure, the other, in receiving the same amount, will receive as much as is due from him. For even in sales this is plainly what takes place; and in some states there is no recovery by law in voluntary contracts, as it is held that when you have given a man credit, you must conclude your bargain with him in the same spirit in which you began it. It is held to be fairer that the service should be valued by him who is trusted than by him who trusts. For most things are differently valued by those who have them and by those who wish to get them: what belongs to us, and what we give away, always seems very precious to us. Nevertheless, the return to be made must be measured by the value which is set upon the service by the receiver. But perhaps he ought to put it, not at what it seems to be worth when he has got it, but at the value he set upon it before he had it.
2.
Of the conflict of duties.
There are some further questions that here suggest themselves, such as whether the father’s claims to service ought to be unlimited, and the son should obey him in everything, or whether in sickness he should obey the physician, and in the election of a general should choose him who is skilled in war; and, similarly, whether one ought to help one’s friend rather than a good man, and repay a benefactor rather than make a present to a comrade, if one cannot do both.
We may, perhaps, say that to lay down precise rules for all such cases is scarcely possible; for the different cases differ in all sorts of ways, according to the importance or unimportance, the nobility or necessity of the act. But it is tolerably evident that no single person’s claims can override all others; and that, as a general rule, we ought to repay benefits received before we do a favour to a comrade—just as, if we had borrowed money, we ought to pay our creditors before we make presents to our comrades.
But it may be that even this rule will not hold good in all cases; for instance, if a man has been ransomed from a band of brigands, ought he in turn to ransom his ransomer, whoever he may be, or repay him when he demands it, even though he be not captured, in preference to ransoming his father? For it would seem that a man ought to ransom his father even before himself.
As we said then, generally speaking, we should repay what we owe: but if giving [instead of repaying] be more noble or meet a more pressing need, it is right to incline in this direction; for sometimes it is not even fair to repay the original service, e.g. when one man has helped another, knowing him to be a good man, while the latter in repaying him would be helping one whom he believes to be a bad man. And so a man is sometimes not bound to lend in turn to one who has lent him money: A may have lent to B in full expectation of being repaid, as B is an honourable man; but B may have no hope of being repaid by A, who is a rascal. If this be the real state of the case, the demand for a loan in return is not fair; but even if the facts be otherwise, yet, if they think thus of each other, their conduct would be regarded as natural.
As we have often said, statements concerning human affections and actions must share the indefiniteness of their subject.
It is tolerably plain, then, that, on the one hand, the claims of all men are not the same, but that, on the other hand, the father’s claims do not override all others, just as Zeus does not receive all our sacrifices; the claims of parents, brothers, comrades, and benefactors are all different, and to each must be rendered that which is his own and his due.
And this is the way in which men appear to act: to a wedding they invite their kinsfolk; for they have a share in the family, and therefore in all acts relating thereto: and for the same reason it is held that kinsfolk have more claim than any others to be invited to funerals.
Parents would seem to have a special claim upon us for sustenance, as we owe it them, and as it is nobler to preserve the life of those to whom we are indebted for our own than to preserve ourselves.
Honour, also, we should pay to our parents, as to the gods; but not all honour: for the honour due to a father is not the same as that due to a mother; nor do we owe them the honour due to a wise man or a good general, but that which is due to a father and that which is due to a mother.
To all our elders, again, we should pay the honour due to their age, by rising up at their approach and by giving them the place of honour at the table, and so forth. But between comrades and brothers there should be freedom of speech and community in everything. And to kinsfolk and fellow-tribesmen and fellow-citizens, and all other persons, we should always try to give their due, and to assign to each what properly belongs to him, according to the closeness of his connection with us, and his goodness or usefulness. When the persons are of one kind this assignment is comparatively easy, but when they are of different kinds it is more difficult. We must not, however, on this account shirk the difficulty, but must distinguish as best as we can.
3.
Of the dissolution of friendships.
Another difficult question is, whether we should or should not break off friendship with those who have ceased to be what they were.
We may, perhaps, say that those whose friendship is based on profit or pleasure naturally part when these cease; for it was these that they loved: when these are gone, therefore, it is to be expected that the love goes too. But complaints would be likely to arise if a man who loved another for profit or pleasure’s sake pretended to love him for his character; for, as we said at the outset, quarrels between friends very frequently arise from a difference between the real and the supposed motives of the friendship. If, then, a man deceives himself, and supposes that he is beloved for his character, though the other’s behaviour gives no ground for the supposition, he has only himself to blame; but if he is deceived by the other’s pretence, then there is a fair ground of complaint against such an impostor, even more than against those who counterfeit the coinage, inasmuch as it is a more precious thing that is tampered with.
But if a man admit another to his friendship as a good man, and he becomes and shows himself to be a bad man, is he still to be loved? Perhaps we may answer that it is impossible, as it is not everything that is lovable, but only the good. A bad man, then, is not lovable, and ought not to be loved: for we ought not to love what is bad, nor to make ourselves like what is worthless; but, as we said before, it is like that makes friends with like.
Is the friendship, then, to be immediately broken off? Perhaps not in all cases, but only in the case of those who are incurably bad: when their reformation is possible, we are more bound to help them in their character than their fortune, inasmuch as character is a nobler thing, and has more to do with friendship than fortune has. But a man who withdraws his friendship in such a case, would seem to do nothing unnatural; for it was not with such a man that he made friends: his friend has become another man, and as he cannot restore him, he stands aloof from him.
But suppose that the one remains what he was while the other gets better and becomes far superior in virtue: is the latter still to treat the former as a friend? Perhaps it is hardly possible that he should do so. We see this most plainly if the interval between the two be very considerable. Take, for instance, a boyish friendship: if one of the two remains a child in understanding, while the other has become a man in the fullest sense of the word, how can they any longer be friends, now that the things that will please them, and the sources of their joys and sorrows, are no longer the same? for not even in regard to each other’s character will their tastes agree, and without this, we found, people cannot be friends, since they cannot live together. (But this point has been already discussed.)
Shall we, then, simply say that the latter should regard the former as no more a stranger than if he had never been his friend? Perhaps we may go further than this, and say that he should not entirely forget their former intercourse, and that just as we hold that we ought to serve friends before strangers, so former friends have some claims upon us on the ground of past friendship, unless extraordinary depravity were the cause of our parting.
4.
A man’s relation to his friend like his relation to himself.
Friendly relations to others, and all the characteristics by which friendship is defined, seem to be derived from our relations towards ourselves. A friend is sometimes described as one who wishes and does to another what is good or seems good for that other’s sake, or as one who wishes his friend to exist and to live for his (the friend’s) sake. (This is what mothers feel towards their children, and what friends who have had a difference feel for one another.) Others describe a friend as one who lives with another and chooses what he chooses, or as one who sympathizes with the griefs and joys of his friend. (This, also, is especially the case with mothers.) And, similarly, friendship is usually defined by some one or other of these characteristics.
Now, every one of these characteristics we find in the good man’s relations to himself (and in other men just so far as they suppose themselves to be good; but it seems, as we have said, that virtue and the good man are in everything the standard): for the good man is of one mind with himself, and desires the same things with all his soul, and wishes for himself what both is and seems good, and does that (for it is characteristic of him to work out that which is good) for his own sake—for the sake, that is to say, of the rational part of him, which seems to be a man’s self. And he wishes his self to live and be preserved, and especially that part of his self by which he thinks: for existence is good to the good man. But it is for himself that each wishes the good; no one would choose to have all that is good (as e.g. God is in complete possession of the good) on condition of becoming some one else, but only on condition of still being just himself.* But his reason would seem to be a man’s self, or, at least, to be so in a truer sense than any other of his faculties.
Such a man also wishes to live with himself; for his own company is pleasant to him. The memory of his past life is sweet, and for the future he has good hopes; and such hopes are pleasant. His mind, moreover, is well stored with matter for contemplation: and he sympathizes with himself in sorrow and in joy; for at all seasons the same things give him pain and pleasure, not this thing now, and then another thing,—for he is, so to speak, not apt to change his mind.
Since, then, all these characteristics are found in the good man’s relations to himself, and since his relations to his friend are the same as his relations to himself (for his friend is his second self), friendship is described by one or other of these characteristics, and those are called friends in whom these characteristics are found.
The question whether friendship towards one’s self is or is not possible may be dismissed at present; but that it is possible so far as one has two or more selves would seem to follow from what has been already said, and also from the fact that the extreme of friendship for another is likened to friendship for one’s self.
But the characteristics we have mentioned appear to be found in the generality of men, though they are not good.* Perhaps we may say that so far as they are agreeable to themselves, and believe they are good, so far do they share these characteristics. People who are utterly worthless and impious never have them, nor do they even seem to have them. But we might almost say roundly that they are wanting in all who are not good; for such men are not at one with themselves: they desire one thing while they wish another, as the incontinent do, for instance (for, instead of what they hold to be good, they choose what is pleasant though injurious). Others, again, through cowardice or laziness, shrink from doing that which they believe is the best for them; while those who have done many terrible things out of wickedness, hate life, and wish to get rid of it, and sometimes actually destroy themselves.
Bad men try to find people with whom to spend their time, and eschew their own company; for there is much that is painful in the past on which they look back and in the future to which they look forward when they are by themselves, but the company of others diverts them from these thoughts. As there is nothing lovable in them, they have no friendly feelings towards themselves.
He who is not good, then, cannot sympathize with himself in joy or sorrow; for his soul is divided against itself: one part of him, by reason of its viciousness, is pained at being deprived of something, while another part of him is pleased; one part pulls this way, another that, tearing him to pieces, as it were, between them. Or if it be impossible to be pained and pleased at the same time, yet, at any rate, after a short interval he is pained that he was pleased, and wishes that he had never partaken of this pleasure; for those who are not good are full of remorse.
Thus we may say roundly that he who is not good has no friendly feelings even for himself, as there is nothing lovable in him. If, then, to be in this state is utterly miserable, we ought to strain every nerve to avoid vice, and try to be good; for thus we may be friendly disposed towards ourselves, and make friends with others.
5.
Friendship and goodwill.
Well-wishing seems to be friendly, but is not friendship: for we may wish well to those who are unknown to us, and who are not aware that we wish them well; but there can be no friendship in such cases. But this we have already said.
Neither is well-wishing the same as love; for it has none of the intense emotion and the desire which accompany love.
Love, moreover, implies intimate acquaintance, while well-wishing may spring up in a moment; it does so, for instance, when athletes are competing for a prize: we may wish well to a competitor, and be eager for his success, though we would not do anything to help him; for, as we said, we suddenly become well-wishers and conceive a sort of superficial affection in such cases.
The truth seems to be that well-wishing is the germ of friendship, in the same way as pleasure in the sight of a person is the germ of love: for no one falls in love unless he is first pleased by visible beauty; but he who delights in the beauty of a person is not one whit in love on that account, unless he also feels the absence and desires the presence of that person. Just so it is impossible for people to be friends unless they first become well-wishers, but people who wish each other well are not a whit on that account friends; for they merely wish good to those whose well-wishers they are, but would never help them in any enterprise, or put themselves out for them. One might say, then—extending the meaning of the term—that well-wishing is an undeveloped friendship, which with time and intimate acquaintance may become friendship proper,—not that friendship whose motive is profit, nor that whose motive is pleasure; for well-wishing is no element in them. He who has received a benefit does indeed give his good wishes in return to his benefactor, and it is but just that he should; but he who wishes that another may prosper, in the hope of good things to be got by his means, does not seem really to wish well to the other, but rather to himself, just as he is not really a friend if he serves him with an eye to profit.
But, generally speaking, well-wishing is grounded upon some kind of excellence or goodness, and arises when a person seems to us beautiful or brave, or endowed with some other good quality, as we said in the case of the athletes.
6.
Friendship and unanimity
Unanimity [or unity of sentiment] also seems to be an element in friendship; and this shows that it is not mere agreement in opinion, for that is possible even between people who know nothing of each other.
Nor do we apply the term to those who agree in judgment upon any kind of subject, e.g. upon astronomy (for being of one mind in these matters has nothing to do with friendship); but we say that unanimity prevails in a state when the citizens agree in their judgments about what is for the common interest, and choose the same course, and carry out the decision of the community. It is with regard to practical matters, therefore, that people are said to be of one mind, especially with regard to matters of importance and things that may be given to both persons, or to all the persons concerned; for instance, a state is said to be of one mind when all the citizens are agreed that the magistracies shall be elective, or that an alliance be made with Sparta, or that Pittacus be governor, Pittacus himself being willing to accept the office. But when each wishes the government for himself, like the brothers in the Phœnissæ of Euripides, then they are at discord: for being of one mind means that each not merely thinks of the same thing (whatever it be), but thinks of it under the same conditions—as, for instance, if both the populace and the upper classes agree that the best men shall govern; for thus they all get what they want.
Unanimity, then, seems to be, as it is called, the kind of friendship that prevails in states; for it has to do with what is for the common interest, and with things that have a considerable influence upon life.
This kind of unanimity is found in good men; for they are of one mind with themselves and with each other, standing, so to speak, always on the same ground: for the wishes of such people are constant, and do not ebb and flow like the Euripus; they wish what is just and for the common interest, and make united efforts to attain it. But people who are not good cannot be of one mind, just as they cannot be friends except for a little space or to a slight extent, as they strive for more than their share of profit, but take less than their share of labours and public services: but every man, while wishing to do this himself, keeps a sharp eye upon his neighbour, and prevents him from doing it; for if they are not thus on their guard, the community is ruined. The result is that they are at discord, striving to compel one another to do what is just, but not willing to do it themselves.
7.
Why benefactors love more than they are loved.
Benefactors seem to love those whom they have benefited more than those who have received benefits love those who have conferred them; and as this appears irrational, people seek for the cause of this phenomenon.
Most people think the reason is that the one is in the position of a debtor, the other in the position of a creditor; and that, therefore, just as in the case of a loan the debtor wishes his creditor were out of the way, while the lender, on the other hand, is anxious that his debtor may be preserved, so here the benefactor desires the existence of him whom he has benefited in hopes of receiving favours in return, while the other is not at all anxious to repay.
Epicharmus, indeed, might perhaps say that this is only the view of “those who have bad places at the play,”* but it seems to be true to life; for the generality of men have short memories, and are more eager to receive benefits than to confer them.
But it would seem that the real cause is something that lies deeper in the nature of things, and that the case of creditors does not even resemble this: for creditors have no real affection for their debtors, but only a wish that they may be preserved in order that they may repay; but those who have conferred benefits have a real love and affection for those whom they have benefited, even though they are not, and are never likely to be, of any service.
The same phenomenon may be observed in craftsmen; for every craftsman loves the work of his own hands more than it would love him if it came to life. But perhaps poets carry it furthest; for they love their own poems to excess, and are as fond of them as if they were their children.
Now, the case of the benefactors seems to resemble theirs; those whom they have benefited they have made, so to speak: that which they have made, then, they love more than the work loves its maker. And the reason of this is that we all desire existence and love it: but it is in the exercise of our faculties, or in the realization of ourselves, that our existence lies (for it lies in living and doing): but* that which a man makes is, in a way, a realization of his self; therefore he loves it, because he loves existence.
But this is in accordance with the nature of things; for it is a law of nature that what a thing is as yet potentially is exhibited in realization by that which it makes or does.
Moreover, the manifestation of his action is beautiful to the benefactor, so that he delights in the person that makes it manifest; but to him who has received the benefit there is nothing beautiful in the benefactor, but at the most something useful; and such an object is less pleasing and less lovable.
Again, we take pleasure in realizing ourselves in the present, in hopes for the future, and in memories of the past; but that in which we are realizing ourselves is the most pleasant, and likewise the most lovable. Now, for the benefactor what he has done endures (for that which is beautiful is lasting), while for him who has received the benefit the advantage soon passes away.
Again, the memory of beautiful deeds is pleasant, of profitable actions not at all pleasant, or not so pleasant; but with expectation the reverse seems to be the case.
Again, loving seems like doing something, being loved like having something done to you: but those who have the better part in the transaction naturally feel and show more love.
Again, we all have more affection for what we have achieved with toil, as those who have made money love it more than those who have inherited it; but receiving a benefit seems to involve no labour, while conferring one seems to be troublesome. And for this reason mothers have more affection for their children than fathers; for they have more trouble in giving them birth, and fuller assurance that they are their own. But this would seem to be a characteristic of benefactors also.
8.
In what sense it is right to love one’s self.
Another question which is raised is, whether we ought most to love ourselves or others.
We blame, it is said, those who love themselves most, and apply the term self-loving to them as a term of reproach: and, again, he who is not good is thought to have regard to himself in everything that he does, and the more so the worse he is; and so we accuse him of doing nothing disinterestedly. The good man on the other hand, it is thought, takes what is noble as his motive, and the better he is the more is he guided by this motive, and by regard for his friend, neglecting his own interest.
But this theory disagrees with facts, nor is it surprising that it should. For it is allowed that we ought to love him most who is most truly a friend, and that he is most truly a friend who, in wishing well to another, wishes well to him for his (the other’s) sake, and even though no one should ever know. But all these characteristics, and all the others which go to make up the definition of a friend, are found in the highest degree in a man’s relations to himself; for we have already seen how it is from our relations to ourselves that all our friendly relations to others are derived. Moreover, all the proverbs point to the same conclusion—such as “Friends have one soul,” “Friends have all things in common,” “Equality makes friendship,” “The knee is nearer than the shin.” All these characteristics are found in the highest degree in a man’s relations to himself; for he is his own best friend: and so he must love himself better than any one else.
People not unnaturally are puzzled to know which of these two statements to adopt, since both appeal to them. Perhaps the best method of dealing with conflicting statements of this kind is first to make out the difference between them, and then to determine how far and in what sense each is right. So here, if we first ascertain what self-loving means in each statement, the difficulty will perhaps be cleared up.
Those who use self-loving as a term of reproach apply the name to those who take more than their due of money, and honour, and bodily pleasures; for the generality of men desire these things, and set their hearts upon them as the best things in the world, so that they are keenly competed for. Those, then, who grasp at more than their share of these things indulge their animal appetites and their passions generally—in a word, the irrational part of their nature. But this is the character of the generality of men; and hence the term self-loving has come to be used in this bad sense from the fact that the greater part of mankind are not good. It is with justice, then, that we reproach those who are self-loving in this sense.
That it really is to those who take more than their due of these things that the term is usually applied by the generality of men, may easily be shown; for if what a man always set his heart upon were that he, rather than another, should do what is just or temperate, or in any other way virtuous—if, in a word, he were always claiming the noble course of conduct, no one would call him self-loving and no one would reproach him.
And yet such a man would seem to be more truly self-loving. At least, he takes for himself that which is noblest and most truly good, and gratifies the ruling power in himself, and in all things obeys it. But just as the ruling part in a state or in any other system seems, more than any other part, to be the state or the system, so also the ruling part of a man seems to be most truly the man’s self. He therefore who loves and gratifies this part of himself is most truly self-loving.
Again, we call a man continent or incontinent,* according as his reason has or has not the mastery, implying that his reason is his self; and when a man has acted under the guidance of his reason he is thought, in the fullest sense, to have done the deed himself, and of his own will.
It is plain, then, that this part of us is our self, or is most truly our self, and that the good man more than any other loves this part of himself. He, then, more than any other, will be self-loving, in another sense than the man whom we reproach as self-loving, differing from him by all the difference that exists between living according to reason and living according to passion, between desiring what is noble and desiring what appears to be profitable.
Those who beyond other men set their hearts on noble deeds are welcomed and praised by all; but if all men were vieing with each other in the pursuit of what is noble, and were straining every nerve to act in the noblest possible manner, the result would be that both the wants of the community would be perfectly satisfied, and at the same time each individually would win the greatest of all good things—for virtue is that.
The good man, therefore, ought to be self-loving; for by doing what is noble he will at once benefit himself and assist others: but the bad man ought not; for he will injure both himself and his neighbours by following passions that are not good.
Thus, with the bad man there is a discrepancy between what he ought to do and what he does: but with the good man what he ought to do is what he does; for reason always chooses that which is best for itself; and the good man obeys the voice of reason.
Again, it is quite true to say of the good man that he does many things for the sake of his friends and of his country, and will, if need be, even die for them. He will throw away money and honour, and, in a word, all the good things for which men compete, claiming for himself that which is noble; for he will prefer a brief period of intense pleasure to a long period of mild pleasure, one year of noble life to many years of ordinary life, one great and noble action to many little ones. This, we may perhaps say, is what he gets who gives his life for others: and so he chooses for himself something that is noble on a grand scale.
Such a man will surrender wealth to enrich his friend: for while his friend gets the money, he gets what is noble; so he takes the greater good for himself.
His conduct will be the same with regard to honours and offices: he will give up all to his friend; for this he deems noble and praiseworthy.
Such a man, then, is not unreasonably considered good, as he chooses what is noble in preference to everything else.
But, again, it is possible to give up to your friend an opportunity for action, and it may be nobler to cause your friend to do a deed than to do it yourself.
It is plain, then, that in all cases in which he is praised the good man takes for himself a larger share of what is noble. And in this sense, as we have said, a man ought to be self-loving, but not in the sense in which the generality of men are self-loving.
9.
Why a happy man needs friends.
Another disputed question is whether a happy man needs friends or not.
It is said that those who are blessed and self-sufficient have no need of friends; for they are already supplied with good things: as self-sufficient, then they need nothing more, while a friend is an alter ego who procures for you what you cannot procure yourself; whence the saying—
“When the god favours you, what need of friends?”
But it seems strange, while endowing the happy man with all good things, to deny him friends, which are thought to be the greatest of all external goods.
And if it is more characteristic of a friend to confer than to receive benefits, and if it is characteristic of a good man and a virtuous character to do good to others, and if it is nobler to confer benefits on friends than on strangers, the good man will need friends to receive benefits from him.
And so people ask whether friends are more needed in prosperity or adversity, considering that in adversity we want some one to help us, and in prosperity some one that we may help.
Again, it is surely absurd to make the happy man a solitary being: for no one would choose to have all conceivable good things on condition of being alone; for man is a social being, and by nature adapted to share his life with others. The happy man, then, must have this good, since he has whatever is naturally good for man. But it is obvious that it is better to live with friends and good people, than with strangers and casual persons. The happy man, then, must have friends.
What, then, do those who maintain the former opinion mean? and in what sense are they right? Is it that the generality of men think that friends means useful people? Friends in this sense certainly the happy or blessed man will not need, as he already has whatever is good. And, again, he will have no need, or but little need, of the friendship that is based on pleasure; for his life is pleasant and does not require adventitious pleasure. Because he does not need these kind of friends then, people come to think he does not need friends at all.
But I think we may say that this opinion is not true. For we said at the outset that happiness is a certain exercise of our faculties; but the exercise of our faculties plainly comes to be in time, and is not like a piece of property acquired once for all. But if happiness consists in living and exercising our faculties; and if the exercise of the good man’s faculties is good and pleasant in itself, as we said at the outset; and if the sense that a thing belongs to us is also a source of pleasure, but it is easier to contemplate others than ourselves, and others’ acts than our own—then* the acts of the good men who are his friends are pleasant to the good man (for both the natural sources of pleasure are united in them).† The happy or blessed man, therefore, will need such friends, since he desires to contemplate acts that are good and belong to him, and such are the acts of a good man who is his friend.
Again, it is thought that the happy man’s life must be pleasant. Now, if he is solitary, life is hard for him; for it is very difficult to be continuously active by one’s self, but not so difficult along with others, and in relation to others. With friends, then, the exercise of his faculties will be more continuous, being pleasant in itself. And this is what ought to be the case with the blessed man; for the good man, as such, delights in acts of virtue and is vexed by acts of vice, just as a musician is pleased by good music and pained by bad.
Again, he would get a sort of practice in virtue by living with good men, as Theognis says.*
But if we look a little deeper into the nature of things, a good friend appears to be naturally desirable to the good man:—
What is naturally good, we have already said, is good and pleasant in itself to the good man.
Now, life is defined in the case of animals by the power of feeling, in the case of man by the power of feeling or thought: but the power involves reference to its exercise; and it is in this exercise that the reality lies: life, then, in its reality, seems to be feeling or thinking.
Life, again, is one of the things that are good and pleasant in themselves; for it is determinate or formed, and the determinate or formed is of the nature of the good; but that which is naturally [or in itself] good is good to the good man. (And hence life seems to be pleasant to all men. But by life we must not understand a bad or corrupt life, or a life of pain; for such a life is formless, as are all its constituents. We shall endeavour, presently, to throw some light on the nature of pain.)
Life itself, then, is good and pleasant (as appears also from the fact that all desire it, and especially the good and the blessed; for life is most desirable to them, and their life is the most blessed).
But he who sees feels that he sees, and he who hears feels that he hears, and he who walks feels that he walks; and similarly, whatever else we do, there is something that perceives that we are putting forth power, so that whether we feel or think, we must be conscious of feeling or thinking.
But to be conscious of feeling or thinking is to be conscious of existence; for our existence, we found, is feeling or thinking.
But consciousness of life is a thing that is pleasant in itself; for life is naturally good, and to be conscious of the presence of a good thing is pleasant.
Life, then, is desirable, and most of all desirable to the good man, because his existence is good to him, and pleasant; for he is pleased by the consciousness of that which is good in itself.
But the good man stands in the same relation to his friend as to himself, for his friend is another self: just as his own existence, then, is desirable to each, so, or nearly so, is his friend’s existence desirable.
But existence, we found, is desirable because of the consciousness that one’s self is good, such a consciousness being pleasant in itself.
The good man, then, should be conscious of the existence of his friend also, and this consciousness will be given by living with him and by rational converse with him (for this would seem to be the proper meaning of living together, when applied to man, and not merely feeding in the same place, which it means when applied to beasts).
Putting all this together, then, if his own existence is desirable in itself to the good man, being naturally good and pleasant, and if his friend’s existence is also desirable to him in nearly the same way, it follows that a friend is a desirable thing for him. But that which is desirable for him he ought to have, or in that respect he will be incomplete. Our conclusion, therefore, is that he who is to be happy must have good friends.
10.
Of the proper number of friends.
Are we to make as many friends as possible? or, as in the case of guest-friendship* we approve of the saying, “neither a host of guest-friends nor yet none,” shall we say that in the case of friendship also it is best neither to be friendless nor yet to have too many friends?
With regard to friends who are chosen with a view to being useful, the saying would seem to be perfectly appropriate; for it would be troublesome to repay the services of a large number, and indeed life is not long enough to enable us to do it. Of such friends, therefore, a larger number than is sufficient for one’s own life would be superfluous and a hindrance to noble living; so we do not want more than that number.
Again, of friends chosen with a view to pleasure a small number is enough, as a small proportion of sweets is enough in our diet.
But are we to have as many good men for friends as we can, or is there any limit of numbers in friendship, as there is in a state? for you could not make a state out of ten men, and if you had a hundred thousand your state would cease to be a state. But perhaps the right number of citizens is not one fixed number, but any number within certain limits. And so with friends there is a limit to their number, and that is, we may say, the largest number that one can live with (for living together is, as we saw, one of the most essential characteristics of friendship); but it is quite evident that it is impossible to live with and spread one’s self abroad among a large number.
Moreover, a man’s friends must be friends with one another, if all are to spend their time together; but this is difficult with a large number.
Again, it becomes hard for him to sympathize duly with the joys and sorrows of a large number; for then he is likely to have at the same time to rejoice with one and to grieve with another. Perhaps, then, the best plan is not to try to have as many friends as possible, but so many as are sufficient for a life in common; and indeed it would be impossible to have an ardent friendship with a great number.
And, for the same reason, it is impossible to be in love with many persons at once; for it seems that love is a sort of superlative friendship, and that this is only possible towards one person, and an ardent friendship towards a few only.
And this seems, in fact, to happen: we do not find a number of people bound together by the sort of friendship that exists between comrades, but the friendships that the poets celebrate are friendships of two persons. And the man of many friends, who is hail-fellow-well-met with everybody, seems to be really friends with no one (in any other way than as fellow-citizens are friends)—I mean the man whom we call obsequious.
After the manner of fellow-citizens, indeed, it is possible to be friends with a great number, and yet not to be obsequious, but to be a truly good man; but that kind of friendship which is based on virtue and on regard for the friend’s self one cannot have for many, but must be well satisfied if one can find even a few such persons.
11.
Friends needed both in prosperity and adversity.
Is it in prosperity or adversity that we most need friends? For under both circumstances we have recourse to them: in misfortune we need help, in prosperity we need people to live with and to do good to; for we wish to do good.
In adversity, it may be answered, the need is more pressing; we then require useful friends: but friendship is a nobler thing in prosperity; we then seek out good men for friends; for it is more desirable to do good to and to live with such people.
The mere presence of friends is sweet, even in misfortune; for our grief is lightened when our friends share it. And so it might be asked whether they literally take a share of it as of a weight, or whether it is not so, but rather that their presence, which is sweet, and the consciousness of their sympathy, make our grief less. But whether this or something else be the cause of the relief, we need not further inquire; the fact is evidently as we said.
But their presence seems to be complex in its effects. On the one hand, the mere sight of friends is pleasant, especially when we are in adversity, and contributes something to assuage our grief; for a friend can do much to comfort us both by sight and speech, if he has tact: he knows our character, and what pleases and what pains us. But, on the other hand, to see another grieving over our misfortunes is a painful thing; for every one dislikes to be the cause of sorrow to his friends. For this reason he who is of a manly nature takes care not to impart his grief to his friends, shrinking from the pain that would give them, unless this is quite outweighed by the relief it would give him;* and generally he does not allow others to lament with him, as he is not given to lamentations himself; but weak women and effeminate men delight in those who lament with them, and love them as friends and sympathizers. (But evidently we ought in all circumstances to take the better man for our model.)
In prosperity, again, the presence of friends not only makes the time pass pleasantly, but also brings the consciousness that our friends are pleased at our good fortune. And for this reason it would seem that we should be eager to invite our friends to share our prosperity, for it is noble to be ready to confer benefits,—but slow to summon them to us in adversity, for we ought to be loth to give others a share of our evil things: whence comes the saying, “That I am in sorrow is sorrow enough.” But we should be least unwilling to call them in when they will be likely to relieve us much without being greatly troubled themselves.
But, on the other hand, when our friends are in trouble, we should, I think, go to them unsummoned and readily (for it is a friend’s office to serve his friend, and especially when he is in need and does not claim assistance, for then it is nobler and pleasanter to both): when they are in prosperity, we should go readily to help them (for this is one of the uses of a friend), but not so readily to share their good things; for it is not a noble thing to be very ready to receive a benefit. But we may add that we ought to be careful that our refusal shall not seem ungracious, as sometimes happens.
The presence of friends, then, in conclusion, is manifestly desirable on all occasions.
12.
Friendship is realized in living together.
Lovers delight above all things in the sight of each other, and prefer the gratification of this sense to that of all the others, as this sense is more concerned than any other in the being and origin of love. In like manner, we may venture to say, do friends find living together more desirable than anything else; for friendship is essentially community, and a man stands to his friend in the same relation in which he stands to himself; but with regard to himself the consciousness of existence is desirable; therefore the same consciousness with regard to his friend is desirable; but it is in a common life that they attain this consciousness; therefore they naturally desire a life in common.
Again, whatever that be which a man holds to constitute existence, or for the sake of which he chooses to live, in that he wishes to pass his time together with his friends; and thus some drink together, others gamble, others practise gymnastics, or hunt, or study philosophy together—in each case spending their time together in that which they love most of all things in life; for, wishing to live in common with their friends, they do those things and take part together in those things which, as they think, constitute life in common.
Thus the friendship of those who are not good comes to be positively bad; for, having no stability of character, they confirm each other in things that are not good, and thus become positively bad as they become more like one another. But the friendship of good men is good, and grows with their intercourse; and they seem to become better as they exercise their faculties and correct each other’s deficiencies: for each moulds himself to the likeness of that which he approves in the other; whence the saying, “From good men thou shalt learn good things.”*
So much, then, for friendship. We will now pass to the consideration of pleasure.
BOOK X.
CHAPTERS 1–5.
PLEASURE.
1.
Reasons for discussing pleasure.
Our next business, I think, should be to treat of pleasure. For pleasure seems, more than anything else, to have an intimate connection with our nature; which is the reason why, in educating the young, we use pleasure and pain as the rudders of their course. Moreover, delight in what we ought to delight in, and hatred of what we ought to hate, seem to be of the utmost importance in the formation of a virtuous character; for these feelings pervade the whole of life, and have power to draw a man to virtue and happiness, as we choose what pleases, and shun what pains us.
And it would seem that the discussion of these matters is especially incumbent on us, since there is much dispute about them. There are people who say that the good is pleasure, and there are people who say, on the contrary, that pleasure is altogether bad—some, perhaps, in the conviction that it is really so, others because they think it has a good effect on men’s lives to assert that pleasure is a bad thing, even though it be not; for the generality of men, they say, incline this way, and are slaves to their pleasures, so that they ought to be pulled in the opposite direction: for thus they will be brought into the middle course.
But I cannot think that it is right to speak thus. For assertions about matters of feeling and conduct carry less weight than actions; and so, when assertions are found to be at variance with palpable facts, they fall into contempt, and bring the truth also into discredit. Thus, when a man who speaks ill of pleasure is seen at times to desire it himself, he is thought to show by the fact of being attracted by it that he really considers all pleasure desirable; for the generality of men are not able to draw fine distinctions. It seems, then, that true statements are the most useful, for practice as well as for theory; for, being in harmony with facts, they gain credence, and so incline those who understand them to regulate their lives by them. But enough of this: let us now go through the current opinions about pleasure.
2.
Arguments of Eudoxus that pleasure is the good.
Eudoxus thought pleasure was the good, because he saw that all beings, both rational and irrational, strive after it; but in all cases, he said, that which is desirable* is the good, and that which is most desirable is best: the fact, then, that all beings incline to one and the same thing indicates that this is the best thing for all (for each being finds out what is good for itself—its food, for instance); but that which is good for all, and which all strive after, is the good.
The statements of Eudoxus were accepted rather because of the excellence of his character than on their own account; for he seemed to be a remarkably temperate man; and so people thought that it was not from love of pleasure that he spoke thus, but that what he said really was the fact.
Eudoxus also thought that his point could be proved no less clearly by the argument from the opposite of pleasure:—pain is, in itself, an object of aversion to all beings; therefore its opposite is desirable for all.
Again, he argued, that is most desirable which we choose, not on account of something else, but for its own sake: but this is admitted to be the case with pleasure; for we never ask a man for his motive in taking pleasure, it being understood that pleasure is in itself desirable.
Again, he argued that any good thing whatsoever is made more desirable by the addition of pleasure, e.g. just or temperate conduct; but it can only be by the good that the good is increased.
Now, this last argument seems indeed to show that pleasure is a good thing, but not that it is one whit better than any other good thing; for any good thing is more desirable with the addition of another good thing than by itself.
Nay, Plato actually employs a similar argument to show that pleasure is not the good. “The pleasant life,” he says, “is more desirable with wisdom than without: but if the combination of the two be better, pleasure itself cannot be the good; for no addition can make the good more desirable.” And it is equally evident that, if any other thing be made more desirable by the addition of one of the class of things that are good in themselves, that thing cannot be the good. What good is there, then, which is thus incapable of addition, and at the same time such that men can participate in it? For that is the sort of good that we want.
But those who maintain, on the contrary, that what all desire is not good, surely talk nonsense. What all men think, that, we say, is true. And to him who bids us put no trust in the opinion of mankind, we reply that we can scarce put greater trust in his opinion. If it were merely irrational creatures that desired these things, there might be something in what he says; but as rational beings also desire them, how can it be anything but nonsense? Indeed, it may be that even in inferior beings there is some natural principle of good stronger than themselves, which strives after their proper good.
Again, what the adversaries of Eudoxus say about his argument from the nature of the opposite of pleasure, does not seem to be sound. They say that, though pain be bad, yet it does not follow that pleasure is good; for one bad thing may be opposed to another bad thing, and both to a third thing which is different from either.* Now, though this is not a bad remark, it does not hold true in the present instance. For if both were bad, both alike ought to be shunned, or if neither were bad, neither should be shunned, or, at least, one no more than the other: but, as it is, men evidently shun the one as bad and choose the other as good; they are, in fact, therefore, opposed to one another in this respect.
3.
Argument that it is not a quality; that it is not determined; that it is a motion or coming into being. Pleasures differ in kind.
Again, even though pleasure is not a quality, it does not follow that it is not a good thing. The exercise of virtue, happiness itself, is not a quality.
It is objected, again, that the good is determinate, while pleasure is indeterminate, because it admits of a more and a less.
Now, if they say this because one may be more or less pleased, then the same thing may be said of justice and the other virtues; for it is plain that, with regard to them, we speak of people as being and showing themselves more or less virtuous: some men are more just and more brave than others, and it is possible to act more or less justly and temperately.
But if they mean that one pleasure may be more or less of a pleasure than another, I suspect that they miss the real reason when they say it is because some are pure and some are mixed. Why should it not be the same with pleasure as with health, which, though something determinate, yet allows of more and less? For the due proportion of elements [which constitutes health] is not the same for all, nor always the same for the same person, but may vary within certain limits without losing its character, being now more and now less truly health. And it may be the same with pleasure.
Again, assuming that the good is complete, while motion and coming into being are incomplete, they try to show that pleasure is a motion and a coming into being.
But they do not seem to be right even in saying that it is a motion: for every motion seems necessarily to be quick or slow, either absolutely, as the motion of the universe, or relatively; but pleasure is neither quick nor slow. It is, indeed, possible to be quickly pleased, as to be quickly angered; the feeling, however, cannot be quick, even relatively, as can walking and growing, etc. The passage to a state of pleasure, then, may be quick or slow, but the exercise of the power, i.e. the feeling of pleasure, cannot be quick.
Again, how can pleasure be a coming into being?
It seems that it is not possible for anything to come out of just anything, but what a thing comes out of, that it is resolved into. Pain, then, must be the dissolution of that whose coming into being is pleasure. Accordingly, they maintain that pain is falling short of the normal state, pleasure its replenishment.
But these are bodily processes. If, then, pleasure be the replenishment of the normal state, that in which the replenishment takes place, i.e. the body, must be that which is pleased. But this does not seem to be the case. Pleasure, therefore, is not a replenishment, but while the process of replenishment is going on we may be pleased, and while the process of exhaustion is going on we may be pained.*
This view of pleasure seems to have been suggested by the pleasures and pains connected with nutrition; for there it is true that we come into a state of want, and, after previous pain, find pleasure in replenishment. But this is not the case with all pleasures; for there is no previous pain involved in the pleasures of the mathematician, nor among the sensuous pleasures in those of smell, nor, again, in many kinds of sights and sounds, nor in memories and hopes. What is there, then, of which these pleasures are the becoming? Here there is nothing lacking that can be replenished.
To those, again, who [in order to show that pleasure is not good] adduce the disgraceful kinds of pleasure we might reply that these things are not pleasant. Though they be pleasant to ill-conditioned persons, we must not therefore hold them to be pleasant except to them; just as we do not hold that to be wholesome, or sweet, or bitter, which is wholesome, sweet, or bitter to the sick man, or that to be white which appears white to a man with ophthalmia.
Or, again, we might reply that these pleasures are desirable, but not when derived from these sources, just as it is desirable to be rich, but not at the cost of treachery, and desirable to be in health, but not at the cost of eating any kind of abominable food.
Or we might say that the pleasures are specifically different. The pleasures derived from noble sources are different from those derived from base sources, and it is impossible to feel the just man’s pleasure without being just, or the musical man’s pleasure without being musical, and so on with the rest.
The distinction drawn between the true friend and the flatterer seems to show either that pleasure is not good, or else that pleasures differ in kind. For the former in his intercourse is thought to have the good in view, the latter pleasure; and while we blame the latter, we praise the former as having a different aim in his intercourse.
Again, no one would choose to live on condition of having a child’s intellect all his life, though he were to enjoy in the highest possible degree all the pleasures of a child; nor choose to gain enjoyment by the performance of some extremely disgraceful act, though he were never to feel pain.
There are many things, too, which we should care for, even though they brought no pleasure, as sight, memory, knowledge, moral and intellectual excellence. Even if we grant that pleasure necessarily accompanies them, this does not affect the question; for we should choose them even if no pleasure resulted from them.
It seems to be evident, then, that pleasure is not the good, nor are all pleasures desirable, but that some are desirable, differing in kind, or in their sources, from those that are not desirable. Let this be taken then as a sufficient account of the current opinions about pleasure and pain.
4.
Pleasure defined: its relation to activity.
As to the nature or quality of pleasure, we shall more readily discover it if we make a fresh start as follows:—
Vision seems to be perfect or complete at any moment; for it does not lack anything which can be added afterwards to make its nature complete. Pleasure seems in this respect to resemble vision; for it is something whole and entire, and it would be impossible at any moment to find a pleasure which would become complete by lasting longer.
Therefore pleasure is not a motion; for every motion requires time and implies an end (e.g. the motion of building), and is complete when the desired result is produced—either in the whole time therefore, or in this final moment of it. But during the progress of the work all the motions are incomplete, and specifically different from the whole motion and from each other; the fitting together of the stones is different from the fluting of the pillar, and both from the building of the temple. The building of the temple is complete; nothing more is required for the execution of the plan. But the building of the foundation and of the triglyph are incomplete; for each is the building of a part only. These motions, then, are specifically different from one another, and it is impossible to find a motion whose nature is complete at any moment—it is complete, if at all, only in the whole time.
It is the same also with walking and the other kinds of locomotion. For though all locomotion is a motion from one place to another, yet there are distinct kinds of locomotion, as flying, walking, leaping, etc. Nay, not only so, but even in walking itself there are differences, for the whence and whither are not the same in the entire course and in a portion of the course, or in this portion and in that, nor is crossing this line the same as crossing that; for you do not cross a line simply, but a line that is in a given place, and this line is in a different place from that. I must refer to my other works* for a detailed discussion of motion; but it seems that it is not complete at any moment, but that its several parts are incomplete, and that they are specifically different from one another, the whence and whither being a specific difference.
Pleasure, on the other hand, is complete in its nature at any moment. It is evident, therefore, that these two must be distinct from each other, and that pleasure must be one of the class of whole and complete things. And this would also seem to follow from the fact that though duration is necessary for motion, it is not necessary for pleasure—for a momentary pleasure is something whole and entire.
From these considerations it is plain that they are wrong in saying that pleasure is a motion or a coming into being. For these terms are not applied to every thing, but only to those things that are divisible into parts and are not wholes. We cannot speak of the coming into being of vision, or of a mathematical point, or of unity; nor is any one of them a motion or a coming into being. And these terms are equally inapplicable to pleasure; for it is something whole and entire.
Every sense exercises itself upon its proper object, and exercises itself completely when it is in good condition and the object is the noblest of those that fall within its scope (for the complete exercise of a faculty seems to mean this; and we may assume that it makes no difference whether we speak of the sense, or of the sensitive subject as exercising itself): of each sense, then, we may say that the exercise is best when on the one side you have the finest condition, and on the other the highest of the objects that fall within the scope of this faculty.
But this exercise of the faculty will be not only the most complete, but also the pleasantest: for the exercise of every sense is attended with pleasure, and so is the exercise of reason and the speculative faculty; and it is pleasantest when it is most complete, and it is most complete when the faculty is well-trained and the object is the best of those that fall under this faculty.
And, further, the pleasure completes the exercise of the faculty. But the pleasure completes it in a different way from that in which the object and the faculty of sense complete it, when both are as they should be; just as health causes healthy activities in a different way from that in which the physician causes them.
(That the exercise of every sense is accompanied by pleasure is evident: we speak of pleasant sights and pleasant sounds.
It is evident also that the pleasure is greatest when both the faculty and that upon which it is exercised are as good as they can be: when this is the case both with the object of sense and the sentient subject, there will always be pleasure, so long, that is, as you have the subject to act and the object to be acted upon.)
Now, the pleasure makes the exercise complete not as the habit or trained faculty* does, being already present in the subject, but as a sort of superadded completeness, like the grace of youth.*
So long, then, as both the object of thought or of sense and the perceptive or contemplative subject are as they ought to be, so long will there be pleasure in the exercise; for so long as the object to be acted upon and the subject that is able to act remain the same, and maintain the same relation to each other, the result must be the same.
How is it, then, that we are incapable of continuous pleasure? Perhaps the reason is that we become exhausted; for no human faculty is capable of continuous exercise. Pleasure, then, also cannot be continuous; for it is an accompaniment of the exercise of faculty. And for the same reason some things please us when new, but afterwards please us less. For at first the intellect is stimulated and exercises itself upon them strenuously, just as we strain our eyes to look hard at something; but after a time the exertion ceases to be so intense, and becomes relaxed; and so the pleasure also loses its keenness.
The desire for pleasure we should expect to be shared by all men, seeing that all desire to live.
For life is an exercise of faculties, and each man exercises the faculties he most loves upon the things he most loves; e.g. the musical man exercises his hearing upon melodies, and the studious man exercises his intellect upon matters of speculation, and so on with the rest.
But pleasure completes the exercise of faculties, and therefore life, which men desire.
Naturally, therefore, men desire pleasure too; for each man finds in it the completion of his life, which is desirable.
But whether we desire life for the sake of pleasure, or pleasure for the sake of life, is a question which we may dismiss for the present. For the two seem to be joined together, and not to admit of separation: without exercise of faculties there is no pleasure, and every such exercise is completed by pleasure.
5.
Pleasures differ according to the activities The standard is the good man.
And from this it seems to follow that pleasures differ in kind, since specifically different things we believe to be completed by specifically different things. For this seems to be the case with the products both of nature and of art, as animals and trees, paintings, sculptures, houses, and furniture. Similarly, then, we believe that exercises of faculty which differ in kind are completed by things different in kind.
But the exercises of the intellectual faculties are specifically different from the exercises of the senses, and the several kinds of each from one another; therefore the pleasures which complete them are also different.
The same conclusion would seem to follow from the close connection that exists between each pleasure and the exercise of faculty which it completes. For the exercise is increased by its proper pleasure; e.g. people are more likely to understand any matter, and to go to the bottom of it, if the exercise is pleasant to them. Thus, those who delight in geometry become geometricians, and understand all the propositions better than others; and similarly, those who are fond of music, or of architecture, or of anything else, make progress in that kind of work, because they delight in it. The pleasures, then, help to increase the exercise; but that which helps to increase it must be closely connected with it: but when things are specifically different from one another, the things that are closely connected with them must also be specifically different.
The same conclusion follows perhaps still more clearly from the fact that the exercise of one faculty is impeded by the pleasure proper to another; e.g. a lover of the flute is unable to attend to an argument if he hears a man playing, since he takes more delight in flute-playing than in his present business; the pleasure of the flute-player, therefore, hinders the exercise of the reason.
The same result follows in other cases, too, whenever a man is exercising his faculties on two things at a time; the pleasanter business thwarts the other, and, if the difference in pleasantness be great, thwarts it more and more, even to the extent of suppressing it altogether. Thus, when anything gives us intense delight, we cannot do anything else at all, and when we do a second thing, we do not very much care about the first; and so people who eat sweetmeats in the theatre do this most of all when the actors are bad.
Since its proper pleasure heightens the exercise of a faculty, making it both more prolonged and better, while pleasure from another source spoils it, it is evident that there is a great difference between these two pleasures. Indeed, pleasure from another source has almost the same effect as pain from the activity itself. For the exercise of a faculty is spoilt by pain arising from it; as happens, for instance, when a man finds it disagreeable and painful to write or to calculate; for he stops writing in the one case and calculating in the other, since the exercise is painful. The exercise of a faculty, then, is affected in opposite ways by its proper pleasure and its proper pain; and by “proper” I mean that which is occasioned by the exercise itself. But pleasure from another source, we have already said, has almost the same effect as its proper pain; i.e. it interferes with the exercise of the faculty, though not to the same extent.
Again, as the exercises of our faculties differ in goodness and badness, and some are to be desired and some to be shunned, while some are indifferent, so do the several pleasures differ; for each exercise has its proper pleasure. The pleasure which is proper to a good activity, then, is good, and that which is proper to one that is not good is bad: for the desire of noble things is laudable, and the desire of base things is blamable; but the pleasures which accompany the exercises of our faculties belong to them even more than the desires do, since the latter are distinct both in time and in nature, while the former are almost coincident in time, and so hard to distinguish from them that it is a matter of debate whether the exercise be not identical with the pleasure.
It seems, however, that the pleasure is not the same as the act of thinking or of feeling; that is impossible: but the fact that the two are inseparable makes some people fancy that they are identical.
As, then, the exercises of the faculties vary, so do their respective pleasures. Sight is purer than touch, hearing and smell than taste* : there is a corresponding difference, therefore, between their pleasures; and the pleasures of the intellect are purer than these pleasures of sense, and some of each kind are purer than others.
Each kind of being, again, seems to have its proper pleasure, as it has its proper function,—viz. the pleasure which accompanies the exercise of its faculties or the realization of its nature. And a separate consideration of the several kinds of animals will confirm this: the pleasures of a horse, a dog, and a man are all different—as Heraclitus says, a donkey would prefer hay to gold; for there is more pleasure in fodder than in gold to a donkey.
The pleasures of specifically different beings, then, are specifically different; and we might naturally suppose that there would be no specific difference between the pleasures of beings of the same species. And yet there is no small difference, in the pleasures of men at least: what pleases this man pains that; what is grievous and hateful to one is pleasant and lovable to another. This occurs in the case of sweet things, too: a man in a fever has a different notion of what is sweet from a man in health; and a feeble man’s notion of what is hot is different from that of a robust man. And the like occurs in other matters also.
But in all matters of this kind we hold that things are what they appear to be to the perfect man.
Now, if this opinion is correct, as we hold it to be—if, that is, in every case the test is virtue, or the good man as such—then what appears to him to be pleasure will be pleasure, and what he delights in will be pleasant.
If what is disagreeable to him appears pleasant to another, we need not be astonished; for there are many ways in which men are corrupted and perverted: such things, however, are not pleasant, but only pleasant to these men with their disposition. It is plain, then, that we must not allow the confessedly base pleasures to be pleasures at all, except to corrupt men.
But of the pleasures that are considered good, which or what kind are to be called the proper pleasures of man? We cannot be in doubt if we know what are the proper exercises of his faculties; for the proper pleasures are their accompaniments. Whether, then, the exercise of faculties proper to the complete and happy man be one or many, the pleasures that complete that exercise will be called pleasures of man in the full meaning of the words, and the others in a secondary sense and with a fraction of that meaning, just as is the case with the exercises of the faculties.
CHAPTERS 6–9.
CONCLUSION.
6.
Happiness not amusement, but life.
Now that we have discussed the several kinds of virtue and friendship and pleasure, it remains to give a summary account of happiness, since we assume that it is the end of all that man does. And it will shorten our statement if we first recapitulate what we have said above.
We said that happiness is not a habit or trained faculty. If it were, it would be within the reach of a man who slept all his days and lived the life of a vegetable, or of a man who met with the greatest misfortunes. As we cannot accept this conclusion, we must place happiness in some exercise of faculty, as we said before. But as the exercises of faculty are sometimes necessary (i.e. desirable for the sake of something else), sometimes desirable in themselves, it is evident that happiness must be placed among those that are desirable in themselves, and not among those that are desirable for the sake of something else: for happiness lacks nothing; it is sufficient in itself.
Now, the exercise of faculty is desirable in itself when nothing is expected from it beyond itself.
Of this nature are held to be (1) the manifestations of excellence; for to do what is noble and excellent must be counted desirable for itself: and (2) those amusements which please us; for they are not chosen for the sake of anything else,—indeed, men are more apt to be injured than to be benefited by them, through neglect of their health and fortunes
Now, most of those whom men call happy have recourse to pastimes of this sort. And on this account those who show a ready wit in such pastimes find favour with tyrants; for they make themselves pleasant in that which the tyrant wants, and what he wants is pastime. These amusements, then, are generally thought to be elements of happiness, because princes employ their leisure in them. But such persons, we may venture to say, are no criterion. For princely rank does not imply the possession of virtue or of reason, which are the sources of all excellent exercise of faculty. And if these men, never having tasted pure and refined pleasure, have recourse to the pleasures of the body, we should not on that account think these more desirable; for children also fancy that the things which they value are better than anything else. It is only natural, then, that as children differ from men in their estimate of what is valuable, so bad men should differ from good.
As we have often said, therefore, that is truly valuable and pleasant which is so to the perfect man. Now, the exercise of those trained faculties which are proper to him is what each man finds most desirable; what the perfect man finds most desirable, therefore, is the exercise of virtue.
Happiness, therefore, does not consist in amusement; and indeed it is absurd to suppose that the end is amusement, and that we toil and moil all our life long for the sake of amusing ourselves. We may say that we choose everything for the sake of something else, excepting only happiness; for it is the end. But to be serious and to labour for the sake of amusement seems silly and utterly childish; while to amuse ourselves in order that we may be serious, as Anacharsis says, seems to be right; for amusement is a sort of recreation, and we need recreation because we are unable to work continuously.
Recreation, then, cannot be the end; for it is taken as a means to the exercise of our faculties.
Again, the happy life is thought to be that which exhibits virtue; and such a life must be serious and cannot consist in amusement.
Again, it is held that things of serious importance* are better than laughable and amusing things, and that the better the organ or the man, the more important is the function; but we have already said that the function or exercise of that which is better is higher and more conducive to happiness.
Again, the enjoyment of bodily pleasures is within the reach of anybody, of a slave no less than the best of men; but no one supposes that a slave can participate in happiness, seeing that he cannot participate in the proper life of man. For indeed happiness does not consist in pastimes of this sort, but in the exercise of virtue, as we have already said.
7.
Of the speculative life as happiness in the highest sense.
But if happiness be the exercise of virtue, it is reasonable to suppose that it will be the exercise of the highest virtue; and that will be the virtue or excellence of the best part of us.
Now, that part or faculty—call it reason or what you will—which seems naturally to rule and take the lead, and to apprehend things noble and divine—whether it be itself divine, or only the divinest part of us—is the faculty the exercise of which, in its proper excellence, will be perfect happiness.
That this consists in speculation or contemplation we have already said.
This conclusion would seem to agree both with what we have said above, and with known truths.
This exercise of faculty must be the highest possible; for the reason is the highest of our faculties, and of all knowable things those that reason deals with are the highest.
Again, it is the most continuous; for speculation can be carried on more continuously than any kind of action whatsoever.
We think too that pleasure ought to be one of the ingredients of happiness; but of all virtuous exercises it is allowed that the pleasantest is the exercise of wisdom.* At least philosophy† is thought to have pleasures that are admirable in purity and steadfastness; and it is reasonable to suppose that the time passes more pleasantly with those who possess, than with those who are seeking knowledge.
Again, what is called self-sufficiency will be most of all found in the speculative life. The necessaries of life, indeed, are needed by the wise man as well as by the just man and the rest; but, when these have been provided in due quantity, the just man further needs persons towards whom, and along with whom, he may act justly; and so does the temperate and the courageous man and the rest; while the wise man is able to speculate even by himself, and the wiser he is the more is he able to do this. He could speculate better, we may confess, if he had others to help him, but nevertheless he is more self-sufficient than anybody else.
Again, it would seem that this life alone is desired solely for its own sake; for it yields no result beyond the contemplation, but from the practical activities we get something more or less besides action.
Again, happiness is thought to imply leisure; for we toil in order that we may have leisure, as we make war in order that we may enjoy peace. Now, the practical virtues are exercised either in politics or in war; but these do not seem to be leisurely occupations:—
War, indeed, seems to be quite the reverse of leisurely; for no one chooses to fight for fighting’s sake, or arranges a war for that purpose: he would be deemed a bloodthirsty villain who should set friends at enmity in order that battles and slaughter might ensue.
But the politician’s life also is not a leisurely occupation, and, beside the practice of politics itself, it brings power and honours, or at least happiness, to himself and his fellow-citizens, which is something different from politics; for we [who are asking what happiness is] also ask what politics is, evidently implying that it is something different from happiness.
If, then, the life of the statesman and the soldier, though they surpass all other virtuous exercises in nobility and grandeur, are not leisurely occupations, and aim at some ulterior end, and are not desired merely for themselves, but the exercise of the reason seems to be superior in seriousness (since it contemplates truth), and to aim at no end beside itself, and to have its proper pleasure (which also helps to increase the exercise), and further to be self-sufficient, and leisurely, and inexhaustible (as far as anything human can be), and to have all the other characteristics that are ascribed to happiness, it follows that the exercise of reason will be the complete happiness of man, i.e. when a complete term of days is added; for nothing incomplete can be admitted into our idea of happiness.
But a life which realized this idea would be something more than human; for it would not be the expression of man’s nature, but of some divine element in that nature—the exercise of which is as far superior to the exercise of the other kind of virtue [i.e. practical or moral virtue], as this divine element is superior to our compound human nature.*
If then reason be divine as compared with man, the life which consists in the exercise of reason will also be divine in comparison with human life. Nevertheless, instead of listening to those who advise us as men and mortals not to lift our thoughts above what is human and mortal, we ought rather, as far as possible, to put off our mortality and make every effort to live in the exercise of the highest of our faculties; for though it be but a small part of us, yet in power and value it far surpasses all the rest.
And indeed this part would even seem to constitute our true self, since it is the sovereign and the better part. It would be strange, then, if a man were to prefer the life of something else to the life of his true self.
Again, we may apply here what we said above—for every being that is best and pleasantest which is naturally proper to it. Since, then, it is the reason that in the truest sense is the man, the life that consists in the exercise of the reason is the best and pleasantest for man—and therefore the happiest.
8.
Of the practical life as happiness in a lower sense, and of the relation between the two. Prosperity, how far needed.
The life that consists in the exercise of the other kind of virtue is happy in a secondary sense; for the manifestations of moral virtue are emphatically human [not divine]. Justice, I mean, and courage, and the other moral virtues are displayed in our relations towards one another by the observance, in every case, of what is due in contracts and services, and all sorts of outward acts, as well as in our inward feelings. And all these seem to be emphatically human affairs.
Again, moral virtue seems, in some points, to be actually a result of physical constitution, and in many points to be closely connected with the passions.
Again, prudence is inseparably joined to moral virtue, and moral virtue to prudence, since the moral virtues determine the principles of prudence,* while prudence determines what is right in morals.
But the moral virtues, being bound up with the passions, must belong to our compound nature; and the virtues of the compound nature are emphatically human. Therefore the life which manifests them, and the happiness which consists in this, must be emphatically human.
But the happiness which consists in the exercise of the reason is separate from the lower nature. (So much we may be allowed to assert about it: a detailed discussion is beyond our present purpose.)
Further, this happiness would seem to need but a small supply of external goods, certainly less than the moral life needs. Both need the necessaries of life to the same extent, let us say; for though, in fact, the politician takes more care of his person than the philosopher, yet the difference will be quite inconsiderable. But in what they need for their activities there will be a great difference. Wealth will be needed by the liberal man, that he may act liberally; by the just man, that he may discharge his obligations (for a mere wish cannot be tested,—even unjust people pretend a wish to act justly); the courageous man will need strength if he is to execute any deed of courage; and the temperate man liberty of indulgence,—for how else can he, or the possessor of any other virtue, show what he is?
Again, people dispute whether the purpose or the action be more essential to virtue, virtue being understood to imply both. It is plain, then, that both are necessary to completeness. But many things are needed for action, and the greater and nobler the action, the more is needed.
On the other hand, he who is engaged in speculation needs none of these things for his work; nay, it may even be said that they are a hindrance to speculation: but as a man living with other men, he chooses to act virtuously; and so he will need things of this sort to enable him to behave like a man.
That perfect happiness is some kind of speculative activity may also be shown in the following way:—
It is always supposed that the gods are, of all beings, the most blessed and happy; but what kind of actions shall we ascribe to them? Acts of justice? Surely it is ridiculous to conceive the gods engaged in trade and restoring deposits, and so on. Or the acts of the courageous character who endures fearful things and who faces danger because it is noble to do so?* Or acts of liberality? But to whom are they to give? and is it not absurd to suppose that they have money or anything of that kind? And what could acts of temperance mean with them? Surely it would be an insult to praise them for having no evil desires. In short, if we were to go through the whole list, we should find that all action is petty and unworthy of the gods.
And yet it is universally supposed that they live, and therefore that they exert their powers; for we cannot suppose that they lie asleep like Endymion.
Now, if a being lives, and action cannot be ascribed to him, still less production, what remains but contemplation? It follows, then, that the divine life, which surpasses all others in blessedness, consists in contemplation.
Of all modes of human activity, therefore, that which is most akin to this will be capable of the greatest happiness.
And this is further confirmed by the fact that the other animals do not participate in happiness, being quite incapable of this kind of activity. For the life of the gods is entirely blessed, and the life of man is blessed just so far as he attains to some likeness of this kind of activity; but none of the other animals are happy, since they are quite incapable of contemplation.
Happiness, then, extends just so far as contemplation, and the more contemplation the more happiness is there in a life,—not accidentally, but as a necessary accompaniment of the contemplation; for contemplation is precious in itself.
Our conclusion, then, is that happiness is a kind of speculation or contemplation.
But as we are men we shall need external good fortune also: for our nature does not itself provide all that is necessary for contemplation; the body must be in health, and supplied with food, and otherwise cared for. We must not, however, suppose that because it is impossible to be happy without external good things, therefore a man who is to be happy will want many things or much. It is not the superabundance of good things that makes a man independent, or enables him to act; and a man may do noble deeds, though he be not ruler of land and sea. A moderate equipment may give you opportunity for virtuous action (as we may easily see, for private persons seem to do what is right not less, but rather more, than princes), and so much as gives this opportunity is enough; for that man’s life will be happy who has virtue and exercises it.
Solon too, I think, gave a good description of the happy man when he said that, in his opinion, he was a man who was moderately supplied with the gifts of fortune, but had done the noblest deeds, and lived temperately; for a man who has but modest means may do his duty.
Anaxagoras also seems to have held that the happy man was neither a rich man nor a prince; for he said that he should not be surprised if the happy man were one whom the masses could hardly believe to be so; for they judge by the outside, which is all they can appreciate.
The opinions of the wise, then, seem to agree with our theory. But though these opinions carry some weight, the test of truth in matters of practice is to be found in the facts of life; for it is in them that the supreme authority resides. The theories we have advanced, therefore, should be tested by comparison with the facts of life; and if they agree with the facts they should be accepted, but if they disagree they should be accounted mere theories.
But, once more, the man who exercises his reason and cultivates it, and has it in the best condition, seems also to be the most beloved of heaven. For if the gods take any care for men, as they are thought to do, it is reasonable to suppose that they delight in that which is best in man and most akin to themselves (i.e. the reason), and that they requite those who show the greatest love and reverence for it, as caring for that which is dear to themselves and doing rightly and nobly But it is plain that all these points are found most of all in the wise man. The wise man, therefore, is the most beloved of heaven; and therefore, we may conclude, the happiest.
In this way also, therefore, the wise man will be happier than any one else.
9.
How is the end to be realized?
Now that we have treated (sufficiently, though summarily) of these matters, and of the virtues, and also of friendship and pleasure, are we to suppose that we have attained the end we proposed? Nay, surely the saying holds good, that in practical matters the end is not a mere speculative knowledge of what is to be done, but rather the doing of it. It is not enough to know about virtue, then, but we must endeavour to possess it and to use it, or to take any other steps that may make us good.
Now, if theories had power of themselves to make us good, “many great rewards would they deserve” as Theognis says, and such ought we to give; but in fact it seems that though they are potent to guide and to stimulate liberal-minded young men, and though a generous disposition, with a sincere love of what is noble, may by them be opened to the influence of virtue, yet they are powerless to turn the mass of men to goodness. For the generality of men are naturally apt to be swayed by fear rather than by reverence, and to refrain from evil rather because of the punishment that it brings than because of its own foulness. For under the guidance of their passions they pursue the pleasures that suit their nature and the means by which those pleasures may be obtained, and avoid the opposite pains, while of that which is noble and truly pleasant they have not even a conception, as they have never tasted it.
What theories or arguments, then, can bring such men as these to order? Surely it is impossible, or at least very difficult, to remove by any argument what has long been ingrained in the character. For my part, I think we must be well content if we can get some modicum of virtue when all the circumstances are present that seem to make men good.
Now, what makes men good is held by some to be nature, by others habit [or training], by others instruction.
As for the goodness that comes by nature, it is plain that it is not within our control, but is bestowed by some divine agency on certain people who truly deserve to be called fortunate.
As for theory or instruction, I fear that it cannot avail in all cases, but that the hearer’s soul must be prepared by training it to feel delight and aversion on the right occasions, just as the soil must be prepared if the seed is to thrive. For if he lives under the sway of his passions, he will not listen to the arguments by which you would dissuade him, nor even understand them. And when he is in this state, how can you change his mind by argument? To put it roundly, passion seems to yield to force only, and not to reason. The character, then, must be already* formed, so as to be in some way akin to virtue, loving what is noble and hating what is base.
But to get right guidance from youth up in the road to virtue is hard, unless we are brought up under suitable laws; for to live temperately and regularly is not pleasant to the generality of men, especially to the young. Our nurture, then, should be prescribed by law, and our whole way of life; for it will cease to be painful as we get accustomed to it. And I venture to think that it is not enough to get proper nurture and training when we are young, but that as we ought to carry on the same way of life after we are grown up, and to confirm these habits, we need the intervention of the law in these matters also, and indeed, to put it roundly, in our whole life. For the generality of men are more readily swayed by compulsion than by reason, and by fear of punishment than by desire for what is noble.
For this reason, some hold that the legislator should, in the first instance, invite the people and exhort them to be virtuous because of the nobility of virtue, as those who have been well trained will listen to him; but that when they will not listen, or are of less noble nature, he should apply correction and punishment, and banish utterly those who are incorrigible. For the good man, who takes what is noble as his guide, will listen to reason, but he who is not good, whose desires are set on pleasure, must be corrected by pain like a beast of burden. And for this reason, also, they say the pains to be applied must be those that are most contrary to the pleasures which the culprit loves.
As we have said, then, he who is to be good must be well nurtured and trained, and thereafter must continue in a like excellent way of life, and must never, either voluntarily or involuntarily, do anything vile; and this can only be effected if men live subject to some kind of reason and proper regimen, backed by force.
Now, the paternal rule has not the requisite force or power of compulsion, nor has the rule of any individual, unless he be a king or something like one; but the law has a compulsory power, and at the same time is a rational ordinance proceeding from a kind of prudence or reason.* And whereas we take offence at individuals who oppose our inclinations, even though their opposition is right, we do not feel aggrieved when the law bids us do what is right.
But Sparta is the only, or almost the only, state where the legislator seems to have paid attention to the nurture and mode of life of the citizens. In most states these matters are entirely neglected, and each man lives as he likes, ruling wife and children in Cyclopean fashion.†
It would be best, then, that the regulation of these matters should be undertaken and properly carried out by the state; but as the state neglects it, it would seem that we should each individually help our own children or friends on the road to virtue, and should have the power or at least the will to do this.‡
Now, it would seem from what has been said that to enable one to do this the best plan would be to learn how to legislate. For state training is carried on by means of laws, and is good when the laws are good; but it would seem to make no difference whether the laws be written or unwritten, nor whether they regulate the education of one person or many, any more than it does in the case of music, or gymnastics, or any other course of training. For as in the state that prevails which is ordained by law and morality, so in the household that which is ordained by the word of the father of the family and by custom prevails no less, or even more, because of the ties of kinship and of obligation; for affection and obedience are already implanted by nature in the members of the family.
Moreover, in spite of what has just been said, individual treatment is better than treatment by masses, in education no less than in medicine. As a general rule, repose and fasting are good for a fever patient, but in a particular case they may not be good. A teacher of boxing, I suppose, does not recommend every one to adopt the same style. It would seem, then, that individuals are educated more perfectly under a system of private education; for then each gets more precisely what he needs.
But you will best be able to treat an individual case (whether you are a doctor, or a trainer, or anything else) when you know the general rule, “Such and such a thing is good for all men,” or “for all of a certain temperament;” for science is said to deal, and does deal, with that which is common to a number of individuals.
I do not mean to deny that it may be quite possible to treat an individual well, even without any scientific knowledge, if you know precisely by experience the effect of particular causes upon him, just as some men seem to be able to treat themselves better than any doctor, though they would be quite unable to prescribe for another person.
But, nevertheless, I venture to say that if a man wishes to master any art, or to gain a scientific knowledge of it, he must advance to its general principles, and make himself acquainted with them in the proper method; for, as we have said, it is with universal propositions that the sciences deal.
And so I think that he who wishes to make men better by training (whether many or few) should try to acquire the art or science of legislation, supposing that men may be made good by the agency of law. For fairly to mould the character of any person that may present himself is not a thing that can be done by anybody, but (if at all) only by him who has knowledge, just as is the case in medicine and other professions where careful treatment and prudence are required.
Our next business, then, I think, is to inquire from whom or by what means we are to learn the science or art of legislation.
“As we learn the other arts,” it will be said,—“i.e. from the politicians who practise it: for we found that legislation is a part of politics.”
But I think the case is not quite the same with politics as with the other sciences and arts. For in other cases it is plain that the same people communicate the art and practise it, as physicians and painters do. But in the case of politics, while the sophists profess to teach the art, it is never they that practise it, but the statesmen. And the statesmen would seem to act by some instinctive faculty, proceeding empirically rather than by reasoning. For it is plain that they never write or speak about these matters (though perhaps that were better than making speeches in the courts or the assembly), and have never communicated the art to their sons or to any of their friends. And yet we might expect that they would have done so if they could; for they could have left no better legacy to their country, nor have chosen anything more precious than this power as a possession for themselves, and, therefore, for those dearest to them.
Experience, however, seems, we must allow, to be of great service here; for otherwise people would never become statesmen by familiarity with politics. Those who wish for a knowledge of statesmanship, then, seem to need experience [as well as theory].
But those sophists who profess to teach statesmanship seem to be ludicrously incapable of fulfilling their promises: for, to speak roundly, they do not even know what it is or what it deals with. If they did know, they would not make it identical with rhetoric, or inferior to it, nor would they think it was easy to frame a system of laws when you had made a collection of the most approved of existing laws. “It is but a matter of picking out the best,” they say, ignoring the fact that this selection requires understanding, and that to judge correctly is a matter of the greatest difficulty here, as in music. Those who have special experience in any department can pass a correct judgment upon the result, and understand how and by what means it is produced, and what combinations are harmonious; but those who have no special experience must be content if they are able to say whether the result is good or bad—as, for instance, in the case of painting. Now, laws are the work or result, so to speak, of statesmanship. How then could a collection of laws make a man able to legislate, or to pick out the best of the collection?
Even the art of healing, it seems, can not be taught by compendia. And yet the medical compendia try to tell you not only the remedies, but how to apply them, and how to treat the several classes of patients, distinguishing them according to their temperament. But all this, though it may be serviceable to those who have experience, would seem to be quite useless to those who know nothing of medicine.
So also, I think we may say, collections of laws and constitutions may be very serviceable to those who are able to examine them with a discriminating eye, and to judge whether an ordinance is good or bad, and what ordinances agree with one another; but if people who have not the trained faculty go through such compendia, they cannot judge properly (unless indeed a correct judgment comes of itself), though they may perhaps sharpen their intelligence in these matters.
Since then our predecessors have left this matter of legislation uninvestigated, it will perhaps be better ourselves to inquire into it, and indeed into the whole question of the management of a state, in order that our philosophy of human life may be completed to the best of our power.
Let us try, then, first of all, to consider any valuable utterances that our predecessors have made upon this or that branch of the subject; and then, looking at our collection of constitutions, let us inquire what things tend to preserve or to destroy states, and what things tend to preserve or destroy the several kinds of constitution, and what are the causes of the good government of some states and the misgovernment of others: for when we have got an insight into these matters we shall, I think, be better able to see what is the best kind of constitution, and what is the best arrangement of each of the several kinds; that is to say, what system of laws and customs is best suited to each.
Let us begin then.* —
printed by william clowes and sons, limited, london and beccles.
[* ]In the few passages where this text is not followed, the reading adopted is indicated in a note.
[* ]Reading τὸν αὺτὸν δὲ.
[† ]To Aristotle Politics is a much wider term than to us; it covers the whole field of human life, since man is essentially social (7, 6); it has to determine (1) what is the good?—the question of this treatise (§ 9)—and (2) what can law do to promote this good?—the question of the sequel, which is specially called “The Politics:” cf. X. 9.
[* ]i.e. covers a part of the ground only: see preceding note.
[* ]The expression τὰ ὡς ἐπὶ τὸ πολύ covers both (1) what is generally though not universally true, and (2) what is probable though not certain.
[* ]“Works and Days,” 291–295.
[* ]Cf. VI. 7, 12, and X. 7, 8.
[* ]Plato’s nephew and successor.
[* ]For there is no meaning in a form which is a form of nothing, in a universal which has no particulars under it.
[* ]2, 1. See Stewart.
[* ]πρακτική τις τον̂ λόγον ἔχοντος. Aristotle frequently uses the terms πρα̂ξις, πρακτός, πρακτικός in this wide sense, covering all that man does, i.e. all that part of man’s life that is within the control of his will, or that is consciously directed to an end, including therefore speculation as well as action.
[† ]For it might mean either the mere possession of the vital faculties, or their exercise.
[‡ ]This paragraph seems to be a repetition (I would rather say a re-writing) of the previous paragraph. See note on VII. 3, 2.
[* ]This “best and most complete excellence or virtue” is the trained faculty for philosophic speculation, and the contemplative life is man’s highest happiness. Cf. X. 7, 1.
[† ]Cf. 9, 11.
[* ]Cf. supra. 7. 21.
[* ]The “highest exercise of our faculties” is, of course, philosophic contemplation, as above, I. 7, 15; cf. X. 7, 1.
[† ]We may forget scientific truths that we have known more easily than we lose the habit of scientific thinking or of virtuous action; cf. X. 7, 2; VI. 5, 8.
[* ]ἔθος, custom; ἠ̂θος, character; ἠθικὴ ὰρετή, moral excellence: we have no similar sequence, but the Latin mos, mores, from which “morality” comes, covers both ἔθος and ἠ̂θος.
[† ]It is with the moral virtues that this and the three following books are exclusively concerned, the discussion of the intellectual virtues being postponed to Book VI. ἀρεταί is often used in these books, without any epithet, for “moral virtues,” and perhaps is so used here.
[* ]In Book VI.
[* ]These two, the “boor” (ἀγροɩ̂κος) and he who lacks sensibility (ἀναίσθητος), are afterwards distinguished: cf. II. 7, 3 and 13.
[* ]Reading ἔτι. See Stewart.
[* ]Actions and the accompanying feelings of pleasure and pain have so grown together, that it is impossible to separate the former and judge them apart: cf. X. 4, 11.
[* ]A line (or a generous emotion) is a “continuous quantity;” you can part it where you please: a rouleau of sovereigns is a “discrete quantity,” made up of definite parts, and primarily separable into them.
[* ]μεσότης, the abstract name for the quality, is quite untranslatable.
[* ]Or “cover more ground, but convey less truth than particular propositions,” if we read κοινότεροι with most manuscripts.
[† ]In a twofold sense: my conduct cannot be virtuous except by exhibiting the particular virtues of justice, temperance, etc.; again, my conduct cannot be just except by being just in particular cases to particular persons.
[‡ ]The Greek seems to imply that this is a generally accepted list, but Aristotle repeatedly has to coin names: cf. infra, § 11.
[* ]i.e. which do not issue in act like those hitherto mentioned.
[* ]Hom., Od., xii. 101–110, and 219–220: Calypso should be Circe.
[* ]Hom., II., iii. 154–160
[* ]It must be remembered that “virtue” is synonymous with “praiseworthy habit;” I. 13, 20; II. 9, 9.
[* ]ἁπλω̂ς, “without qualification:” no one chooses loss of property simply, but loss of property with saving of life is what all sensible people would choose.
[† ]Which shows that the acts are regarded as voluntary.
[* ]οὐκ ἔστιν ἀναγκασθη̂ναι, “compulsion is impossible.” If the act was compulsory it was not my act, I cannot be blamed: there are some acts, says Aristotle, for which we could not forgive a man, for which, whatever the circumstances, we must blame him; therefore no circumstances can compel him, or compulsion is impossible. The argument is, in fact, “I ought not, therefore I can not (am able not to do it),”—like Kant’s, “I ought, therefore I can.” But, if valid at all, it is valid universally, and the conclusion should be that the body only can be compelled, and not the will—that a compulsory act is impossible.
[† ]The same lost play is apparently quoted in V. 9, 1.
[* ]Reading σ[Editor: illegible character]τω.
[† ]Therefore, strictly speaking, a “compulsory act” is a contradiction in terms; the real question is, “What is an act?”
[‡ ]Therefore, since these are the motives of every act, all voluntary action involves pleasure. If we add “when successful,” this quite agrees with Aristotle’s theory of pleasure in Books VII. and X.
[* ]i.e. not merely “not-willed,” but done “unwillingly,” or “against the agent’s will.” Unfortunately our usage recognizes no such distinction between “not-voluntary” and “involuntary.”
[† ]ἐν μεταμελείᾳ, lit. “when the act involves change of mind.” This, under the circumstances, can only mean that the agent who willed the act, not seeing the true nature of it at the time, is sorry afterwards, when he comes to see what he has done
[* ]i.e. forms a wrong judgment; cf. ἡ μοχθηρία διαψεύδεσθαι ποιεɩ̂ περὶ τὰς πρακτικὰς ἀρχάς, VI. 12, 10: not that the vicious man does not know that such a course is condemned by society, but he does not assent to society’s rules—adopts other maxims contrary to them.
[† ]τὸ συμϕέρον, what conduces to a given end, expedient. The meaning of the term varies with the end in view: here the end in view is the supreme end, happiness: τὸ συμϕέρον, then, means here the rule of conduct to which, in a given case, the agent must conform in order to realize this end; cf. II. 2, 3.
[* ]In a lost play of Euripides, believing her son to have been murdered, she is about to kill her son himself as the murderer. See Stewart.
[† ]τὸ ον̔̂ ἕνεκα usually is the intended result (and so ἕνεκα τίνος in § 16), but of course it is only the actual result that the agent can be ignorant of.
[* ]Reason can modify action only by modifying feeling. Every action issues from a feeling or passion (πάθος), which feeling (and therefore the resultant action) is mine (the outcome of my character, and therefore imputable to me), whether it be modified by reason (deliberation, calculation) or no.
[* ]Two appetites may pull two different, but not contrary ways (ὲναντιον̂ται): that which not merely diverts but restrains me from satisfying an appetite must be desire of a different kind, e.g. desire to do what is right. Ἐπιθυμία is used loosely in cap. 1 for desire (ὄρεξις), here more strictly for appetite, a species of desire, purpose (προαίρεσις) being another species: cf. infra, 3, 19.
[* ]προαίρεσις, lit. “choosing before.” Our “preference” exactly corresponds here, but unfortunately cannot always be employed.
[* ]These are instances of “necessity;” a tree grows by “nature,” i.e. by its own natural powers.
[* ]If we have to construct a geometrical figure, we first “suppose it done,” then analyze the imagined figure in order to see the conditions which it implies and which imply it, and continue the chain till we come to some thing (drawing of some lines) which we already know how to do.
[† ]Cf. III. 2, 9, and 5, 1, and X. 7, 5. There is no real inconsistency between this and the doctrine that the end of life is life, that the good act is to be chosen for its own sake (II. 4, 3), because it is noble (III. 7, 13): for the end is not outside the means; happiness or the perfect life is the complete system of these acts, and the real nature of each act is determined by its relation to this system; to choose it as a means to this end is to choose it for itself.
[* ]βουλητόν. This word hovers between two senses, (1) wished for, (2) to be wished for, just as αἱρετόν hovers between (1) desired, (2) desirable. The difficulty, as here put, turns entirely upon the equivocation; but at bottom lies the fundamental question, whether there be a common human nature, such that we can say, “This kind of life is man’s real life.”
[* ]Each virtuous act is desired and chosen as a means to realizing a particular virtue, and this again is desired as a part or constituent of, and so as a means to, that perfect self-realization which is happiness: cf. 3, 15.
[* ]My act is mine, and does not cease to be mine because I would undo it if I could; and so, further, since we made the habits whose bonds we cannot now unloose, we are responsible, not merely for the acts which made them, but also for the acts which they now produce “in spite of us:” what constrains us is ourselves.
[* ]τον̂ καλον̂ ἕνεκα, the highest expression that Aristotle has for the moral motive, = καλον̂ ἕνεκα (§ 6) and ὅτι καλόν (§ 13), “as a means to or as a constituent part of the noble life.”
[* ]The courageous man desires the courageous act for the same reason for which he desires the virtue itself, viz. simply because it is noble: see note on § 2.
[* ]ἐν τούτοις, i.e. ἐν ο[Editor: illegible character]ς δύναται, so long as he can imitate the courageous man without being courageous.
[* ]Il., xxii. 200.
[† ]Ibid., viii. 148, 149.
[‡ ]Ibid., xv. 348, ii. 391.
[* ]Outside Coronea, when the town was betrayed, in the Sacred War.
[* ]The incident is narrated by Xenophon, Hell., iv. 10.
[* ]Cf. I. 8, 10, f.
[* ]Cf. VII. 14, 2: “the opposite of this excessive pleasure [i.e. going without a wrong pleasure] is not pain, except to the man who sets his heart on this excessive pleasure.”
[* ]i.e. the pleasures of taste and touch.
[* ]Of course the English term is not so used.
[† ]κόλασις, chastening; ἀκόλαστος, unchastened, incorrigible, profligate.
[* ]ἄσωτος, ἀ priv. and σω̂ς, σώζειν.
[* ]The connection is plainer in the original, because τὰ χρήματα, “wealth,” is at once seen to be identical with τὰ χρήσιμα, “useful things,” and connected with χρεία, “use.”
[* ]Were it not for some extraneous consideration, e.g. desire to stand well with his neighbours.
[* ]This is strictly a departure from the virtue; but Aristotle seems often to pass insensibly from the abstract ideal of a virtue to its imperfect embodiment in a complex character. Cf. infra. cap. 3.
[* ]No single English word can convey the associations of the Greek τύραννος, a monarch who has seized absolute power, not necessarily one who abuses it.
[* ]See Stewart.
[† ]i.e. in men of some age and fixed character; they often coexist in very young men, he says, but cannot possibly coexist for long.
[‡ ]As he has already said in effect, supra, § 23.
[* ]Lit. “cummin-splitter.”
[* ]Reading ταὐτὰ.
[* ]A worthy expenditure of £100,000 would be magnificent from its mere amount; but even £100 may be spent in a magnificent manner (by a man who can afford it), e.g. in buying a rare engraving for a public collection: cf. § 17 and 18.
[* ]ἁπλω̂ς seems unnecessary.
[* ]For that is impossible.
[* ]Homer, Il. i. 394 f., 503 f.
[* ]Reading ἔστι δὴ.
[* ]The reader will please overlook the gap which is caused by the withdrawal of a note which stood here in former editions, but which with Bywater’s text is no longer required.
[* ]II. 9, 7.
[* ]The things that the boaster pretends to are also the things that the ironical man disclaims.
[† ]Omitting προσποιούμενοι. See Bywater.
[* ]What follows explains why all these terms have a specific moral meaning.
[* ]Friendliness, truthfulness, wit.
[* ]Reading καὶ τῳ̂ εἰ̂ναι. By water.
[* ]The continent man desires the evil which he ought not to desire, and so is not good; but he does not do it, and so is not bad: thus continence also might be called “hypothetically good”; granting the evil desire (which excludes goodness proper), the best thing is to master it.
[† ]Book VII.
[* ]A man may “do that which is just” without “acting justly:” cf. supra, II. 4, 3, and infra, cap. 8.
[* ]While his children are regarded as parts of him, and even his wife is not regarded as an independent person: cf. infra, 6, 8.
[† ]Or “differently manifested:” the phrase is used in both senses.
[‡ ]Putting comma after ἁπλω̂ς instead of after ἕξις (Trendelenburg).
[* ]This is not merely a repetition of what has been said in § 2: acts of injustice (2) are there distinguished from acts of injustice (1) by the motive (gain), here by the fact that they are referred to no other vice than injustice.
[* ]Before (1, 7) the two kinds of injustice were called ὁμώνυμα, i.e. strictly, “things that have nothing in common but the name;” here they are called συνώνυμα, “different things bearing a common name because they belong to the same genus,” as a man and an ox are both called animals: cf. Categ. I. 1.
[† ]τὰ ἐκτὸς ἀγαθά is the name which Aristotle most frequently uses, sometimes τὰ ἁπλω̂ς ἀγαθά, as supra, 1, 9.
[* ]The two characters coincide perfectly only in the perfect state: cf. Pol. III. 4, 1276 b16 f.
[* ]If this amount be equal, it must be equal to something else; if my share is fair, I must be sharing with one other person at least.
[† ]A’s share and B’s.
[* ]Counting all free men as equals entitled to equal shares.
[† ]e.g. a/b = c/d.
[‡ ]Assigning or joining certain quantities of goods (c and d) to certain persons (a and b).
[* ]In the way of redress, as given by the law-courts: later on (cap. 5) he gives as an after-thought the kind of justice which ought to regulate buying and selling, etc. See note on p. 152.
[* ]The δικασταί at Athens combined the functions of judge and jury.
[* ]The point to be illustrated is, that in these private transactions what one man gains is equal to what the other loses, so that the penalty that will restore the balance can be exactly measured. Of this principle (on which the possibility of justice does in fact depend) Aristotle first gives a simple geometrical illustration, and then says that the same law holds in all that man does: what is suffered by the patient (whether person, as in medicine, or thing, as in sculpture or agriculture) is the same as what is done by the agent. This paragraph occurs again in the next chapter (5, 9): but it can hardly have come into this place by accident; we rather see the author’s thought growing as he writes. I follow Trendelenburg (who omits the passage here) in inserting ὅ before ἐποίει, but not in omitting τὸ before πάσχον.
[* ]For the aim of trade is neither profit nor loss, but fair exchange, i.e. exchange (on the principle laid down in ch. 5) which leaves the position of the parties as the state fixed it (by distributive justice, ch. 3). But when in the private transactions of man with man this position is disturbed, i.e. whenever either unintentionally, by accident or negligence, or intentionally, by force or fraud, one has bettered his position at the expense of another, corrective justice steps in to redress the balance. I read αὐτὰ δἰ αὐτω̂ν and accept Stewart’s interpretation of these words, and in part Jackson’s interpretation of τω̂ν παρὰ τὸ ἑκούσιον, but cannot entirely agree with either as to the sense of the whole passage.
[* ]We had before (3, 11, 12) as the rule of distributive justice A/B = C/D, and the distribution was expressed by the “joining” (σύζευξις) of the opposite or corresponding symbols, A and C, B and D. Here we have the same two pairs of symbols, ranged opposite to each other as before; but the exchange will be expressed by joining A to D and B to C, i.e. by “cross conjunction” or by drawing diagonal lines (ἡ κατὰ διάμετρον σύζευξις) from A to D and B to C.
[* ]i.e. (as will presently appear), it must first be determined how much builder’s work is equal to a given quantity of shoemaker’s work: i.e. the price of the two wares must first be settled; that done, they simply exchange shilling’s worth for shilling’s worth (ἀντιπεπονθός); e.g. if a four-roomed cottage be valued at £100, and a pair of boots at £1, the builder must supply such a cottage in return for 100 such pairs of boots (or their equivalent).
Fixing the price of the articles is called securing equality, because, evidently, it means fixing how much of one article shall be considered equal to a given quantity of the other. It is called securing proportionate equality, because, as we shall see, the question that has to be determined is, “in what ratio must work be exchanged in order to preserve the due ratio between the workers?”[† ]Benefit to consumer = cost to producer; e.g. if £100 be a fair price for a picture, it must fairly represent both the benefit to the purchaser and the effort expended on it by the artist. I follow Trendelenburg in inserting 8 before ἐποίει, but not in omitting τὸ before πάσχον. Cf. note on 4, 12.
[* ]The persons have to be appraised as well as their work; but, as we soon see, these are two sides of the same thing: the relative value at which persons are estimated by society is indicated by the relative value which society puts upon their services, and this is indicated by the price put upon a certain quantity of their work.
[† ]See note on § 12.
[* ]e.g. suppose the husbandman is twice as good a man as the shoemaker, then, if the transaction is to follow the universal rule of justice and leave their relative position unaltered, in exchange for a certain quantity of husbandman’s work the shoemaker must give twice as much of his own. The price, that is, of corn and shoes must be so adjusted that, if a quarter of corn sell for 50s. and three pair of shoes sell for the same sum, the three pair of shoes must represent twice as much labour as the quarter of corn. Aristotle speaks loosely of the ratio between the shoes and the corn, etc., but as their value is ex hypothesi the same, and as the relative size, weight, and number of articles is quite accidental (e.g. we might as well measure the corn by bushels or by pounds), the ratio intended can only be the ratio between the quantities of labour. He omits to tell us that these quantities must be measured by time, but the omission is easily supplied. He omits also to tell us how the relative worth of the persons is to be measured, but he has already said all that is necessary in 3, 7.
[† ]Lit. “they must be reduced to proportion,” i.e., in strictness, the four terms (two persons and two things).
[‡ ]i.e. have his superiority counted twice over. His (e.g. the husbandman’s) superiority over the other party (the shoemaker) has been already taken into account in fixing the price of a quarter of corn as equal to three pairs of shoes: this is one advantage which is fairly his; but it would be plainly unfair if, at the time of exchange, the husbandman were to demand 50s. worth of shoes for 25s. worth of corn, on the ground that he was twice as good a man: cf. Munro, Journal of Classical and Sacred Philology, vol. ii. p. 58 f. In the text I have followed Trendelenburg’s stopping, throwing the words εἰ δὲ μὴ . . . ἄκρον into a parenthesis.
[* ]i.e. each must be valued in money, so that so many quarters of corn shall exchange for so many hogsheads of wine.
[* ]The mean which justice aims at (the just thing, the due share of goods) lies between two extremes, too much and too little; so far justice is analogous to the other virtues: but whereas in other fields these two extremes are chosen by different and opposite characters (e.g. the cowardly and the foolhardy), the character that chooses too much is here the same as that which chooses too little,—too much for himself or his friend, too little for his enemy. (The habitual choice of too little for oneself is neglected as impossible). Cf. II. 6, especially § 15–16.
[* ]It is in the state of mind of the doer that the difference lies, not in the particular things done: cf. infra, cap. 8.
[† ]This passage, cap. 6, §§ 1, 2, seems to have quite a natural connection with what goes before, though the discussion is not carried on here, but in cap. 8. Again, the discussion which begins with the words πω̂ς μὲν ον̓̂ν, cap. 6, § 3, though it has no connection with § 2, comes naturally enough after the end of cap. 5, τὸ ἁπλω̂ς δίκαιον corresponding to τον̂ δικαίου καὶ ἀδίκου καθόλου. We have, then, two discussions, both growing out of and attached to the discussion which closes with the end of cap. 5, but not connected with each other. If the author had revised the work, he would, no doubt, have fitted these links together; but as he omitted to do so, it is useless for us to attempt, by any rearrangement of the links, to secure the close connection which could only be effected by forging them anew.
[* ]These are not two distinct kinds of justice; justice proper, he means to say, implies a state.
[† ]Only the citizen in an ancient state could appeal to the law in his own person; the non-citizen could only sue through a citizen.
[* ]Supra, 1, 17.
[* ]Which alone is properly just.
[* ]τὸ ξυμϕέρον, which is usually rendered “expedient,” means simply that which conduces to any desired end; as the end varies, then, so will the expedient vary: cf. III. 1, 15, note.
[† ]e.g. the wine-merchant may buy in the cask what he sells in bottle (Stewart).
[* ]Cf. § 4.
[* ]i.e. he willed the act not as just, but as a means of avoiding the painful consequences; the justice of it, therefore, was not part of the essence of the act to him, was not among the qualities of the act which moved him to choose it, or, in Aristotle’s language, was “accidental.”
[* ]which leads by a natural, though by him unforeseen, sequence to his neighbour’s hurt: negligence, or error of judgment.
[† ]and gives a fatal termination to an act that would ordinarily be harmless: accident.
[* ]Throwing the words ὁ δ’ ἐπιβουλεύσας οὐκ ἀγνοεɩ̂ into a parenthesis. The passage is easier to construe without the parenthesis, but with a stop after ἀμϕισβητον̂σιν.
[† ]In strictness, of course, such acts cannot be called involuntary (ἀκούσια) at all: cf. supra, III. 1, where the conditions of an involuntary act are stated more precisely.
[* ]βον̂λησιν is used perhaps for will, as there is no abstract term corresponding to ἑκών. I bracket the last two sentences of § 6, as (in spite of the ingennity of Jackson and Stewart) the statement seems to me hopelessly confused.
[* ]You can always do the acts if you want to do them, i.e. if you will them; but you cannot at will do them in the spirit of a just or an unjust man; for character is the result of a series of acts of will: cf. supra, III. 5, 22. The contradiction between this and III. 5, 2, is only apparent: we are responsible for our character, though we cannot change it at a moment’s notice.
[* ]Cf. supra, 8, 1–4.
[† ]Οὐ δίκαιον I have omitted (after Trendelenburg) as obviously wrong. We may suppose either that the original οὐ σπουδαɩ̂ον was altered into οὐ δίκαιον, or (more probably) that οὐ δίκαιον or δίκαιον was inserted by a bungling copyist.
[* ]Supra, cap. 9.
[* ]Whereas, says Aristotle, we cannot speak at all of justice or injustice to one’s self, and it is only by way of metaphor that we can apply the terms even to the relations of parts of the self—not strictly, since the parts are not persons.
[* ]This really forms quite a fresh opening, independent of §§ 1–3; and it is one among many signs of the incomplete state in which this part of the treatise was left, that these two openings of Book VI. were never fused together. The scheme of the treatise, as unfolded in Book I. (cf. especially I. 7, 13; 13, 20), gives the intellectual virtues an independent place alongside of, or rather above, the moral virtues; now that the latter have been disposed of it naturally remains to consider the former: this is the natural transition which we have in § 4. But besides this the dependence of the moral virtues upon the intellectual virtues makes an examination of the latter absolutely necessary to the completion of the theory of the former; thus we get the transition of §§ 1–3.
[† ]Supra, I. 13, 20.
[* ]νον̂ς: the word is used here in its widest sense.
[* ]νον̂ς—used now in a narrower special sense which will presently be explained.
[* ]Though, as we see later, induction can elicit them from experience only because they are already latent in that experience.
[† ]We may know truths of science, but unless we know these in their necessary connection, we have not scientific knowledge.
[* ]The conception of the end is at once a cause or source of action and a principle of knowledge; ἀρχή covers both.
[* ]For it implies a determination of the will which is more permanent in its nature than a merely intellectual habit. And further, when once acquired it must be constantly strengthened by exercise, as occasions for action can never be wanting.
[† ]Art, which is one of the five enumerated above, is here omitted, either in sheer carelessness, or perhaps because it is subordinate to prudence: cf. supra 5, 7.
[* ]Of course we do not use “wisdom” in this sense.
[* ]πρακτὸν ὡς τὸ ἔσχατον, i.e. as the last link in the chain of causes leading to the proposed end—last in the order of deliberation, but first in the order of events: cf. III. 3, 12.
[† ]Varying as the good varies; cf. supra, 7, 4, and I. 3, 2.
[* ]Here in the looser sense, below (§ 6) in the stricter sense, which is the technical meaning of the term in Aristotle: cf. supra, 7, 12.
[† ]He does not mean that the principles of mathematics are not derived from experience, but only that they are derived from the primitive experience which every boy has, being in fact (as we should say) the framework on which the simplest knowledge of an external world is built.
[* ]Cf. supra, § 2.
[† ]The perception “that the ultimate fact is a triangle” (which is the more obvious translation of these words), whether this means “that three lines is the least number that will enclose a space,” or “that the possibility of a triangle is a fact that cannot be demonstrated,” is in either case not the perception of a particular fact; but it is the perception of a particular fact that is needed if the illustration is to be relevant.
[‡ ]The intuitive reason (νον̂ς) is here opposed to prudence (ϕρόνησις), but presently (cap. 11) is found to be included in it; reason (νον̂ς) was similarly in cap. 6 opposed to wisdom (σοϕία), but in cap. 7 found to be included in it.
[* ]This, however, is not done here, perhaps because it has been already done at length in III. 3.
[* ]Omitting ἰδεɩ̂ν.
[† ]e.g. this act should be done simply because it is just; I may decide to do it for reputation, or for pleasure’s sake, or thinking it to be an act of generosity.
[* ]All particular facts (τὰ καθ’ ἕκαστον) are ultimate (ἔσχατα), i.e. undemonstrable; but not all ultimate facts (ἔσχατα) are particular facts—as presently appears.
[* ]Lit. in both directions, i.e. not the last only, but the first also.
[† ]Cf. supra, 8, 1, 2.
[‡ ]This αἴσθησις may be called νον̂ς, which is the faculty of universals, because the universal (the general conception of human good) is elicited from these particular judgments.
[* ]Throughout this chapter we are concerned with the practical intellect alone. He has already stated in cap. 6 that the intuitive reason is the basis of the speculative intellect; here he says that it is also the basis of the practical intellect. We have to distinguish here three different employments of the practical faculty:
(1) (if we invert the order), undemonstrated assertion, viz. that under the circumstances this is the right thing to do (§ 6): here the judgment is altogether intuitive; i.e. no grounds are given.
(2) demonstration (improperly so called, more properly calculation) that this is the right thing to do; e.g. this act is to be done because it is just: here the intuitive reason supplies the minor premise of the practical syllogism (this act is just), and also (indirectly) the major (whatever is just is good), i.e. it supplies the data—the several particular intuitions from which the general proposition is elicited: ἐν ταɩ̂ς πρακτικαɩ̂ς, sc. ὰποδείξεσι (practical calculations), § 4; cf. τω̂ν ἀποδείξεων, § 6, and οί συλλογισμοὶ τω̂ν πρακτω̂ν, 12, 10.
(3) deduction or demonstration (also improperly so called) of general truths in morals and politics: κατὰ τὰς ἀποδείξεις, § 4: here also the data from which deduction starts can only be apprehended by intuitive perception or reason: cf. I. 4, 7, 7, 20. The difference between (2) and (3) is plainly shown supra 8, 2, where πολιτική in the wider sense (= νομοθετική) which deals with laws, is distinguished from πολιτική in the narrower sense which has to do with decrees: cf. also I. 2, 7, and X. 9, 14.[* ]i.e. in the sense in which a healthy state of the body (ὑγίεια as a ἕξις in Aristotle’s language) produces healthy performance of the bodily functions (ὑγίεια as an ἐνέργεια).
[† ]The other three are sense, reason, desire (αἴσθησις, νον̂ς, ὄρεξις): cf. supra, cap. 2. The excellences or best states of the desires have already been described as the moral virtues. Wisdom and prudence are the excellences of the reason or intellect (νον̂ς in its widest meaning). Sense (αἴσθησις) does not need separate treatment, as it is here regarded as merely subsidiary to reason and desire; for human life is (1) speculative, (2) practical, and no independent place is allowed to the artistic life. The fourth part therefore alone remains.
[* ]Reading τοὺς πανούργους.
[† ]As ϕρίνησις, prudence.
[* ]μετὰ λόγου: the agent must not only be guided by reason, but by his own reason, not another’s.
[* ]σεɩ̂ος is a dialectical variety for θεɩ̂ος, godlike.
[† ](1) Some men are born brutal; (2) others are made so; (3) others make themselves so.
[‡ ]Infra, cap. 5.
[* ]Reading αὐτὸν.
[* ]This is the sophistical paradox alluded to.
[† ]Of these objections, as well as of the opinions which called them forth, it is to be expected that some should prove groundless, and that others should be established and taken up into the answer.
[* ]This section (§ 2) seems to me not an alternative to § 1; but a correction of it, or rather a remark to the effect that the whole passage (both § 1 and the discussion introduced by it) ought to be rewritten, and an indication of the way in which this should be done. Of considerable portions of the Nicomachean Ethics we may safely say that the author could not have regarded them as finished in the form in which we have them. It is possible that the author made a rough draft of the whole work, or of the several parts of it, which he kept by him and worked upon,—working some parts up to completion; sometimes rewriting a passage without striking out the original version, or even indicating which was to be retained (e.g. the theory of pleasure); more frequently adding an after-thought which required the rewriting of a whole passage, without rewriting it (e.g., to take one instance out of many in Book V., τὸ ἀντιπεπονθός is an after-thought which strictly requires that the whole book should be rewritten); sometimes (as here) making a note of the way in which a passage should be rewritten. Suppose, if need be, that the work, left in this incomplete state, was edited and perhaps further worked upon by a later hand, and we have enough, I think, to account for the facts.
[* ]Alluding to the Heraclitean doctrine of the union of opposites, which Aristotle rather unfairly interprets as a denial of the law of contradiction. Cf. Met. iii. 7, 1012a 24.
[† ]i.e. not effective, οὐκ ἐνεργεɩ̂: in § 10 ἐνεργεɩ̂ is used again of the minor which when joined to the major is effective.
[* ]Action in spite of knowledge presents no difficulty (1) if that knowledge be not present at the time of action, § 5, or (2) if, though the major (or majors) be known and present, the minor (or one of the minors) be unknown or absent, § 6. But (3) other cases remain which can only be explained by a further distinction introduced in § 7; i.e. a man who has knowledge may at times be in a state in which his knowledge, though present, has lost its reality—in which, though he may repeat the old maxims, they mean no more to him than to one who talks in his sleep. § 7, I venture to think, is (like § 2) not a repetition or an alternative version, but an after-thought, which requires the rewriting of the whole passage.
[* ]ϕυσικω̂ς, by arguments based upon the special nature of the subject-matter, opposed to λογικω̂ς, by arguments of a general nature; accordingly, in what follows both the elements of reason and desire are taken into account.
[† ]In a practical syllogism.
[‡ ]Notice that ἡδὺ here corresponds to γεύεσθαι δεɩ̂ above.
[* ]The minor premise, “this is sweet,” obviously is not “opposed to right reason;” but is not the major premise? In one of the two forms in which it here appears, viz. “all sweet things are pleasant,” it certainly is not so opposed; it merely states a fact of experience which the continent or temperate man assents to as much as the incontinent. In its other form, however, “all sweet things are to be tasted,” the judgment is “opposed to right reason;” but it is so because desire for an object condemned by reason has been added; and thus it may be said that it is not the opinion, but the desire, which is opposed to right reason. It is a defect in the exposition here that the difference between these two forms of the major premise is not more expressly noticed.
[† ]Of the syllogism which would forbid him to taste.
[* ]Reading full stop after Ἐμπεδοκλέους and comma after ὅρον.
[† ]Or the perception of the particular fact. After all Socrates is right: the incontinent man does not really know; the fact does not come home to him in its true significance: he says it is bad, but says it as an actor might, without feeling it; what he realizes is that it is pleasant.
[‡ ]As a man may be greedy (ἁπλω̂ς), or greedy for a particular kind of food.
[* ]Called also ἁπλω̂ς ἀγαθά, “good in themselves,” as in V. 1, 9 (cf. V. 2, 6), and ἐκτὸς ἀγαθά, “external goods,” as in I. 8, 2.
[† ]As we do not know the facts to which Aristotle alludes we can only conjecture his meaning. It may be that the man in question had certain physical peculiarities, so that though he “passed for a man” he was not quite a man in the common meaning of the name. So Locke asks (Essay iv. 10, 13), “Is a changeling a man or a beast?”
[* ]As in § 2 only two classes are given, it is probable that these words are an interpolation, and that § 5 and 6 (which pave the way for the next chapter) were intended to replace § 2. The intermediate class of § 5 is the necessary of § 2.
[* ]i.e. here “by disease:” ϕύσις bears three different senses in the space of a few lines—(1) in § 1, beginning, natural = in accordance with the true nature of the thing, the thing as it ought to be; (2) in § 1, end, natural = what a man is born with, as opposed to subsequent modifications of this; (3) in § 3 natural includes what my body does by powers in it over which I have no control, e.g. modifications of my nature produced by disease.
[† ]Because incontinence is a human weakness; these acts are brutal or morbid.
[* ]Il., xiv. 214, 217.
[† ]e.g. cruelty in the heat of battle rouses less indignation than ill-treatment of women afterwards. For a similar reason profligacy was said (III. 12) to be worse than cowardice.
[* ]This comparison is rendered superfluous by the preceding one (which probably was meant to be substituted for it), and is not very apt as it stands. We should rather expect πρὸς τὸ ἄδικον: the sense would then be, “injustice is morally worse than an unjust act which does not proceed from an unjust character, but the latter may be a worse evil;” e.g. humanity has suffered more by well-meaning persecutors than by the greatest villains. Cf. V. 11, 8.
[* ]Dropping the second ἢ or substituting εἰ for it. If we take it thus, the distinction may be illustrated by the distinction which opinion in England draws between opium-smoking and tobacco-smoking. Opium-smoking is commonly regarded by us as a ὑπερβολή, as a pleasure that in any degree is beyond the pale of legitimate pleasures; a man who is too much given to tobacco-smoking is regarded as pursuing καθ’ ὑπερβολάς (in excess) a pleasure which in moderation is legitimate. If we adopt Bywater’s conjecture ῃ̂ ὑπερβολαή the sense will be, “he who pursues excessive pleasures as such, that is of deliberate purpose.”
[* ]Cf. supra, 2, 10, 11.
[† ]The incontinent man, when the fit is over and the better part of him reasserts itself (cf. § 5), recognizes the badness of his act; but the vicious man, though he is aware that his acts are called bad, dissents from the judgments of society (cf. 9, 7), and so may be said not to know: cf. III. 1, 12.
[‡ ]The weak (ἀσθενεɩ̂ς) are worse than the hasty (προπετεɩ̂ς): cf. supra, 7, 8.
[* ]i.e. the definitions; not the axioms, since in Aristotle’s language a ὑπόθεσις, strictly speaking, involves the assumption of the existence of a corresponding object.
[* ]Cf. supra, 2, 7–9.
[* ]Literally, thinking that he ought (οἰόμενος δεɩ̂ν); i.e. adopting them as his end.
[* ]Cf. supra, VI. 12, 9.
[† ]Though they do what is unjust or wrong. It must be remembered that above (V. 1, 12-end) it was laid down that all vicious action, when viewed in relation to others, is unjust (in the wider sense of the term).
[* ]Cf. infra, 14, 7. I have frequently in this chapter rendered ἕξις by faculty, in order to express the opposition to ἐνέργεια, activity or exercise of faculty; but no single word is satisfactory.
[* ]The argument in full would be thus: pleasure is good; but good is exercise of faculty (ἐνέργεια), and this is a process or transition (γένεσις); ∴ pleasure is a transition. But according to Aristotle the highest ἐνέργεια involves no transition or motion at all (cf. 14, 8), and in every true ἐνέργεια, even when a transition is involved, the end is attained at every moment. Cf. Met. ix. 6. 1048b.
[* ]The argument is, “Pleasure is good because it is the opposite of pain, which is evil.” “No,” says Speusippus; “it is neither pleasure nor pain, but the neutral state, which is opposite to both, that is good.” “No,” replies Aristotle, “for then pleasure will be bad.”
[* ]Virtuous faculties and activities (II. 6, 20) do not admit of excess, because by their very nature they are right and occupy the mean; too much of them would be a contradiction in terms.
[* ]Pain generally (ὅλως) is bad, to be avoided.
Objection: The pain of foregoing certain excessive pleasures is not to be avoided.
Answer: The opposite of these excessive pleasures, i.e. the foregoing them, is not painful to the virtuous man, but only to him who sets his heart upon them, i.e. to a vicious or incontinent man.[† ]As these words disturb the order of the argument, I have, following Ramasauer, put them in brackets; but I see no sufficient reason for regarding them as spurious.
[* ]Cf. supra, 12, 2.
I am sick and take medicine, hungry and take food (which seems to be here included under medicine); but neither the drug nor the food can of themselves cure me and restore the balance of my system—they must be assimilated (for the body is not like a jar that can be filled merely by pouring water from another jar), i. e. part of my system must remain in its normal state and operate in its normal manner. But this operation, this ἐνέργεια τη̂ς κατὰ ϕύσιν ἕξεως, is pleasure (by the definition given above, 12, 3), and in ignorance of the process we transfer the pleasure to the medicine and call it pleasant. The weakness of this account is that it overlooks the fact that, though the medicino cannot itself cure without the operation of τη̂ς κατὰ ϕύσιν ἕξεως, yet on the other hand this ἕξις, this faculty, cannot operate in this manner without this stimulus; so that there seems to be no reason why the medicine, as setting up an ἐνέργεια τη̂ς κατὰ ϕύσιν ἕξεως, should not itself be called ϕύσει ἡδύ. But the whole passage rests on the assumption that there can be activity without stimulus, i.e. without want—an assumption which has become inconceivable to us.[* ]Cf. X. 7, 8.
[* ]τω̂ν δικαίων τὸ μάλιστα, sc. τὸ ἐπιεικές: cf. V. 10, and VI. 11, 2.
[† ]Cf. Plato, Rep., 334.
[‡ ]Literally, “Crow to crow.”
[§ ]Literally, “say that all who thus resemble one another are to one another like potters,” alluding to the saying of Hesiod,—
Καὶ κεραμεὺς κεραμεɩ̂ κοτέει καὶ τέκτονι τέκτων— “Potter quarrels with potter, and carpenter with carpenter.”[* ]See Ramsauer.
[* ]A family of importance in a Greek state was usually connected by ties of hospitality with other families in other states: persons so connected were not ϕίλοι, not strictly friends, since they lived apart; but ξένοι, for which there is no English equivalent.
[* ]To a Greek, of course, this does not necessarily imply living under the same roof, as it does to us with our very different conditions of life.
[* ]Reading πολλοὺς.
[* ]The words [Editor: illegible character]ν μὴ καὶ τῃ̑ ἀρετῃ̑ ὑπερέχηται literally mean “unless he also be surpassed in virtue.” Who is “he”? Not the former, for ὁ σπουδαɩ̂ος, the ideally good man, cannot be surpassed in virtue; therefore the latter—the great man, the tyrant, king or prince. The whole passage displays a decided animus against princes (perhaps, as Stabr suggests, a reminiscence of experiences in the Macedonian court).
[* ]The general rule of justice is that what different people receive is different, being proportionate to their respective merits (τὸ κατ’ ἀξίαν ἴσον, or ἰσότνς λόγων: cf. V. 3, 6, 5, 6 and 17); in exceptional cases, when the merits of the persons are the same, what they receive is equal (τὸ κατ’ ἀξίαν becomes τὸ κατὰ ποσὸν ἴσον). But friendship in the primary sense is friendship between equals, so that the general rule here is that both give and take equal amounts of love, etc.; in the exceptional case of inequality between the persons, the amounts must be proportionate.
[* ]It is the institution of the state which gives a permanent significance to these amusements of a day.
[* ]As the ἄρχ[Editor: illegible character]ν βασιλεύς at Athens.
[† ]Lit. “more evident,” sc. than that kingly rule is the best.
[* ]Scarcely consistent with 7, 4; but cf. 7, 1.
[* ]We pay taxes to the king, and tend our parents in their old age; but, as this is no adequate repayment of what they have done for us, we owe them honour besides.
[* ]For he desires the good of his friend.
[* ]In the papers of October 8, 1880, a suit is reported in which A tries in vain to recover from B certain goods given during courtship,—according to B as presents, according to A ἐπὶ ῥητοɩ̂ς, viz. on condition of marriage, which condition had not been fulfilled.
[* ]Reading ὃ ὡμολόγησεν.
[* ]Where the two friends have different motives.
[* ]Viz. the pleasure of anticipation.
[* ]μισθὸς δ’ ἀνδρὶ ϕίλῳ εἰρημένος ἄρκιος ἔστω.—Hesiod.
[* ]Omitting ἐκεɩ̂νο τὸ γενόμενον, after Bywater, Journal of Philology, vol. xvii. p. 71.
[* ]ϕαν̂λος here as elsewhere includes all who are not good, the incontinent as well as the vicious.
[* ]Epicharmus was a Sicilian dramatist.
[* ]Reading Ἐνεργείᾳ δ’ ὁ ποιήσας τὸ ἔργον ἐστί πως.
[* ]ἐγκρατής, continent, in whom the true masters the false self; ἀκρατής, incontinent, in whom the true self is mastered.
[* ]Reading δὴ. See Stewart.
[† ](1) They are good, (2) they belong to him.
[* ]Cf. the last words of this book.
[* ]Cf. note on viii. 3, 4.
[* ]See a few lines on, end of § 5.
[* ]ἐσθλω̂ν μὲν γὰρ ἄπ’ ἐσθλὰ μαθήσεαι.—Theognis.
[* ]τὸ αἱρετόν covers, as no English word can, the transition from desired to desirable.
[* ]The neutral state, neither pleasure nor pain, which they hold to be good.
[* ]Adopting Spengel’s conjecture, κενούμενος for τεμνόμενος.
[* ]Physics, Book iii. f.: cf. especially viii. 8, 264 b, 27, quoted by Ramsauer, who founds on it an ingenious emendation of this passage.
[* ]As already remarked, there is no one English word which includes these various senses of ἕξις, (1) habit of body, (2) moral habit or character, (3) intellectual habit or trained faculty.
[* ]At other periods of life the various organs of the body may perform their functions completely, but in youth this is accompanied by an inexpressible charm which all other ages lack.
The only analogy between pleasure and the doctor is that both “complete the activity” from outside: medicines alter the functions; pleasure, like beauty, does not alter them, but is an added perfection.[* ]Sight and touch are classed together on the one hand, and hearing, smell, and taste on the other, because, while the announcements of all the senses are, in the first instance, of secondary qualities (colours, sounds, etc.), it is mainly from the announcements of sight and touch that we advance to the knowledge of the mathematical properties or primary qualities (number, figure, motion, etc.).
[* ]τὰ σπουδαɩ̂α. It is impossible to convey in a translation the play upon the words σπουδή and σπουδαɩ̂ος: σπουδή is earnestness; σπουδαɩ̂ος usually = good: here, however, σπουδαɩ̂ος carries both senses, earnest or serious, and good.
[* ]ἡ κατὰ τὴν σοϕίαν ἐνέργεια, the contemplation of absolute truth.
[† ]The search for this truth.
[* ]i.e. our nature as moral agents, as compounds of reason and desire.
[* ]i.e. the principles of morals cannot be proved, but are accepted without proof by the man whose desires are properly trained. Cf. supra, I. 4, 6.
[* ]Reading ἀνδρείου ὑπομένοντος . . . κινδυνεύοντος after Bywater, “Contributions,” p. 69.
[* ]Before theory or instruction can be any use. Cf. I. 4, 6.
[* ]Cf. VI. 8, 1–3.
[† ]Cf. Hom. Od. ix. 114.
[‡ ]Transposing καὶ δρα̂ν αὐτὸ δύνασθαι as suggested by By water: cf. I. 2, 8.
[* ]The work to which this conclusion forms a preface is the Politics of Aristotle, still extant, but in an incomplete state.
11: Marcus Tullius Cicero, On Friendship (De Amicitia) [44 BC]
Marcus Tullius Cicero, Cicero De Amicitia (On Friendship) and Scipio’s Dream, translated with an Introduction and Notes by Andrew P. Peabody (Boston: Little, Brown, and Co., 1887).
Accessed from oll.libertyfund.org/title/544 on 2011-05-14
The text is in the public domain.
INTRODUCTION.
DE AMICITIA.
TheDe Amicitia, inscribed, like the De Senectute, to Atticus, was probably written early in the year 44 b. c., during Cicero’s retirement, after the death of Julius Caesar and before the conflict with Antony. The subject had been a favorite one with Greek philosophers, from whom Cicero always borrowed largely, or rather, whose materials he made fairly his own by the skill, richness, and beauty of his elaboration. Some passages of this treatise were evidently suggested by Plato; and Aulus Gellius says that Cicero made no little use of a now lost essay of Theophrastus on Friendship.
In this work I am especially impressed by Cicero’s dramatic power. But for the mediocrity of his poetic genius, he might have won pre-eminent honor from the Muse of Tragedy. He here so thoroughly enters into the feelings of Laelius with reference to Scipio’s death, that as we read we forget that it is not Laelius himself who is speaking. We find ourselves in close sympathy with him, as if he were telling us the story of his bereavement, giving utterance to his manly fortitude and resignation, and portraying his friend’s virtues from the unfading image phototyped on his own loving memory. In other matters, too, Cicero goes back to the time of Laelius, and assumes his point of view, assigning to him just the degree of foresight which he probably possessed, and making not the slightest reference to the very different aspect in which he himself had learned to regard and was wont to represent the personages and events of that earlier period. Thus, while Cicero traced the downfall of the republic to changes in the body politic that had taken place or were imminent and inevitable when Scipio died, he makes Laelius perceive only a slight though threatening deflection from what had been in the earlier time.1 So too, though Cicero was annoyed more than by almost any other characteristic of his age by the prevalence of the Epicurean philosophy, and ascribed to it in a very large degree the demoralization of men in public life, with Laelius the doctrines of this school are represented, as they must have been in fact, as new and unfamiliar. In fine, Laelius is here made to say not a word which he, being the man that he was, and at the date assumed for this dialogue, might not have said himself; and it may be doubted whether a report of one of his actual conversations would have seemed more truly genuine.
This is a rare gift, often sought indeed, yet sought in vain, not only by dramatists, who have very seldom attained it, but by authors of a very great diversity of type and culture. One who undertakes to personate a character belonging to an age not his own hardly ever fails of manifest anachronisms. The author finds it utterly impossible to fit the antique mask so closely as not now and then to show through its chinks his own more modern features; while this form of internal evidence never fails to betray an intended forgery, however skilfully wrought. On the other hand, there is no surer proof of the genuineness of a work purporting to be of an earlier, but alleged to be of a later origin, than the absence of all tokens of a time subsequent to the earliest date claimed for it.1
In connection with this work it should be borne in mind that the special duties of friendship constituted an essential department of ethics in the ancient world, and that the relation of friend to friend was regarded as on the same plane with that of brother to brother. No treatise on morals would have been thought complete, had this subject been omitted. Not a few modern writers have attempted the formal treatment of friendship; but while the relation of kindred minds and souls has lost none of its sacredness and value, the establishment of a code of rules for it ignores, on the one hand, the spontaneity of this relation, and, on the other hand, its entire amenableness to the laws and principles that should restrict and govern all human intercourse and conduct.
Shaftesbury, in his “Characteristics,” in his exquisite vein of irony, sneers at Christianity for taking no cognizance of friendship either in its precepts or in its promises. Jeremy Taylor, however, speaks of this feature of Christianity as among the manifest tokens of its divine origin; and Soame Jenyns takes the same ground in a treatise expressly designed to meet the objections and cavils of Shaftesbury and other deistical writers of his time. These authors are all in the right, and all in the wrong, as to the matter of fact. There is no reason why Christianity should prescribe friendship, which is a privilege, not a duty, or should essay to regulate it; for its only ethical rule of strict obligation is the negative rule, which would lay out for it a track that shall never interfere with any positive duty selfward, manward, or Godward. But in the life of the Founder of Christianity, who teaches, most of all, by example, friendship has its apogee, — its supreme pre-eminence and honor. He treats his apostles, and speaks of and to them, not as mere disciples, but as intimate and dearly beloved friends; among these there are three with whom he stands in peculiarly near relations; and one of the three was singled out by him in dying for the most sacred charge that he left on the earth; while at the same time that disciple shows in his Gospel that he had obtained an inside view, so to speak, of his Master’s spiritual life and of the profounder sense of his teachings, which is distinguished by contrast rather than by comparison from the more superficial narratives of the other evangelists.
But Christianity has done even more than this for friendship. It has superseded its name by fulfilling its offices to a degree of perfectness which had never entered into the ante-Christian mind. Man shrinks from solitude. He feels inadequate to bear the burdens, meet the trials, and wage the conflicts of this mortal life, alone. Orestes always needed and craved a Pylades, but often failed to find one. This inevitable yearning, when it met no human response, found still less to satisfy it in the objects of worship. Its gods, though in great part deified men, could not be relied on for sympathy, support, or help. The stronger spirits did not believe in them; the feebler looked upon them only with awe and dread. But Christianity, in its anthropomorphism, which is its strongest hold on faith and trust, insures for the individual man in a Divine Humanity precisely what friends might essay to do, yet could do but imperfectly, for him. It proffers the tender sympathy and helpfulness of Him who bears the griefs and carries the sorrows of each and all; while the near view that it presents of the life beyond death inspires the sense of unbroken union with friends in heaven, and of the fellow-feeling of “a cloud of witnesses” beside. Thus while friendship in ordinary life is never to be spurned when it may be had without sacrifice of principle, it is less a necessity than when man’s relations with the unseen world gave no promise of strength, aid, or comfort.
Experience has deepened my conviction that what is called a free translation is the only fit rendering of Latin into English; that is, the only way of giving to the English reader the actual sense of the Latin writer. This last has been my endeavor. The comparison is, indeed, exaggerated; but it often seems to me, in unrolling a compact Latin sentence, as if I were writing out in words the meaning of an algebraic formula. A single word often requires three or four as its English equivalent. Yet the language is not made obscure by compression. On the contrary, there is no other language in which it is so hard to bury thought or to conceal its absence by superfluous verbiage.
I have used Beier’s edition of the De Amicitia, adhering to it in the very few cases in which other good editions have a different reading. There are no instances in which the various readings involve any considerable diversity of meaning.
LAELIUS.
Caius Laelius Sapiens, the son of Caius Laelius, who was the life-long friend of Scipio Africanus the Elder, was born b. c. 186, a little earlier in the same year with his friend Africanus the Younger. He was not undistinguished as a military commander, as was proved by his successful campaign against Viriathus, the Lusitanian chieftain, who had long held the Roman armies at bay, and had repeatedly gained signal advantages over them. He was known in the State, at first as leaning, though moderately and guardedly, to the popular side, but after the disturbances created by the Gracchi, as a strong conservative. He was a learned and accomplished man, was an elegant writer, — though while the Latin tongue retained no little of its archaic rudeness, — and was possessed of some reputation as an orator. Though bearing his part in public affairs, holding at intervals the offices of Tribune, Praetor, and Consul, and in his latter years attending with exemplary fidelity to such duties as belonged to him as a member of the college of Augurs, he yet loved retirement, and cultivated, so far as he was able, studious and contemplative habits. He was noted for his wise economy of time. To an idle man who said to him, “I have sixty years”1 (that is, I am sixty years old), he replied, “Do you mean the sixty years which you have not?” His private life was worthy of all praise for the virtues that enriched and adorned it; and its memory was so fresh after the lapse of more than two centuries, that Seneca, who well knew the better way which he had not always strength to tread, advises his young friend Lucilius to “live with Laelius;”2 that is, to take his life as a model.
The friendship of Laelius and the younger Scipio Africanus well deserves the commemoration which it has in this dialogue of Cicero. It began in their boyhood, and continued without interruption till Scipio’s death. Laelius served in Africa, mainly that he might not be separated from his friend. To each the other’s home was as his own. They were of one mind as to public men and measures, and in all probability the more pliant nature of Laelius yielded in great measure to the stern and uncompromising adherence of Scipio to the cause of the aristocracy. While they were united in grave pursuits and weighty interests, we have the most charming pictures of their rural and seaside life together, even of their gathering shells on the shore, and of fireside frolics in which they forgot the cares of the republic, ceased to be stately old Romans, and played like children in vacation-time.
FANNIUS.
Caius Fannius Strabo in early life served with high reputation in Africa, under the younger Africanus, and afterward in Spain, in the war with Viriathus. Like his father-in-law, he was versed in the philosophy of the Stoic school, under the tuition of Panaetius. He was an orator, as were almost all the Romans who aimed at distinction; but we have no reason to suppose that he in this respect rose above mediocrity. He wrote a history, of which Cicero speaks well, and which Sallust commends for its accuracy; but it is entirely lost, and we have no direct information even as to the ground which it covered. It seems probable, however, that it was a history either of the third of the Punic wars, or of all of them; for Plutarch quotes from him — probably from his History — the statement that he, Fannius, and Tiberius Gracchus were the first to mount the walls of Carthage when the city was taken.
SCAEVOLA.
Quintus Mucius Scaevola filled successively most of the important offices of the State, and was for many years, and until death, a member of the college of Augurs. He was eminent for his legal learning, and to a late and infirm old age was still consulted in questions of law, never refusing to receive clients at any moment after daylight. But while he was regarded as foremost among the jurists of his time, he professed himself less thoroughly versed in the laws relating to mortgages than two of his coevals, to whom he was wont to send those who brought cases of this class for his opinion or advice. He was remarkable for early rising, constant industry, and undeviating punctuality, — at the meetings of the Senate being always the first on the ground.
No man held a higher reputation than Scaevola for rigid and scrupulous integrity. It is related of him that when as a witness in court he had given testimony full, clear, strong, and of the most damnatory character against the person on trial, he protested against the conviction of the defendant on his testimony, if not corroborated, on the principle held sacred in the Jewish law, that it would be a dangerous precedent to suffer the issue of any case to depend on the intelligence and veracity of a single witness. When, after Marius had been driven from the city, Sulla asked the Senate to declare him by their vote a public enemy, Scaevola stood in a minority of one; and when Sulla urged him to give his vote in the affirmative, his reply was: “Although you show me the military guard with which you have surrounded the Senate-house, although you threaten me with death, you will never induce me, for the little blood still in an old man’s veins, to pronounce Marius — who has been the preserver of the city and of Italy — an enemy.”
His daughter married Lucius Licinius Crassus, who had such reverence for his father-in-law, that, when a candidate for the consulship, he could not persuade himself in the presence of Scaevola to cringe to the people, or to adopt any of the usual self-humiliating methods of canvassing for the popular vote.
SCIPIO’S DREAM.
Palimpsests1 — the name and the thing — are at least as old as Cicero. In one of his letters he banters his friend Trebatius for writing to him on a palimpsest,2 and marvels what there could have been on the parchment which he wanted to erase. This was a device probably resorted to in that age only in the way in which rigid economists of our day sometimes utilize envelopes and handbills. But in the dark ages, when classical literature was under a cloud and a ban, and when the scanty demand for writing materials made the supply both scanty and precarious, such manuscripts of profane authors as fell into the hands of ecclesiastical copyists were not unusually employed for transcribing the works of the Christian Fathers or the lives of saints. In such cases the erasion was so clumsily performed as often to leave distinct traces of the previous letters. The possibility of recovering lost writings from these palimpsests was first suggested by Montfaucon in the seventeenth century; but the earliest successful experiment of the kind was made by Bruns, a German scholar, in the latter part of the eighteenth century. The most distinguished laborer in this field has been Angelo Mai, who commenced his work in 1814 on manuscripts in the Ambrosian Library at Milan, of which he was then custodian. Transferred to the Vatican Library at Rome, he discovered there, in 1821, a considerable portion of Cicero’s De Republica, which had been obliterated, and replaced by Saint Augustine’s Commentary on the Psalms. This latter being removed by appropriate chemical applications, large portions of the original writing remained legible, and were promptly given to the public.
This treatise Cicero evidently considered, and not without reason, as his master-work. It was written in the prime of his mental vigor, in the fifty-fourth year of his age, after ample experience in the affairs of State, and while he still hoped more than he feared for the future of Rome. His object was to discuss in detail the principles and forms of civil government, to define the grounds of preference for a republic like that of Rome in its best days, and to describe the duties and responsibilities of a good citizen, whether in public office or in private life. He regarded this treatise, in its ethics, as his own directory in the government of his province of Cilicia, and as binding him, by the law of self-consistency, to unswerving uprightness and faithfulness. He refers to these six books on the Republic as so many hostages1 for his uncorrupt integrity and untarnished honor, and makes them his apology to Atticus for declining to urge an extortionate demand on the city of Salamis.
The work is in the form of Dialogues, in which, with several interlocutors beside, the younger Africanus and Laelius are the chief speakers; and it is characterized by the same traits of dramatic genius to which I have referred in connection with the De Amicitia.
The De Republica was probably under interdict during the reigns of the Augustan dynasty; men did not dare to copy it, or to have it known that they possessed it; and when it might have safely reappeared, the republic had faded even from regretful memory, and there was no desire to perpetuate a work devoted to its service and honor. Thus the world had lost the very one of all Cicero’s writings for which he most craved immortality. The portions of it which Mai has brought to light fully confirm Cicero’s own estimate of its value, and feed the earnest — it is to be feared the vain — desire for the recovery of the entire work.
Scipio’s Dream, which is nearly all that remains of the Sixth Book of the De Republica, had survived during the interval for which the rest of the treatise was lost to the world. Macrobius, a grammarian of the fifth century, made it the text of a commentary of little present interest or value, but much prized and read in the Middle Ages. The Dream, independently of the commentary, has in more recent times passed through unnumbered editions, sometimes by itself, sometimes with Cicero’s ethical writings, sometimes with the other fragments of the De Republica.
In the closing Dialogue of the De Republica the younger Africanus says: “Although to the wise the consciousness of noble deeds is a most ample reward of virtue, yet this divine virtue craves, not indeed statues that need lead to hold them to their pedestals, nor yet triumphs graced by withering laurels, but rewards of firmer structure and more enduring green.” “What are these?” says Laelius. Scipio replies by telling his dream. The time of the vision was near the beginning of the Third Punic War, when Scipio, no longer in his early youth, was just entering upon the career in which he gained pre-eminent fame, thenceforward to know neither shadow nor decline.
I have used for Scipio’s Dream, Creuzer and Moser’s edition of the De Republica.
CICERO DE AMICITIA.
1. Quintus Mucius, the Augur, used to repeat from memory, and in the most pleasant way, many of the sayings of his father-in-law, Caius Laelius, never hesitating to apply to him in all that he said his surname of The Wise. When I first put on the robe of manhood,1 my father took me to Scaevola, and so commended me to his kind offices, that thenceforward, so far as was possible and fitting, I kept my place at the old man’s side.2 I thus laid up in my memory many of his elaborate discussions of important subjects, as well as many of his utterances that had both brevity and point, and my endeavor was to grow more learned by his wisdom. After his death I stood in a similar relation to the high-priest Scaevola,1 whom I venture to call the foremost man of our city both in ability and in uprightness. But of him I will speak elsewhere. I return to the Augur. While I recall many similar occasions, I remember in particular that at a certain time when I and a few of his more intimate associates were sitting with him in the semicircular apartment2 in his house where he was wont to receive his friends, the conversation turned on a subject about which almost every one was then talking, and which you, Atticus, certainly recollect, as you were much in the society of Publius Sulpicius; namely, the intense hatred with which Sulpicius, when Tribune of the people, opposed Quintus Pompeius, then Consul,3 with whom he had lived in the closest and most loving union, — a subject of general surprise and regret. Having incidentally mentioned this affair, Scaevola proceeded to give us the substance of a conversation on friendship, which Laelius had with him and his other son-in-law, Caius Fannius, the son of Marcus, a few days after the death of Africanus. I committed to memory the sentiments expressed in that discussion, and I bring them out in the book which I now send you. I have put them into the form of a dialogue, to avoid the too frequent repetition of “said I” and “says he,” and that the discussion may seem as if it were held in the hearing of those who read it. While you, indeed, have often urged me to write something about friendship, the subject seems to me one of universal interest, and at the same time specially appropriate to our intimacy. I have therefore been very ready to seek the profit of many by complying with your request. But as in the Cato Major, the work on Old age inscribed to you, I introduced the old man Cato as leading the discussion, because there seemed to be no other person better fitted to talk about old age than one who had been an aged man so long, and in his age had been so exceptionally vigorous, so, as we had heard from our fathers of the peculiarly memorable intimacy of Caius Laelius and Publius Scipio, it appeared appropriate to put into the mouth of Laelius what Scaevola remembered as having been said by him when friendship was the subject in hand. Moreover, this method of treatment, resting on the authority of men of an earlier generation, and illustrious in their time, seems somehow to be of specially commanding influence on the reader’s mind. Thus, as I read my own book on Old Age, I am sometimes so affected that I feel as if not I, but Cato, were talking. But as I then wrote as an old man to an old man about old age, so in this book I write as the most loving of friends to a friend about friendship.1 Then Cato was the chief speaker, than whom there was in his time scarcely any one older, and no one his superior in intellect; now Laelius shall hold the first place, both as a wise man (for so he was regarded), and as excelling in all that can do honor to friendship. I want you for the while to turn your mind away from me, and to imagine that it is Laelius who is speaking. Caius Fannius and Quintus Mucius come to their father-in-law after the death of Africanus. They commence the conversation; Laelius answers them. In reading all that he says about friendship, you will recognize the picture of your own friendship for me.
2. Fannius. It is as you say,2 Laelius; for there never was a better man, or one more justly renowned, than Africanus. But you ought to bear it in mind that the eyes of all are turned upon you at this time; for they both call you and think you wise. This distinction has been latterly given to Cato, and you know that in the days of our fathers Lucius Atilius1 was in like manner surnamed The Wise; but both of them were so called for other reasons than those which have given you this name, — Atilius, for his reputation as an adept in municipal law; Cato, for the versatility of his endowments: for there were reported to his honor many measures wisely planned and vigorously carried through in the Senate, and many cases skilfully defended in the courts, so that in his old age The Wise was generally applied to him as a surname. But you are regarded as wise on somewhat different grounds, not only for your disposition and your moral worth, but also for your knowledge and learning; and not in the estimation of the common people, but in that of men of advanced culture, you are deemed wise in a sense in which there is reason to suppose that in Greece — where those who look into these things most discriminatingly do not reckon the seven who bear the name as on the list of wise men — no one was so regarded except the man in Athens whom the oracle of Apollo designated as the wisest of men.2 In fine, you are thought to be wise in this sense, that you regard all that appertains to your happiness as within your own soul, and consider the calamities to which man is liable as of no consequence in comparison with virtue. I am therefore asked, and so, I believe, is Scaevola, who is now with us, how you bear the death of Africanus; and the question is put to us the more eagerly, because on the fifth day of the month next following,1 when we met, as usual, in the garden of Decimus Brutus the Augur, to discuss our official business, you were absent, though it was your habit always on that day to give your most careful attendance to the duties of your office.
Scaevola. As Fannius says, Caius Laelius, many have asked me this question. But I answered in accordance with what I have seen, that you were bearing with due moderation your sorrow for the death of this your most intimate friend, though you, with your kindly nature, could not fail to be moved by it; but that your absence from the monthly meeting of the Augurs was due to illness, not to grief.
Laelius. You were in the right, Scaevola, and spoke the truth; for it was not fitting, had I been in good health, for me to be detained by my own sad feeling from this duty, which I have never failed to discharge; nor do I think that a man of firm mind can be so affected by any calamity as to neglect his duty. It is, indeed, friendly in you, Fannius, to tell me that better things are said of me than I feel worthy of or desire to have said; but it seems to me that you underrate Cato. For either there never was a wise man (and so I am inclined to think), or if there has been such a man, Cato deserves the name. To omit other things, how nobly did he bear his son’s death! I remembered Paulus,1 I had seen Gallus,2 in their bereavements. But they lost boys; Cato, a man in his prime and respected by all.3 Beware how you place in higher esteem than Cato even the man whom Apollo, as you say, pronounced superlatively wise; for it is the deeds of Cato, the sayings of Socrates, that are held in honor. Thus far in reply to Fannius. As regards myself, I will now answer both of you.
3. Were I to deny that I feel the loss of Scipio, while I leave it to those who profess themselves wise in such matters to say whether I ought to feel it, I certainly should be uttering a falsehood. I do indeed feel my bereavement of such a friend as I do not expect ever to have again, and as I am sure I never had beside. But I need no comfort from without; I console myself, and, chief of all, I find comfort in my freedom from the apprehension that oppresses most men when their friends die; for I do not think that any evil has befallen Scipio. If evil has befallen, it is to me. But to be severely afflicted by one’s own misfortunes is the token of self-love, not of friendship. As for him, indeed, who can deny that the issue has been to his pre-eminent glory? Unless he had wished — what never entered into his mind — an endless life on earth, what was there within human desire that did not accrue to the man who in his very earliest youth by his incredible ability and prowess surpassed the highest expectations that all had formed of his boyhood; who never sought the consulship, yet was made consul twice, the first time before the legal age,1 the second time in due season as to himself, but almost too late for his country;2 who by the overthrow of two cities implacably hostile to the Roman empire put a period, not only to the wars that were, but to wars that else must have been? What shall I say of the singular affability of his manners, of his filial piety to his mother,1 of his generosity to his sisters,2 of his integrity in his relations with all men? How dear he was to the community was shown by the grief at his funeral. What benefit, then, could he have derived from a few more years? For, although old age be not burdensome, — as I remember that Cato, the year before he died, maintained in a conversation with me and Scipio,3 — it yet impairs the fresh vigor which Scipio had not begun to lose. Thus his life was such that nothing either in fortune or in fame could be added to it; while the suddenness of his death must have taken away the pain of dying. Of the mode of his death it is hard to speak with certainty; you are aware what suspicions are abroad.1 But this may be said with truth, that of the many days of surpassing fame and happiness which Publius Scipio saw in his lifetime, the most glorious was the day before his death, when, on the adjournment of the Senate, he was escorted home by the Conscript Fathers, the Roman people, the men of Latium, and the allies,2 — so that from so high a grade of honor he seems to have passed on into the assembly of the gods rather than to have gone down into the underworld.
4. For I am far from agreeing with those who have of late promulgated the opinion that the soul perishes with the body, and that death blots out the whole being.1 I, on the other hand, attach superior value to the authority of the ancients, whether that of our ancestors who established religious rites for the dead, which they certainly would not have done if they had thought the dead wholly unconcerned in such observances;2 or that of the former Greek colonists in this country, who by their schools and teaching made Southern Italy3 — now in its decline, then flourishing — a seat of learning; or that of him whom the oracle of Apollo pronounced the wisest of men, who said not one thing to-day, another to-morrow, as many do, but the same thing always, maintaining that the souls of men are divine, and that when they go out from the body, the return to heaven is open to them, and direct and easy in proportion to their integrity and excellence. This was also the opinion of Scipio, who seemed prescient of the event so near, when, a very short time before his death, he discoursed for three successive days about the republic in the presence of Philus, Manilius, and several others, — you, Scaevola, having gone with me to the conferences, — and near the close of the discussion he told us what he said that he had heard from Africanus in a vision during sleep.1 If it is true that the soul of every man of surpassing excellence takes flight, as it were, from the custody and bondage of the body, to whom can we imagine the way to the gods more easy than to Scipio? I therefore fear to mourn for this his departure, lest in such grief there be more of envy than of friendship. But if truth incline to the opinion that soul and body have the same end, and that there is no remaining consciousness, then, as there is nothing good in death, there certainly is nothing of evil. For if consciousness be lost, the case is the same with Scipio as if he had never been born, though that he was born I have so ample reason to rejoice, and this city will be glad so long as it shall stand. Thus in either event, with him, as I have said, all has issued well, though with great discomfort for me, who more fittingly, as I entered into life before him, ought to have left it before him. But I so enjoy the memory of our friendship, that I seem to have owed the happiness of my life to my having lived with Scipio, with whom I was united in the care of public interests and of private affairs, who was my companion at home and served by my side in the army,1 and with whom — and therein lies the special virtue of friendship — I was in perfect harmony of purpose, taste, and sentiment. Thus I am now not so much delighted by the reputation for wisdom of which Fannius has just spoken, especially as I do not deserve it, as by the hope that our friendship will live in eternal remembrance; and this I have the more at heart because from all ages scarce three or four pairs of friends are on record,2 on which list I cannot but hope that the friendship of Scipio and Laelius will be known to posterity.
Fannius. It cannot fail, Laelius, to be as you desire. But since you have made mention of friendship, and we are at leisure, you will confer on me a very great favor, and, I trust, on Scaevola too, if, as you are wont to do on other subjects when your opinion is asked, you will discourse to us on friendship, and tell us what you think about it, in what estimation you hold it, and what rules you would give for it.
Scaevola. This will indeed be very gratifying to me, and had not Fannius anticipated me, I was about to make the same request. You thus will bestow a great kindness on both of us.
5. Laelius. I certainly would not hesitate, if I had confidence in my own powers; for the subject is one of the highest importance, and, as Fannius says, we are at leisure. It is the custom of philosophers, especially among the Greeks, to have subjects assigned to them which they discuss even without premeditation.1 This is a great accomplishment, and requires no small amount of exercise. I therefore think that you ought to seek the treatment of friendship by those who profess this art. I can only advise you to prefer friendship to all things else within human attainment, insomuch as nothing beside is so well fitted to nature, — so well adapted to our needs whether in prosperous or in adverse circumstances. But I consider this as a first principle, — that friendship can exist only between good men. In thus saying, I would not be so rigid in definition1 as those who establish specially subtle distinctions,2 with literal truth it may be, but with little benefit to the common mind; for they will not admit that any man who is not wise is a good man. This may indeed be true. But they understand by wisdom a state which no mortal has yet attained; while we ought to look at those qualities which are to be found in actual exercise and in common life, not at those which exist only in fancy or in aspiration. Caius Fabricius, Manius Curius, Tiberius Coruncanius, wise as they were in the judgment of our fathers, I will consent not to call wise by the standard of these philosophers. Let them keep for themselves the name of wisdom, which is invidious and of doubtful meaning, if they will only admit that these may have been good men. But they will not grant even this; they insist on denying the name of good to any but the wise. I therefore adopt the standard of common sense.3 Those who so conduct themselves, so live, that their good faith, integrity, equity, and kindness win approval, who are entirely free from avarice, lust, and the infirmities of a hasty temper, and in whom there is perfect consistency of character; in fine, men like those whom I have named, while they are regarded as good, ought to be so called, because to the utmost of human capacity they follow Nature, who is the best guide in living well. Indeed, it seems to me thoroughly evident that there should be a certain measure of fellowship among all, but more intimate the nearer we approach one another. Thus this feeling has more power between fellow-citizens than toward foreigners, between kindred than between those of different families. Toward our kindred, Nature herself produces a certain kind of friendship. But this lacks strength; and indeed friendship, in its full sense, has precedence of kinship in this particular, that good-will may be taken away from kinship, not from friendship; for when good-will is removed, friendship loses its name, while that of kinship remains. How great is the force of friendship we may best understand from this, — that out of the boundless society of the human race which Nature has constituted, the sense of fellowship is so contracted and narrowed that the whole power of loving is bestowed on the union of two or a very few friends.
6. Friendship is nothing else than entire fellow-feeling as to all things, human and divine, with mutual good-will and affection;1 and I doubt whether anything better than this, wisdom alone excepted, has been given to man by the immortal gods. Some prefer riches to it; some, sound health; some, power; some, posts of honor; many, even sensual gratification. This last properly belongs to beasts; the others are precarious and uncertain, dependent not on our own choice so much as on the caprice of Fortune. Those, indeed, who regard virtue as the supreme good are entirely in the right; but it is virtue itself that produces and sustains friendship, nor without virtue can friendship by any possibility exist. In saying this, however, I would interpret virtue in accordance with our habits of speech and of life; not defining it, as some philosophers do, by high-sounding words, but numbering on the list of good men those who are commonly so regarded, — the Pauli, the Catos, the Galli, the Scipios, the Phili. Mankind in general are content with these. Let us then leave out of the account such good men as are nowhere to be found. Among such good men as there really are, friendship has more advantages than I can easily name. In the first place, as Ennius says: —
- “How can life be worth living, if devoid
- Of the calm trust reposed by friend in friend?
- What sweeter joy than in the kindred soul,
- Whose converse differs not from self-communion?”
How could you have full enjoyment of prosperity, unless with one whose pleasure in it was equal to your own? Nor would it be easy to bear adversity, unless with the sympathy of one on whom it rested more heavily than on your own soul. Then, too, other objects of desire are, in general, adapted, each to some specific purpose, — wealth, that you may use it; power, that you may receive the homage of those around you; posts of honor, that you may obtain reputation; sensual gratification, that you may live in pleasure; health, that you may be free from pain, and may have full exercise of your bodily powers and faculties. But friendship combines the largest number of utilities. Wherever you turn, it is at hand. No place shuts it out. It is never unseasonable, never annoying. Thus, as the proverb says, “You cannot put water or fire to more uses than friendship serves.” I am not now speaking of the common and moderate type of friendship, which yet yields both pleasure and profit, but of true and perfect friendship, like that which existed in the few instances that are held in special remembrance. Such friendship at once enhances the lustre of prosperity, and by dividing and sharing adversity lessens its burden.
7. Moreover, while friendship comprises the greatest number and variety of beneficent offices, it certainly has this special prerogative, that it lights up a good hope for the time to come, and thus preserves the minds that it sustains from imbecility or prostration in misfortune. For he, indeed, who looks into the face of a friend beholds, as it were, a copy of himself. Thus the absent are present, and the poor are rich, and the weak are strong, and — what seems stranger still1 — the dead are alive, such is the honor, the enduring remembrance, the longing love, with which the dying are followed by the living; so that the death of the dying seems happy, the life of the living full of praise.2 But if from the condition of human life you were to exclude all kindly union, no house, no city, could stand, nor, indeed, could the tillage of the field survive. If it is not perfectly understood what virtue there is in friendship and concord, it may be learned from dissension and discord. For what house is so stable, what state so firm, that it cannot be utterly overturned by hatred and strife? Hence it may be ascertained how much good there is in friendship. It is said that a certain philosopher of Agrigentum1 sang in Greek verse that it is friendship that draws together and discord that parts all things which subsist in harmony, and which have their various movements in nature and in the whole universe. The worth and power of friendship, too, all mortals understand, and attest by their approval in actual instances. Thus, if there comes into conspicuous notice an occasion on which a friend incurs or shares the perils of his friend, who can fail to extol the deed with the highest praise? What shouts filled the whole theatre at the performance of the new play of my guest2 and friend Marcus Pacuvius, when — the king not knowing which of the two was Orestes — Pylades said that he was Orestes, while Orestes persisted in asserting that he was, as in fact he was, Orestes!1 The whole assembly rose in applause at this mere fictitious representation. What may we suppose that they would have done, had the same thing occurred in real life? In that case Nature herself displayed her power, when men recognized that as rightly done by another, which they would not have had the courage to do themselves. Thus far, to the utmost of my ability as it seems to me, I have given you my sentiments concerning friendship. If there is more to be said, as I think that there is, endeavor to obtain it, if you see fit, of those who are wont to discuss such subjects.
Fannius. But we would rather have it from you. Although I have often consulted those philosophers also, and have listened to them not unwillingly, yet the thread of your discourse differs somewhat from that of theirs.
Scaevola. You would say so all the more, Fannius, had you been present in Scipio’s garden at that discussion about the republic, and heard what an advocate of justice he showed himself in answer to the elaborate speech of Philus.1
Fannius. It was indeed easy for the man pre-eminently just to defend justice.
Scaevola. As to friendship, then, is not its defence easy for him who has won the highest celebrity on the ground of friendship maintained with pre-eminent faithfulness, consistency, and probity?
8. Laelius. This is, indeed, the employing of force; for what matters the way in which you compel me? You at any rate do compel me; for it is both hard and unfair not to comply with the wishes of one’s sons-in-law, especially in a case that merits favorable consideration.
In reflecting, then, very frequently on friendship, the foremost question that is wont to present itself is, whether friendship is craved on account of conscious infirmity and need, so that in bestowing and receiving the kind offices that belong to it each may have that done for him by the other which he is least able to do for himself, reciprocating services in like manner; or whether, though this relation of mutual benefit is the property of friendship, it has yet another cause, more sacred and more noble, and derived more genuinely from the very nature of man. Love, which in our language gives name to friendship,1 bears a chief part in unions of mutual benefit; for a revenue of service is levied even on those who are cherished in pretended friendship, and are treated with regard from interested motives. But in friendship there is nothing feigned, nothing pretended, and whatever there is in it is both genuine and spontaneous. Friendship, therefore, springs from nature rather than from need, — from an inclination of the mind with a certain consciousness of love rather than from calculation of the benefit to be derived from it. Its real quality may be discerned even in some classes of animals, which up to a certain time so love their offspring, and are so loved by them, that the mutual feeling is plainly seen, — a feeling which is much more clearly manifest in man, first, in the affection which exists between children and parents, and which can be dissolved only by atrocious guilt; and in the next place, in the springing up of a like feeling of love, when we find some one of manners and character congenial with our own, who becomes dear to us because we seem to see in him an illustrious example of probity and virtue. For there is nothing more lovable than virtue, — nothing which more surely wins affectionate regard, insomuch that on the score of virtue and probity we love even those whom we have never seen. Who is there that does not recall the memory of Caius Fabricius, of Manius Curius, of Tiberius Coruncanius, whom he never saw, with some good measure of kindly feeling? On the other hand, who is there that can fail to hate Tarquinius Superbus, Spurius Cassius, Spurius Maelius? Our dominion in Italy was at stake in wars under two commanders, Pyrrhus and Hannibal. On account of the good faith of the one, we hold him in no unfriendly remembrance;1 the other because of his cruelty our people must always hate.2
9. But if good faith has such attractive power that we love it in those whom we have never seen, or — what means still more — in an enemy, what wonder is it if the minds of men are moved to affection when they behold the virtue and goodness of those with whom they can become intimately united?
Love is, indeed, strengthened by favors received, by witnessing assiduity in one’s service, and by habitual intercourse; and when these are added to the first impulse of the mind toward love, there flames forth a marvellously rich glow of affectionate feeling. If there are any who think that this proceeds from conscious weakness and the desire to have some person through whom one can obtain what he lacks, they assign, indeed, to friendship a mean and utterly ignoble origin, born, as they would have it, of poverty and neediness. If this were true, then the less of resource one was conscious of having in himself, the better fitted would he be for friendship. The contrary is the case; for the more confidence a man has in himself, and the more thoroughly he is fortified by virtue and wisdom, so that he is in need of no one, and regards all that concerns him as in his own keeping, the more noteworthy is he for the friendships which he seeks and cherishes. What? Did Africanus need me? Not in the least, by Hercules. As little did I need him. But I was drawn to him by admiration of his virtue, while he, in turn, loved me, perhaps, from some favorable estimate of my character; and intimacy increased our mutual affection. But though utilities many and great resulted from our friendship, the cause of our mutual love did not proceed from the hope of what it might bring. For as we are beneficent and generous, not in order to exact kindnesses in return (for we do not put our kind offices to interest), but are by nature inclined to be generous, so, in my opinion, friendship is not to be sought for its wages, but because its revenue consists entirely in the love which it implies. Those, however, who, after the manner of beasts, refer everything to pleasure,1 think very differently. Nor is it wonderful that they do; for men who have degraded all their thoughts to so mean and contemptible an end can rise to the contemplation of nothing lofty, nothing magnificent and divine. We may, therefore, leave them out of this discussion. But let us have it well understood that the feeling of love and the endearments of mutual affection spring from nature, in case there is a well-established assurance of moral worth in the person thus loved. Those who desire to become friends approach each other, and enter into relation with each other, that each may enjoy the society and the character of him whom he has begun to love; and they are equal in love, and on either side are more inclined to bestow obligations than to claim a return, so that in this matter there is an honorable rivalry between them. Thus will the greatest benefits be derived from friendship, and it will have a more solid and genuine foundation as tracing its origin to nature than if it proceeded from human weakness. For if it were utility that cemented friendships, an altered aspect of utility would dissolve them. But because nature cannot be changed, therefore true friendships are eternal. This may suffice for the origin of friendship, unless you have, perchance, some objection to what I have said.
Fannius. Go on, Laelius. I answer by the right of seniority for Scaevola, who is younger than I am.
Scaevola. I am of the same mind with you. Let us, then, hear farther.
10. Laelius. Hear, then, my excellent friends, the substance of the frequent discussions on friendship between Scipio and me. He, indeed, said1 that nothing is more difficult than for friendship to last through life; for friends happen to have conflicting interests, or different political opinions. Then, again, as he often said, characters change, sometimes under adverse conditions, sometimes with growing years. He cited also the analogy of what takes place in early youth, the most ardent loves of boyhood being often laid aside with its robe. But if friendships last on into opening manhood, they are not infrequently broken up by rivalry in quest of a wife, or in the pursuit of some advantage which only one can obtain.1 Then, if friendships are of longer duration, they yet, as Scipio said, are liable to be undermined by competition for office; and indeed there is nothing more fatal to friendship than, in very many cases, the greed of gain, and among some of the best of men the contest for place and fame, which has often engendered the most intense enmity between those who had been the closest friends. Strong and generally just aversion, also, springs up when anything morally wrong is required of a friend; as when he is asked to aid in the gratification of impure desire, or to render his assistance in some unrighteous act, — in which case those who refuse, although their conduct is highly honorable, are yet charged by the persons whom they will not serve with being false to the claims of friendship, while those who dare to make such a demand of a friend profess, by the very demand, that they are ready to do anything and everything for a friend’s sake. By such quarrels, not only are old intimacies often dissolved, but undying hatreds generated. So many of these perils hang like so many fates over friendship, that to escape them all seemed to Scipio, as he said, to indicate not wisdom alone, but equally a rare felicity of fortune.
11. Let us then, first, if you please, consider how far the love of friends ought to go. If Coriolanus had friends, ought they to have helped him in fighting against his country, or should the friends of Viscellinus1 or those of Spurius Maelius1 have aided them in the endeavor to usurp regal power? We saw, indeed, Tiberius Gracchus, when he was disturbing the peace of the State, deserted by Quintus Tubero and others with whom he had been on terms of intimacy. But Caius Blossius, of Cumae, the guest,2 Scaevola, of your family, coming to me, when I was in conference with the Consuls Laenas and Rupilius, to implore pardon, urged the plea that he held Tiberius Gracchus in so dear esteem that he felt bound to do whatever he desired. I then asked him, “Even if he had wanted you to set fire to the Capitol, would you have done it?” He replied, “He never would have made such a request.” “But if he had?” said I. “I would have obeyed him,” was the answer. And, by Hercules, he did as he said, or even more; for he did not so much yield obedience to the audacious schemes of Tiberius Gracchus, as he was foremost in them; he was not so much the companion of his madness, as its leader. Therefore, in consequence of this folly, alarmed by the appointment of special judges for his trial, he fled to Asia, entered the service of our enemies, and finally met the heavy and just punishment for his disloyalty to his country.1 It is, then, no excuse for wrong-doing that you do wrong for the sake of a friend. Indeed, since it may have been a belief in your virtue that has made one your friend, it is hard for friendship to last if you fall away from virtue. But if we should determine either to concede to friends whatever they may ask, or to exact from them whatever we may desire, we and they must be endowed with perfect wisdom, in order for our friendship to be blameless. We are speaking, however, of such friends as we have before our eyes, or as we have seen or have known by report, — of such as are found in common life. It is from these that we must take our examples, especially from such of them as make the nearest approach to perfect wisdom. We have learned from our fathers that Papus Aemilius was very intimate with Caius Luscinus, they having twice been consuls together, as well as colleagues in the censorship; and it is said also that Manius Curius and Tiberius Coruncanius lived in the closest friendship both with them and with each other. Now we cannot suspect that either of these men would have asked of one of his friends anything inconsistent with good faith, or with an engagement sanctioned by oath, or with his duty to the State. Indeed, to what purpose is it to say that among such men if one had asked anything wrong, he would not have obtained it? For they were men of the most sacred integrity; while to ask anything wrong of a friend and to do it when asked are alike tokens of deep depravity. But Caius Carbo and Caius Cato were the followers of Tiberius Gracchus, as was his brother Caius, at first with little ardor, but now1 most zealously.
12. As to friendship, then, let this law be enacted, that we neither ask of a friend what is wrong, nor do what is wrong at a friend’s request. The plea that it was for a friend’s sake is a base apology, — one that should never be admitted with regard to other forms of guilt, and certainly not as to crimes against the State. We, indeed, Fannius and Scaevola, are so situated that we ought to look far in advance for the perils that our country may incur. Already has our public policy deviated somewhat from the method and course of our ancestors. Tiberius Gracchus attempted to exercise supreme power; nay, he really reigned for a few months. What like this had the Roman people ever heard or seen before? What, after his death, the friends and kindred who followed him did in their revenge on Publius Scipio1 I cannot say without tears. We put up with Carbo2 as well as we could in consideration of the recent punishment of Tiberius Gracchus; but I am in no mood to predict what is to be expected from the tribuneship of Caius Gracchus. Meanwhile the evil is creeping upon us, from its very beginning fraught with threats of ruin. Before recent events,3 you perceive how much degeneracy was indicated in the legalizing of the ballot, first by the Gabinian,4 then two years later by the Cassian law.5 I seem already to see the people utterly alienated from the Senate, and the most important affairs determined by the will of the multitude; for more persons will learn how these things are brought about than how they may be resisted. To what purpose am I saying this? Because no one makes such attempts without associates. It is therefore to be enjoined on good men that they must not think themselves so bound that they cannot renounce their friends when they are guilty of crimes against the State. But punishment must be inflicted on all who are implicated in such guilt, — on those who follow, no less than on those who lead. Who in Greece was more renowned than Themistocles? Who had greater influence than he had? When as commander in the Persian war he had freed Greece from bondage, and for envy of his fame was driven into exile, he did not bear as he ought the ill treatment of his ungrateful country. He did what Coriolanus had done with us twenty years before. Neither of these men found any helper against his country;1 they therefore both committed suicide.1 Association with depraved men for such an end is not, then, to be shielded by the plea of friendship, but rather to be avenged by punishment of the utmost severity, so that no one may ever think himself authorized to follow a friend to the extent of making war upon his country, — an extremity which, indeed, considering the course that our public affairs have begun to take, may, for aught I know, be reached at some future time. I speak thus because I feel no less concern for the fortunes of the State after my death than as to its present condition.
13. Let this, then, be enacted as the first law of friendship, that we demand of friends only what is right, and that we do for the sake of friends only what is right.2 This understood, let us not wait to be asked. Let there be constant assiduity and no loitering in a friend’s service. Let us also dare to give advice freely; for in friendship the authority of friends who give good counsel may be of the greatest value. Let admonition be administered, too, not only in plain terms, but even with severity, if need be, and let heed be given to such admonition.
On this subject some things that appear to me strange have, as I am told, been maintained by certain Greeks who are accounted as philosophers, and are so skilled in sophistry that there is nothing which they cannot seem to prove. Some of them hold that very intimate friendships are to be avoided; that there is no need that one feel solicitude for others; that it is enough and more than enough to take care of your own concerns, and annoying to be involved to any considerable extent in affairs not belonging to you; that the best way is to have the reins of friendship as loose as possible, so that you can tighten them or let them go at pleasure; for, according to them, ease is the chief essential to happy living, and this the mind cannot enjoy, if it bears, as it were, the pains of travail in behalf of a larger or smaller circle of friends.1 Others,1 I am told, with even much less of true human feeling, teach what I touched upon briefly a little while ago, that friendships are to be sought for defence and help, not on account of good-will and affection. The less of self-confidence and the less of strength one has, the more is he inclined to make friends. Thus it is that women2 seek the support of friendship more than men do, the poor more than the rich, the unfortunate more than those who seem happy. Oh, pre-eminent wisdom! It is like taking the sun out of the world, to bereave human life of friendship, than which the immortal gods have given man nothing better, nothing more gladdening. What is the ease of which they speak? It is indeed pleasing in aspect, but on many occasions it is to be renounced; for it is not fitting, in order to avoid solicitude, either to refuse to undertake any right cause or act, or to drop it after it is undertaken. If we flee from care, we must flee from virtue, which of necessity with no little care spurns and abhors its opposites, as goodness spurns and abhors wickedness; temperance, excess; courage, cowardice. Thus you may see that honest men are excessively grieved by the dishonest, the brave by the pusillanimous, those who lead sober lives by the dissolute. It is indeed characteristic of a well-ordered mind to rejoice in what is good and to be grieved by the opposite. If, then, pain of mind fall to the lot of a wise man, as it must of necessity unless we imagine his mind divested of its humanity, why should we take friendship wholly out of life, lest we experience some little trouble on account of it? Yet more; if emotion be eliminated, what difference is there, I say not between a man and a brute, but between a man and a rock, or the trunk of a tree, or any inanimate object? Nor are those to be listened to, who regard virtue as something hard and iron-like.1 As in many other matters, so in friendship, it is tender and flexible, so that it expands, as it were, with a friend’s well-being, and shrinks when his peace is disturbed. Therefore the pain which must often be incurred on a friend’s account is not of sufficient moment to banish friendship from human life, any more than the occasional care and trouble which the virtues bring should be a reason for renouncing them.
14. Since virtue attracts friendship, as I have said, if there shines forth any manifestation of virtue with which a mind similarly disposed can come into contact and union, from such intercourse love must of necessity spring. For what is so absurd as to be charmed with many things that have no substantial worth, as with office, fame, architecture, dress, and genteel appearance, but not to be in any wise charmed by a mind endowed with virtue, and capable of either loving, or — if I may use the word — re-loving?1 Nothing indeed yields a richer revenue than kind affections; nothing gives more delight than the interchange of friendly cares and offices. Then if we add, as we rightly may, that there is nothing which so allures and attracts aught else to itself as the likeness of character does to friendship, it will certainly be admitted that good men love good men and adopt them into fellowship, as if united with them by kindred and by nature. By nature, I say; for nothing is more craving or greedy of its like than nature. This, then, as I think, is evident, Fannius and Scaevola, that among the good toward the good there cannot but be mutual kind feeling, and in this we have a fountain of friendship established by nature.
But the same kind feeling extends to the community at large. For virtue is not unsympathetic, nor unserviceable,2 nor proud. It is wont even to watch over the well-being of whole nations, and to give them the wisest counsel, which it would not do if it had no love for the people.
Now those who maintain that friendships are formed from motives of utility annul, as it seems to me, the most endearing bond of friendship; for it is not so much benefit obtained through a friend as it is the very love of the friend that gives delight. What comes from a friend confers pleasure, only in case it bears tokens of his interest in us; and so far is it from the truth that friendships are cultivated from a sense of need, that those fully endowed with wealth and resources, especially with virtue, which is the surest safeguard, and thus in no need of friends, are the very persons who are the most generous and munificent. Indeed, I hardly know whether it may not be desirable that our friends should never have need of our services. Yet in the case of Scipio and myself, what room would there have been for the active exercise of my zeal in his behalf, had he never needed my counsel or help at home or in the field? In this instance, however, the service came after the friendship, not the friendship after the service.
15. If these things are so, men who are given up to pleasure are not to be listened to when they express their opinions about friendship, of which they can have no knowledge either by experience or by reflection. For, by the faith of gods and men, who is there that would be willing to have a super-abundance of all objects of desire and to live in the utmost fulness of wealth and what wealth can bring, on condition of neither loving any one nor being loved by any one? This, indeed, is the life of tyrants, in which there is no good faith, no affection, no fixed confidence in kindly feeling, perpetual suspicion and anxiety, and no room for friendship; for who can love either him whom he fears, or him by whom he thinks that he is feared? Yet they receive the show of homage, but only while the occasion for it lasts.1 If they chance to fall, as they commonly have fallen, they then ascertain how destitute of friends they have been, as Tarquin is reported to have said that he learned what faithful and what unfaithful friends he had, when he could no longer render back favors to those of either class, — although I wonder whether pride and insolence like his could have had any friends. Moreover, as his character could not have won real friends, so is the good fortune of many who occupy foremost places of influence so held as to preclude faithful friendships. Not only is Fortune blind, but she generally makes those blind whom she embraces. Thus they are almost always beside themselves under the influence of haughtiness and waywardness; nor can there be created anything more utterly insupportable than a fortune-favored fool. There are to be seen those who previously behaved with propriety who are changed by station, power, or prosperity, and who spurn their old friendships and lavish indulgence on the new. But what is more foolish than when men have resources, means, wealth at their fullest command, and can obtain horses, servants, splendid raiment, costly vases, whatever money can buy, for them not to procure friends, who are, if I may so speak, the best and the most beautiful furniture of human life? Other things which a man may procure know not him who procures them, nor do they labor for his sake, — indeed, they belong to him who can make them his by the right of superior strength. But every one has his own firm and sure possession of his friendships; while even if those things which seem the gifts of fortune remain, still life unadorned and deserted by friends cannot be happy. But enough has been said on this branch of our subject.
16. We must now determine the limits or bounds of friendship. On this subject I find three opinions proposed, neither of which has my approval, — the first, that we should do for our friends just what we would do for ourselves; the second, that our good offices to our friends should correspond in quantity and quality to those which they perform for us; the third, that one’s friends should value him according to his own self-estimate. I cannot give unqualified assent to either of these opinions. The first — that one should be ready to do for his friends precisely what he would do for himself — is inadmissible. How many things there are that we do for our friends which we should never do on our own account! — such as making a request, even an entreaty, of a man unworthy of respect, or inveighing against some person with a degree of bitterness, nay, in terms of vehement reproach. In fine, we are perfectly right in doing in behalf of a friend things that in our own case would be decidedly unbecoming. There are also many ways in which good men detract largely from their own comfort, or suffer it to be impaired, that a friend may have the enjoyment which they sacrifice. The second opinion is that which limits kind offices and good-will by the rule of equality. This is simply making friendship a matter of calculation, with the view of keeping a debtor and creditor account evenly balanced. To me friendship seems more affluent and generous, and not disposed to keep strict watch lest it may give more than it receives, and to fear that a part of its due may be spilled over or suffered to leak out, or that it may heap up its own measure over-full in return.1 But worst of all is the third limit, which prescribes that friends shall take a man’s opinion of himself as a measure for their estimate and treatment of him. There are some persons who are liable to fits of depression, or who have little hope of better fortune than the present. In such a case, it is the part of a friend, not to hold the position toward his friend which he holds toward himself, but to make the efficient endeavor to rouse him from his despondency, and to lead him to better hope and a more cheerful train of thought. It remains for me, then, to establish another limit of friendship. But first let me tell you what Scipio was wont to speak of with the severest censure. He maintained that no utterance could have been invented more inimical to friendship1 than that of him who said that one ought to love as if he were going at some future time to hate; nor could he be brought to believe that this maxim came, as was reported, from Bias, who was one of the seven wise men, but he regarded it as having proceeded from some sordid person, who was either inordinately ambitious, or desirous of bringing everything under his own control. For how can one be a friend to him to whom he thinks that he may possibly become an enemy? In this case one would of necessity desire and choose that his friend should commit offences very frequently, so as to give him, so to speak, the more numerous handles for fault-finding; and on the other hand one would be vexed, pained, aggrieved by all the right and fitting things that friends do. This precept, then, from whomsoever it came, amounts to the annulling of friendship. The proper rule should be, that we exercise so much caution in forming friendships, that we should never begin to love a friend whom it is possible that we should ever hate; but even in case we should have been unfortunate in our choice, Scipio thought that it would be wiser to bear the disappointment when it comes than to keep the contingency of future alienation in view.
17. I would then define the terms of friendship by saying that, where friends are of blameless character, there may fittingly be between them a community of all interests, plans, and purposes, without any exception, even so far that, if perchance there be occasion for furthering the not entirely right wishes of friends when life or reputation is at stake, one may in their behalf deviate somewhat from a perfectly straight course,1 yet not so far as to incur absolute dishonor. There is a point up to which a concession made to friendship is venial. But we are not bound to be careless of our own reputation, nor ought we to regard the esteem of our fellow-citizens as an instrument of small importance in the management of such affairs as devolve upon us, — an esteem which it is base to conciliate1 by flattery and fawning. Virtue, which has the sincere regard of the people as its consequence, is by no means to be sacrificed to friendship.
But, to return to Scipio, who was all the time talking about friendship, he often complained that men exercised greater care about all other matters; that one could always tell how many goats and sheep he had, but could not tell how many friends he had; and that men were careful in selecting their beasts, but were negligent in the choice of friends, and had nothing like marks and tokens1 by which to determine the fitness of friends.
Firm, steadfast, self-consistent men are to be chosen as friends, and of this kind of men there is a great dearth. It is very difficult to judge of character before we have tested it; but we can test it only after friendship is begun. Thus friendship is prone to outrun judgment, and to render a fair trial impossible. It is therefore the part of a wise man to arrest the impulse of kindly feeling, as we check a carriage in its course, that, as we use only horses that have been tried, so we may avail ourselves of friendships in which the characters of our friends have been somehow put to the test. Some readily show how fickle their friendship is in paltry pecuniary matters; others, whom a slight consideration of that kind cannot influence, betray themselves when a large amount is involved. But if some can be found who think it mean to prefer money to friendship, where shall we come upon those who do not put honors, civic offices, military commands, places of power and trust, before friendship, so that when these are offered on the one hand, and the claims of friendship on the other, they will much rather make choice of the objects of ambition? For nature is too feeble to despise a commanding station; and even though it be obtained by the violation of friendship, men think that this fault will be thrown into obscurity, because it was not without a weighty motive that they held friendship in abeyance. Thus true friendships are rare among those who are in public office, and concerned in the affairs of the State. For where will you find him who prefers a friend’s promotion to his own? What more shall I say? Not to dwell longer on the influence of ambition upon friendship, how burdensome, how difficult does it seem to most men to share misfortunes! to which it is not easy to find those who are willing to stoop. Although Ennius is right in saying,
“In unsure fortune a sure friend is seen,”
yet one of these two things convicts most persons of fickleness and weakness, — either their despising their friends when they themselves are prosperous, or deserting their friends in adversity.
18. Him, then, who alike in either event shall have shown himself unwavering, constant, firm in friendship, we ought to regard as of an exceedingly rare and almost divine order of men.
Still further, good faith is essential to the maintenance of the stability and constancy which we demand in friendship; for nothing that is unfaithful is stable. It is, moreover, fitting to choose for a friend one who is frank, affable, accommodating, interested in the same things with ourselves, — all which qualities come under the head of fidelity; for a changeful and wily disposition cannot be faithful, nor can he who has not like interests and a kindred nature with his friend be either faithful or stable. I ought to add that a friend should neither take pleasure in finding fault with his friend, nor give credit to the charges which others may bring against him, — all which is implied in the constancy of which I have been speaking. Thus we come back to the truth which I announced at the beginning of our conversation, that friendship can exist only between the good. It is, indeed, the part of a good or — what is the same thing — a wise man1 to adhere to these two principles in friendship, — first, that he tolerate no feigning or dissembling (for an ingenuous man will rather show even open hatred than hide his feeling by his face); and, secondly, that he not only repel charges made against his friend by others, but that he be not himself suspicious, and always thinking that his friend has done something unfriendly.
To these requisites there may well be added suavity of speech and manners, which is of no little worth as giving a relish to the intercourse of friendship. Rigidness and austerity of demeanor on every occasion indeed carry weight with them; but friendship ought to be more gentle and mild, and more inclined to all that is genial and affable.
19. There occurs here a question by no means difficult,1 whether at any time new friends worthy of our love are to be preferred to the old, as we are wont to prefer young horses to those that have passed their prime. Shame that there should be hesitation as to the answer! There ought to be no satiety of friendships, as there is rightly of many other things. The older a friendship is, the more precious should it be, as is the case with wines that will bear keeping;2 and there is truth in the proverb, that many pecks of salt must be eaten together to bring friendship to perfection.3 If new friendships offer the hope of fruit, like the young shoots in the grain-field that give promise of harvest, they are not indeed to be spurned; yet the old are to be kept in their place. There is very great power in long habit. To recur to the horse, there is no one who would not rather use the horse to which he has become accustomed, if he is still sound, than one unbroken and new. Nor has habit this power merely as to the movements of an animal; it prevails no less as to inanimate objects. We are charmed with the places, though mountainous and woody,1 where we have made a long sojourn. But what is most remarkable in friendship is that it puts a man on an equality with his inferior. For there often are in a circle of friends those who excel the rest, as was the case with Scipio in our flock, if I may use the word. He never assumed superiority over Philus, never over Rupilius, never over Mummius, never over friends of an order lower than his own. Indeed he always reverenced as a superior, because older than himself, his brother Quintus Maximus,2 a thoroughly worthy man, but by no means his equal; and in fact he wanted to make all his friends of the more consequence by whatever advantages he himself possessed. This example all ought to imitate, that if they have attained any superiority of virtue, genius, fortune, they may impart it to and share it with those with whom they are the most closely connected; and that if they are of humble parentage, and have kindred of slender ability or fortune, they may increase their means of well-being, and reflect honor and worth upon them, — as in fable those who were long in servile condition through ignorance of their parentage and race, when they were recognized and found to be sons either of gods or of kings, retained their love for the shepherds whom for many years they supposed to be their fathers. Much more ought the like to be done in the case of real and well-known fathers; for the best fruit of genius, and virtue, and every kind of excellence is reaped when it is thus bestowed on near kindred and friends.
20. Moreover, as among persons bound by ties of friendship and intimacy those who hold the higher place ought to bring themselves down to the same plane with their inferiors, so ought these last not to feel aggrieved because they are surpassed in ability, or fortune, or rank by their friends. Most of them, however, are always finding some ground of complaint, or even of reproach, especially if they can plead any service that they have rendered faithfully, in a friendly way, and with a certain amount of painstaking on their part. Such men, indeed, are hateful when they reproach their friends on the score of services which he on whom they were bestowed ought to bear in mind, but which it is unbecoming for him who conferred them to recount. Those who are superior ought, undoubtedly, not only to waive all pretension in friendly intercourse, but to do what they can to raise their humbler friends to their own level.1 There are some who give their friends trouble by imagining that they are held in low esteem, which, however, is not apt to be the case except with those who think meanly of themselves. Those who feel thus ought to be raised to a just self-esteem, not only by kind words, but by substantial service. But what you do for any one must be measured, first by your own ability, and then by the capacity of him whom you would favor and help. For, however great your influence may be, you cannot raise all your friends to the highest positions. Thus Scipio could effect the election of Publius Rupilius to the consulship; but he could not do the same for his brother Lucius.2 In general, friendships that are properly so called are formed between persons of mature years and established character; nor if young men have been fond of hunting or of ball-playing, is there any need of permanent attachment to those whom they then liked as associates in the same sport. On this principle our nurses and the slaves that led us to school will demand by right of priority the highest grade of affectionate regard, — persons, indeed, who are not to be neglected, but who are on a somewhat different footing from that of friends. Friendships formed solely from early associations cannot last; for differences of character grow out of a diversity of pursuits, and unlikeness of character dissolves friendships. Nor is there any reason why good men cannot be the friends of bad men, or bad men of good, except that the dissiliency of pursuits and of character between them is as great as it can be.
It is also a counsel worthy of heed, that excessive fondness be not suffered to interfere, as it does too often, with important services that a friend can render. To resort again to fable, Neoptolemus could not have taken Troy1 if he had chosen to comply with the wishes of Lycomedes, who brought him up, and who with many tears attempted to dissuade him from his expedition. Equally in actual life there are not infrequently important occasions on which the society of friends must be for a time abandoned; and he who would prevent this because he cannot easily bear the separation, is of a weak and unmanly nature, and for that very reason unfit to fill the place of a friend. In fine, in all matters you should take into consideration both what you may reasonably demand of your friend, and what you can fitly suffer him to obtain from you.
21. The misfortune involved in the dissolution of friendships is sometimes unavoidable; for I am now coming down from the intimacies of wise men to common friendships. Faults of friends often betray themselves openly — whether to the injury of their friends themselves, or of strangers — in such a way that the disgrace falls back upon their friends. Such friendships are to be effaced by the suspension of intercourse, and, as I have heard Cato say, to be unstitched rather than cut asunder, unless some quite intolerable offence flames out to full view, so that it can be neither right nor honorable not to effect an immediate separation and dissevering. But if there shall have been some change either in character or in the habits of life, or if there have sprung up some difference of opinion as to public affairs, — I am speaking, as I have just said, of common friendships, not of those between wise men, — care should be taken lest there be the appearance, not only of friendship dropped, but of enmity taken up; for nothing is more unbecoming than to wage war with a man with whom you have lived on terms of intimacy. Scipio, as you know, had withdrawn from the friendship of Quintus Pompeius1 on my account; he became alienated from Metellus1 because of their different views as to the administration of the State. In both cases he conducted himself with gravity and dignity, and without any feeling of bitterness. The endeavor, then, must first be, to prevent discord from taking place among friends, and if anything of the kind occurs, to see that the friendship may seem to be extinguished rather than crushed out. Care must thus be taken lest friendships lapse into violent enmities, whence are generated quarrels, slanders, insults, which yet, if not utterly intolerable, are to be endured, and this honor rendered to old friendship, that the blame may rest with him who does, not with him who suffers, the wrong.
The one surety and preventive against these mistakes and misfortunes is, not to form attachments too soon, nor for those unworthy of such regard.
But it is those in whose very selves there is reason why they should be loved, that are worthy of friendship. A rare class of men! Indeed, superlatively excellent objects of every sort are rare, nor is anything more difficult than to discover that which is in all respects perfect in its kind. But most persons have acquired the habit of recognizing nothing as good in human relations and affairs that does not produce some revenue, and they most love those friends, as they do those cattle, that will yield them the greatest gain. Thus they lack that most beautiful and most natural friendship, which is to be sought in itself and for its own sake; nor can they know from experience what and how great is the power of such friendship. One loves himself, not in order to exact from himself any wages for such love, but because he is in himself dear to himself. Now, unless this same property be transferred to friendship, a true friend will never be found; for such a friend is, as it were, another self. But if it is seen in beasts, birds, fishes, animals tame and wild, that they first love themselves (for self-love is born with everything that lives), and that they then require and seek those of their kind to whom they may attach themselves, and do so with desire and with a certain semblance of human love, how much more is this natural in man, who both loves himself, and craves another whose soul he may so blend with his own as almost to make one out of two!
22. But men in general are so perverse, not to say shameless, as to wish a friend to be in character what they themselves could not be, and they expect of friends what they do not give them in return. The proper course, however, is for one first to be himself a good man, and then to seek another like himself. In such persons the stability of friendship, of which I have been speaking, can be made sure, since, united in mutual love, they will, in the first place, hold in subjection the desires to which others are enslaved; then they will find delight in whatever is equitable and just, and each will take upon himself any labor or burden in the other’s stead, while neither will ever ask of the other aught that is not honorable and right. Nor will they merely cherish and love, they will even reverence each other. But he who bereaves friendship of mutual respect1 takes from it its greatest ornament. Therefore those are in fatal error who think that in friendship there is free license for all lusts and evil practices. Friendship is given by nature, not as a companion of the vices, but as a helper of the virtues, that, as solitary virtue might not be able to attain the summit of excellence, united and associated with another it might reach that eminence. As to those between whom there is, or has been, or shall be such an alliance, the fellowship is to be regarded as the best and happiest possible, inasmuch as it leads to the highest good that nature can bestow. This is the alliance, I say, in which are included all things that men think worthy their endeavor, — honor, fame, peace of mind, and pleasure, so that if these be present life is happy, and cannot be happy without them. Such a life being the best and greatest boon, if we wish to make it ours, we must devote ourselves to the cultivation of virtue, without which we can attain neither friendship nor anything else desirable. But if virtue be left out of the account, those who think that they have friends perceive that they are mistaken when some important crisis compels them to put their friends to the test. Therefore — for it is worth reiterating — you ought to love after having exercised your judgment on your friends, instead of forming your judgment of them after you have begun to love them. But while in many things we are chargeable with carelessness, we are most so in choosing and keeping our friends. We reverse the old proverb,1 take counsel after acting, and attempt to do over again what we have done; for after having become closely connected by long habit and even by mutual services, some occasion of offence springs up, and we suddenly break in sunder a friendship in full career.
23. The more blameworthy are they who are so very careless in a matter of so essential importance. Indeed, among things appertaining to human life, it is friendship alone that has the unanimous voice of all men as to its capacity of service. By many even virtue is scorned, and is said to be a mere matter of display and ostentation. Many despise wealth, and, contented with little, take pleasure in slender diet and inexpensive living Though some are inflamed with desire for office, many there are who hold it in so low esteem that they can imagine nothing more inane or worthless. Other things, too, which seem to some admirable, very many regard as of no value. But all have the same feeling as to friendship, — alike those who devote themselves to the public service, those who take delight in learning and philosophy, those who manage their own affairs in a quiet way, and, lastly, those who are wholly given up to sensual pleasure. They all agree that without friendship life cannot be, if one only means to live in some form or measure respectably.1 For friendship somehow twines through all lives, and leaves no mode of being without its presence. Even if one be of so rude and savage a nature as to shun and hate the society of men, as we have learned was the case with that Timon of Athens,2 if there ever was such a man,3 he yet cannot help seeking some one in whose presence he may vomit the venom of his bitterness. The need of friendship would be best shown, were such a thing possible, if some god should take us away from this human crowd, and place us anywhere in solitude, giving us there an abundant supply of all things that nature craves, but depriving us utterly of the sight of a human countenance. Who could be found of so iron make that he could endure1 such a life, and whom solitude would not render incapable of enjoying any kind of pleasure? That is true then which, if I remember aright, our elders used to say that they had heard from their seniors in age as having come from Archytas of Tarentum, — “If one had ascended to heaven, and had obtained a full view of the nature of the universe and the beauty of the stars, yet his admiration would be without delight, if there were no one to whom he could tell what he had seen.” Thus Nature has no love for solitude, and always leans, as it were, on some support; and the sweetest support is found in the most intimate friendship.
24. But while Nature declares by so many tokens what she desires, craves, needs, we — I know not how — grow deaf, and fail to hear her counsel.
Intercourse among friends assumes many different forms and modes, and there frequently arise causes of suspicion and offence, which it is the part of a wise man sometimes to avoid, sometimes to remove, sometimes to bear. One ground of offence, namely, freedom in telling the truth, must be put entirely away, in order that friendship may retain its serviceableness and its good faith; for friends often need to be admonished and reproved, and such offices, when kindly performed, ought to be received in a friendly way. Yet somehow we witness in actual life what my friend1 says in his play of Andria: —
“Complacency2 wins friends; but truth gives birth to hatred.”
Truth is offensive, if hatred, the bane of friendship, is indeed born of it; but much more offensive is complacency, when in its indulgence for wrongdoing it suffers a friend to go headlong to ruin. The greatest blame, however, rests on him who both spurns the truth when it is told him, and is driven by the complacency of friends to self-deception. In this matter, therefore, there should be the utmost discretion and care, first, that admonition be without bitterness, then, that reproof be without invective. But in complacency — for I am ready to use the word which Terence furnishes — let pleasing truth be told; let flattery, the handmaid of the vices, be put far away, as unworthy, not only of a friend, but of any man above the condition of a slave; for there is one way of living with a tyrant, another with a friend. We may well despair of saving him whose ears are so closed to the truth that he cannot hear what is true from a friend. Among the many pithy sayings of Cato was this: “There are some who owe more to their bitter enemies than to the friends that seem sweet; for those often tell the truth, these never.” It is indeed ridiculous for those who are admonished not to be annoyed by what ought to trouble them, and to be annoyed by what ought to give them no offence. Their faults give them no pain; they take it hard that they are reproved; — while they ought, on the contrary, to be grieved for their wrong-doing, to rejoice in their correction.
25. As, then, it belongs to friendship both to admonish and to be admonished, and to do the former freely, yet not harshly, to receive the latter patiently, not resentfully, so it is to be maintained that friendship has no greater pest than adulation, flattery, subserviency; for under its many names1 a brand should be put on this vice of fickle and deceitful men, who say everything with the view of giving pleasure, without any reference to the truth. While simulation is bad on every account, inasmuch as it renders the discernment of the truth which it defaces impossible, it is most of all inimical to friendship; for it is fatal to sincerity, without which the name of friendship ceases to have any meaning. For since the essence of friendship consists in this, that one mind is, as it were, made out of several, how can this be, if in one of the several there shall be not always one and the same mind, but a mind varying, changeful, manifold? And what can be so flexible, so far out of its rightful course, as the mind of him who adapts himself, not only to the feelings and wishes, but even to the look and gesture, of another?
- “Does one say No or Yes? I say so too.
- My rule is to assent to everything,”
as Terence, whom I have just quoted, says; but he says it in the person of Gnatho,1 — a sort of friend which only a frivolous mind can tolerate. But as there are many like Gnatho, who stand higher than he did in place, fortune, and reputation, their subserviency is the more offensive, because their position gives weight to their falsehood.
But a flattering friend may be distinguished and discriminated from a true friend by proper care, as easily as everything disguised and feigned is seen to differ from what is genuine and real. The assembly of the people, though consisting of persons who have the least skill in judgment, yet always knows the difference between him who, merely seeking popularity, is sycophantic and fickle, and a firm, inflexible, and substantial citizen. With what soft words did Caius Papirius1 steal2 into the ears of the assembly a little while ago, when he brought forward the law about the re-election of the tribunes of the people!3 I opposed the law. But, to say nothing of myself, I will rather speak of Scipio. How great, ye immortal gods, was his dignity of bearing! What majesty of address! So that you might easily call him the leader of the Roman people, rather than one of their number. But you were there, and you have copies of his speech. Thus the law was rejected by vote of the people. But, to return to myself, you remember, when Quintus Maximus, Scipio’s brother, and Lucius Mancinus were Consuls, how much the people seemed to favor the law of Caius Licinius Crassus about the priests. The law proposed to transfer the election of priests from their own respective colleges to the suffrage of the people;1 and he on that occasion introduced the custom of facing the people in addressing them.2 Yet under my advocacy the religion of the immortal gods obtained the ascendency over his plausible speech. That was during my praetorship, five years before I was chosen Consul. Thus the cause was gained by its own merits rather than by official authority.
26. But if on the stage, or — what is the same thing — in the assembly of the people, in which there is ample scope for false and distorted representations, the truth only needs to be made plain and clear in order for it to prevail, what ought to be the case in friendship, which is entirely dependent for its value on truth, — in which unless, as the phrase is, you see an open bosom and show your own, you can have nothing worthy of confidence, nothing of which you can feel certain, not even the fact of your loving or being loved, since you are ignorant of what either really is? Yet this flattery of which I have spoken, harmful as it is, can injure only him who takes it in and is delighted with it. Thus it is the case that he is most ready to open his ear to flattery, who flatters himself and finds supreme delight in himself. Virtue indeed loves itself; for it has thorough knowledge of itself, and understands how worthy of love it is. But it is reputed, not real, virtue of which I am now speaking; for there are not so many possessed of virtue as there are that desire to seem virtuous. These last are delighted with flattery, and when false statements are framed purposely to satisfy and please them, they take the falsehood as valid testimony to their merit. That, however, is no friendship, in which one of the (so-called) friends does not want to hear the truth, and the other is ready to lie. The flattery of parasites on the stage would not seem amusing, were there not in the play braggart soldiers1 to be flattered.
“Great thanks indeed did Thais render to me?”
“Great” was a sufficient answer; but the answer in the play is “Prodigious.” The flatterer always magnifies what he whom he is aiming to please wishes to have great. But while this smooth falsehood takes effect only with those who themselves attract and invite it, even persons of a more substantial and solid character need to be warned to be on their guard, lest they be ensnared by flattery of a more cunning type. No one who has a moderate share of common-sense fails to detect the open flatterer; but great care must be taken lest the wily and covert flatterer may insinuate himself; for he is not very easily recognized, since he often assents by opposing, plays the game of disputing in a smooth, caressing way, and at length submits, and suffers himself to be outreasoned, so as to make him on whom he is practising his arts appear to have had the deeper insight. But what is more disgraceful than to be made game of? One must take heed not to put himself in the condition of the character in the play of The Heiress:1 —
- “Of an old fool one never made such sport
- As you have made of me this very day;”
for there is no character on the stage so foolish as that of these unwary and credulous old men. But I know not how my discourse has digressed from the friendships of perfect, that is, of wise men, — wise, I mean, so far as wisdom can fall to the lot of man, — to friendships of a lighter sort. Let us then return to our original subject, and bring it to a speedy conclusion.
27. Virtue, I say to you, Caius Fannius, and to you, Quintus Mucius, — virtue both forms and preserves friendships. In it is mutual agreement; in it is stability; in it is consistency of conduct and character. When it has put itself forth and shown its light, and has seen and recognized the same light in another, it draws near to that light, and receives in return what the other has to give; and from this intercourse love, or friendship, — call it which you may, — is kindled. These terms are equally derived in our language from loving;1 and to love is nothing else than to cherish affection for him whom you love, with no felt need of his service, with no quest of benefit to be obtained from him; while, nevertheless, serviceableness blooms out from friendship, however little you may have had it in view. With this affection I in my youth loved those old men, — Lucius Paulus, Marcus Cato, Caius Gallus, Publius Nasica, Tiberius Gracchus, the father-in-law of my friend Scipio. This relation is more conspicuous among those of the same age, as between myself and Scipio, Lucius Furius, Publius Rupilius, Spurius Mummius. But in my turn, as an old man, I find repose in the attachment of young men, as in yours, and in that of Quintus Tubero, and I am delighted with the intimacy of Publius Rutilius and Aulus Virginius, who are just emerging from boyhood. While the order of human life and of nature is such that another generation must come upon the stage, it would be most desirable, could such a thing be, to reach the goal, so to speak, with those of our own age with whom we started on the race; but since man’s life is frail and precarious, we ought always to be in quest of some younger persons whom we may love, and who will love us in return; for when love and kindness cease all enjoyment is taken out of life.
For me indeed, Scipio, though suddenly snatched away, still lives and will always live; for I loved the virtue of the man, which is not extinguished. Nor does it float before my eyes only, as I have always had it at hand; it will also be renowned and illustrious with generations to come. No one will ever enter with courage and hope on a high and noble career, without proposing to himself as a standard the memory and image of his virtue. Indeed, of all things which fortune or nature ever gave me, I have nothing that I can compare with the friendship of Scipio. In this there was a common feeling as to the affairs of the State; in this, mutual counsel as to our private concerns; in this, too, a repose full of delight. Never, so far as I know, did I offend him in the least thing; never did I hear from him a word which I would not wish to hear. We had one home;1 the same diet, and that simple;1 we were together, not only in military service, but also in journeying and in our rural sojourns. And what shall I say of our unflagging zeal in the pursuit of knowledge, and in learning everything new within our reach, — an employment in which, when not under the eyes of the public, we passed all our leisure time together? Had the recollection and remembrance of these things died with him, I could not anyhow bear the loss of a man, thus bound to me in the closest intimacy and holding me in the dearest love. But they are not blotted out, they are rather nourished and increased by reflection and memory; and were I entirely bereft of them, my advanced age would still be my great comfort, for I can miss his society but for a brief season, and all sorrows, however heavy, if they can last but a little while, ought to be endured.
I had these things to say to you about friendship; and I exhort you that you so give the foremost place to virtue without which friendship cannot be, that with the sole exception of virtue, you may think nothing to be preferred to friendship.
SCIPIO’S DREAM.
1. When I arrived in Africa, to serve, as you know, in the office of military Tribune of the fourth Legion, under Manius1 Manilius as consul, I desired nothing so much as to meet Masinissa2 the king, who for sufficient reasons3 stood in the most friendly relation to our family. When I came to him, the old man embraced me with tears, and shortly afterward looked up to heaven and said: “I thank thee, sovereign Sun,4 and all of you lesser lights of heaven, that before I pass away from this life I behold in my kingdom and beneath this roof Publius Cornelius Scipio, whose very name renews my strength, so utterly inseparable from my thought is the memory of that best and most invincible of men who first bore it.” Then I questioned him about his kingdom, and he asked me about our republic; and with the many things that we had to communicate to each other, the day wore away.
At a later hour, after an entertainment of royal magnificence, we prolonged our conversation far into the night, while the old man talked to me about nothing else but Africanus, rehearsing not only all that he had done, but all that he had said. When we parted to go to our rest, sleep took a stronger hold on me than usual, on account both of the fatigue of my journey and of the lateness of the hour. In my sleep, I suppose in consequence of our conversation (for generally our thoughts and utterances by day have in our sleep an effect like that which Ennius describes in his own case as to Homer,1 about whom in his waking hours he was perpetually thinking and talking), Africanus appeared to me, with an aspect that reminded me more of his bust than of his real face. I shuddered when I saw him. But he said: “Preserve your presence of mind, Scipio; be not afraid, and commit to memory what I shall say to you. 2. “Do you see that city, which was brought through me into subjection to the Roman people, but now renews its old hostility, and cannot remain quiet,” — and he showed me Carthage from a high place full of stars, shining and splendid, — “against which you, being little more than a common soldier, are coming to fight? In two years from now you as Consul will overthrow this city, and you will obtain of your own right the surname which up to this time you hold as inherited from me. When you shall have destroyed Carthage, shall have celebrated your triumph over it, shall have been Censor, and shall have traversed, as an ambassador, Egypt, Syria, Asia, and Greece, you will be chosen a second time Consul in your absence, and will put an end to one of the greatest of wars by extirpating Numantia. But when you shall be borne to the Capitol in your triumphal chariot after this war, you will find the State disturbed by the machinations of my grandson.1
“In this emergency, Africanus, it will behoove you to show your country the light of your energy, genius, and wisdom. But I see at that time, as it were, a double way of destiny. For when your age shall have followed the sun for eight times seven revolutions, and these two numbers2 — each perfect, though for different reasons — shall have completed for you in the course of nature the destined period, to you alone and to your name the whole city will turn; on you the Senate will look, on you all good citizens, on you the allies, on you the Latini. You will be the one man on whom the safety of the city will rest; and, to say no more, you, as Dictator, must re-establish the State, if you escape the impious hands of your kindred.”1 Here, when Laelius had cried out, and the rest of the company had breathed deep sighs, Scipio, smiling pleasantly upon them, said, “I beg you not to rouse me from sleep and break up my vision. Hear the remainder of it.”
3. “But that you, Africanus, may be the more prompt in the defence of the State, know that for all who shall have preserved, succored, enlarged their country, there is a certain and determined place in heaven where they enjoy eternal happiness; for to the Supreme God who governs this whole universe nothing is more pleasing than those companies and unions of men that are called cities. Of these the rulers and preservers, going hence, return hither.”
Here I, although I had been alarmed, not indeed so much by the fear of death as by that of the treachery of my own kindred, yet asked whether Paulus, my father, and others whom we supposed to be dead were living. “Yes, indeed,” he replied, “those who have fled from the bonds of the body, like runners from the goal, live; while what is called your life is death. But do you see your father Paulus coming to you?” When I saw him, I shed a flood of tears; but he, embracing and kissing me, forbade my weeping.
Then as soon as my tears would suffer me to speak, I began by saying, “Most sacred and excellent father, since this is life, as Africanus tells me, why do I remain on the earth, and not rather hasten to come to you?” “Not so,” said he; “for unless the God who has for his temple all that you now behold, shall have freed you from this prison of the body, there can be no entrance for you hither. Men have indeed been brought into being on this condition, that they should guard the globe which you see in the midst of this temple, which is called the earth; and a soul has been given to them from those eternal fires which you call constellations and stars, which, globed and round, animated with god-derived minds, complete their courses and move through their orbits with amazing speed. You, therefore, Publius, and all rightly disposed men are bound to retain the soul in the body’s keeping, nor without the command of him who gave it to you to depart from the life appointed for man, lest you may seem to have taken flight from human duty as assigned by God. But, Scipio, like this your grandfather,1 like me, your father, cherish justice and that sacred observance of duty to your kind, which, while of great worth toward parents and family, is of supreme value toward your country. Such a life is the way to heaven, and to this assembly of those who have already lived, and, released from the body, inhabit the place which you now see,” — it was that circle that shines forth among the stars in the most dazzling white,— “which you have learned from the Greeks to call the Milky Way.” And as I looked on every side I saw other things transcendently glorious and wonderful. There were stars which we never see from here below, and all the stars were vast far beyond what we have ever imagined. The least of them was that which, farthest from heaven, nearest to the earth, shone with a borrowed light. But the starry globes very far surpassed the earth in magnitude. The earth itself indeed looked to me so small as to make me ashamed of our empire, which was a mere point on its surface.
4. While I was gazing more intently on the earth, Africanus said: “How long, I pray you, will your mind be fastened on the ground? Do you not see into the midst of what temples you have come? In your sight are nine orbs, or rather globes, by which all things are held together. One is the celestial, the outermost, embracing all the rest, — the Supreme God himself,1 who governs and keeps in their places the other spheres. In this are fixed those stars which ever roll in an unchanging course. Beneath this are seven spheres which have a retrograde movement, opposite to that of the heavens. One of these is the domain of the star which on earth they call Saturn. Next is the luminary which bears the name of Jupiter, of prosperous and healthful omen to the human race; then, the star of fiery red which you call Mars, and which men regard with terror. Beneath, the Sun holds nearly the midway space,2 leader, prince, and ruler of the other lights, the mind and regulating power of the universe, so vast as to illuminate and flood all things with his light. Him, as his companions, Venus and Mercury follow on their different courses; and in a sphere still lower the moon revolves, lighted by the rays of the sun. Beneath this there is nothing that is not mortal and perishable, except the souls bestowed upon the human race by the gift of the gods. Above the moon all things are eternal. The earth, which is the central and ninth sphere, has no motion, and is the lowest1 of all, and all heavy bodies gravitate spontaneously toward it.”
5. When I had recovered from my amazement at these things I asked, “What is this sound so strong and so sweet that fills my ears?” “This,” he replied, “is the melody which, at intervals unequal, yet differing in exact proportions, is made by the impulse and motion of the spheres themselves, which, softening shriller by deeper tones, produce a diversity of regular harmonies. Nor can such vast movements be urged on in silence; and by the order of nature the shriller notes sound from one extreme of the universe, the deeper from the other. Thus yonder supreme celestial sphere with its clustered stars, as it revolves more rapidly, moves with a shrill and quick strain; this lower sphere of the moon sends forth deeper notes; while the earth, the ninth sphere, remaining motionless,2 always stands fixed in the lowest place, occupying the centre of the universe. But these eight revolutions, of which two, those of Mercury and Venus, are in unison, make seven distinct tones, with measured intervals between, and almost all things are arranged in sevens.3 Skilled men, copying this harmony with strings and voice, have opened for themselves a way back to this place, as have others who with excelling genius have cultivated divine sciences in human life. But the ears of men are deafened by being filled with this melody; nor is there in you mortals a duller sense than that of hearing. As where the Nile at the Falls of Catadupa pours down from the loftiest mountains, the people who live hard by lack the sense of hearing because of the loudness of the cataract, so this harmony of the whole universe in its intensely rapid movement is so loud that men’s ears cannot take it in, even as you cannot look directly at the sun, and the keenness and visual power of the eye are overwhelmed by its rays.” While I marvelled at these things, I ever and anon cast my eyes again upon the earth.
6. Then Africanus said: “I perceive that you are now fixing your eyes on the abode and home of men, and if it seems to you small, as it really is, then look always at these heavenly things, and despise those earthly. For what reputation from the speech of men, or what fame worth seeking, can you obtain? You see that the inhabited places of the earth are scattered and of small extent, that in the spots1 — so to speak — where men dwell there are vast solitary tracts interposed, and that those who live on the earth are not only so separated that no communication can pass from place to place, but stand, in part at an oblique angle, in part at a right angle with you, in part even in an opposite direction;1 and from these you certainly can anticipate no fame.
“You perceive also that this same earth is girded and surrounded by belts, two of which — the farthest from each other, and each resting at one extremity on the very pole of the heavens — you see entirely frost-bound; while the middle and largest of them burns under the sun’s intensest heat. Two of them are habitable, of which the southern, whose inhabitants are your antipodes, bears no relation to your people; and see how small a part they occupy in this other northern zone, in which you dwell. For all of the earth with which you have any concern — narrow at the north and south, broader in its central portion — is a mere little island, surrounded by that sea which you on earth call the Atlantic, the Great Sea, the Ocean, while yet, with such a name, you see how small it is. To speak only of these cultivated and well-known regions, could your name even cross this Caucasus which you have in view, or swim beyond that Ganges? Who, in what other lands may lie in the extreme east or west, or under northern or southern skies, will ever hear your name? All these cut off, you surely see within what narrow bounds your fame can seek to spread. Then, too, as regards the very persons who tell of your renown, how long will they speak of it?
7. “But even if successive generations should desire to transmit the praise of every one of us from father to son in unbroken succession, yet because of devastations by flood and fire, which will of necessity take place at a determined time, we must fail of attaining not only eternal fame, but even that of very long duration. Now of what concern is it that those who shall be born hereafter should speak of you, when you were spoken of by none who were born before you, who were not fewer, and certainly were better men? — especially, too, when among those who might hear our names there is not one that can retain the memories of a single year. Men, indeed, ordinarily measure the year only by the return of the sun, that is, one star, to its place; but when all the stars, after long intervals, shall resume their original places in the heavens, then that completed revolution may be truly called a year. As of old the sun seemed to be eclipsed and blotted out when the soul of Romulus entered these temples, so when the sun shall be again eclipsed in the same part of his course, and at the same period of the year and day, with all the constellations and stars recalled to the point from which they started on their revolutions, then count the year as brought to a close.1 But be assured that the twentieth part of this year has not yet come round.
“Therefore, should you renounce the hope of returning to this place in which are all things that great and excellent men can desire, of what worth is that human glory which can scarcely extend to a small part of a single year? If, then, you shall determine to look high up, and to behold continuously this dwelling and eternal home, you will neither give yourself to the flattery of the people, nor place your hope of well-being on rewards that man can bestow. Let Virtue herself by her own charms draw you to true honor. What others may say of you, regard as their concern, not yours. They will doubtless talk about you, but all that they say is confined within the narrow limits of the regions which you now see; nor did such speech as to any one ever last on into eternity, — it is buried with those who die, and lost in oblivion for those who may come afterward.”
8. When he had spoken thus, I said, “O Africanus, if indeed for those who have deserved well of their country there is, as it were, an open road by which they may enter heaven, though from boyhood treading in my father’s steps and yours, I have done no discredit to your fame, I yet shall now strive to that end with a more watchful diligence.” And he replied: “Strive1 indeed, and bear this in mind, that it is not you that are mortal, but your body only. Nor is it you whom this outward form makes manifest; but every man’s mind is he, — not the bodily shape which can be pointed at by the finger. Know also that you are a god, if he indeed is a god who lives, who perceives, who remembers, who foresees, who governs and restrains and moves the body over which he is made ruler even as the Supreme God holds the universe under his sway; and in truth as the eternal God himself moves the universe which is mortal in every part, so does the everlasting soul move the corruptible body.
“That, indeed, which is in perpetual movement is eternal; but that which, while imparting motion to some other substance, derives its own movement from some other source, must of necessity cease to live when it ceases to move. Then that alone which is the cause of its own motion, because it is never deserted by itself, never has its movement suspended. But for other substances that are moved this is the source, the first cause,2 of movement. But the first cause has no origin; for all things spring from the first cause: itself, from nothing. That indeed would not be a first cause which derived its beginning from anything else; and if it has no beginning, it never ceases to be. For the first cause, if extinct, will neither itself be born again from aught else, nor will it create aught else from itself, if indeed all things must of necessity originate from the first cause. Thus it is that the first cause of motion is derived from that which is in its nature self-moving; but this can neither be born nor die. Were it to die, the whole heaven would of necessity collapse, and all nature would stand still, nor could it find any force which could be set in movement anew from a primitive impulse.1
9. “Since, then, that which is the source of its own movement is manifestly eternal, who is there that can deny that this nature has been given to the soul? For whatever is moved by external impulse is soulless;2 but whatever has a soul3 is stirred to action by movement inward and its own; for this is the peculiar nature and virtue of the soul. Moreover, if it is this alone of all things that is the source of its own movement, it certainly did not begin to be, and is eternal.
“This soul I bid you to exercise in the best pursuits, and the best are your cares for your country’s safety, by which if your soul be kept in constant action and exercise, it will have the more rapid flight to this its abode and home. This end it will attain the more readily, if, while it shall be shut up in the body, it shall peer forth, and, contemplating those things that are beyond, abstract itself as far as possible from the body. For the souls of those who have surrendered themselves to the pleasures of the body, have yielded themselves to their service, and, obeying them under the impulse of sensual lusts, have transgressed the laws of gods and men, when they pass out of their bodies are tossed to and fro around the earth, nor return to this place till they have wandered in banishment for many ages.”
He departed; I awoke from sleep.
University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge.
[1 ]Deflexit jam aliquantulum.
[1 ]Thus among the many proofs of the genuineness of our canonical Gospels, perhaps none is more conclusive than the fact that, though evidently written by unskilled men, they contain not a trace or token of certain opinions known to have been rife even before the close of the first Christian century; while the (so-called) apocryphal Gospels bear, throughout, such vestiges of their later origin as would neutralize the strongest testimony imaginable in behalf of their primitive antiquity.
[1 ]Sexaginta annos habeo.
[2 ]Vive cum Laelio.
[1 ]Rubbed again, — the parchment, or papyrus, having been first polished for use, and then rubbed as clean as possible, to be used a second time.
[2 ]In palimpsesto.
[1 ]Praedibus.
[1 ]In the earliest time a boy put on the toga virilis when he had completed his sixteenth year; in Cicero’s time pupilage ceased a year earlier; and by Justinian’s code the period at which it legally ceased was the commencement of the fifteenth year. The Scaevola to whom Cicero was thus taken was Quintus Mucius (Scaevola), the Augur, already named.
[2 ]It was customary for youth in training for honorable positions in the State to attach themselves especially to men of established character and reputation, to attend them to public places, and to remain near them whenever anything was to be learned from their conversation, their legal opinions, their public harangues, or their pleas before the courts. Distinguished citizens deemed themselves honored by a retinue of such attendants. Cicero, in the De Officiis, says that a young man may best commend himself to the early esteem and confidence of the community by such an intimacy.
[1 ]As Cicero says, the most eloquent of jurists, and the most learned jurist among the eloquent. He was at the same time pre-eminent for moral purity and integrity. It was he, who, as Cicero (De Officiis, iii. 15) relates, insisted on paying for an estate that he bought a much larger sum than was asked for it, because its price had been fixed far below its actual value.
[2 ]Latin, hemicyclio, perhaps, a semicircular seat.
[3 ]The quarrel arose from the zealous espousal of the Marian faction by Sulpicius, who resorted to arms, in order to effect the incorporation of the new citizens from without the city among the previously existing tribes. Hence a series of tumults and conflicts, in one of which a son of Pompeius lost his life.
[1 ]In the Latin we have here two remarkable series of assonances, rhythmical to the ear, and though translatable in sense, not so in euphony. “Ut tum senex ad senem de senectute, sic hoc libro ad amicum amicissimus de amicitia scripsi.”
[2 ]The reference is to what Laelius is supposed to have said already. The dialogue, as given here, is made to commence in the midst of a conversation.
[1 ]The first Roman known to have borne the surname of Sapiens. He was one of the earliest of the jurisconsults who took pupils.
[2 ]Socrates.
[1 ]Latin, proxumis nonis. The nones, the ninth day before the ides, fell on the fifth of the month, except in March, May, July, and October, when the ides were two days later. We have elsewhere intimation that the Augurs held a meeting for business on the nones of each month.
[1 ]Paulus Aemilius, who lost two sons, one a few days before, the other shortly after, the triumph decreed to him for the conquest of the Macedonian King Perseus.
[2 ]Caius Sulpicius Gallus, mentioned as an astronomer by Cicero, De Officiis, i. 6, and De Senectute, 14.
[3 ]The younger Cato had won fame as a soldier and distinguished eminence as a jurist. At the time of his death he was praetor elect.
[1 ]He left the army in Africa, b. c. 147, for Rome, to offer himself as a candidate for the aedileship, for which he had just reached the legal age of thirty-seven; but such accounts of his ability, efficiency, and courage had preceded him and followed him from the army, that he was chosen Consul, virtually by popular acclamation.
[2 ]The war in Spain had been continued for several years, with frequent disaster and disgrace to the Roman army, when Scipio, b. c. 134, was chosen Consul with a special view to this war, which he closed by the capture and destruction of Numantia, in connection with which, it must be confessed, his record is rather that of a relentless and sanguinary enemy than of a generous and placable antagonist.
[1 ]He was the son of Paulus Aemilius, and the adopted son of Publius Cornelius Scipio Africanus. His mother, divorced for no assignable reason, was left very poor, and her son, on the death of the widow of his adopting father, gave her the entire patrimony that then came into his possession.
[2 ]After his mother’s death, law and custom authorized him to resume what he had given her; but he bestowed it on his sisters, thus affording them the means of living comfortably and respectably.
[3 ]The De Senectute.
[1 ]He retired to his sleeping apartment apparently in perfect health, and was found dead on his couch in the morning, — as was rumored, with marks of violence on his neck. His wife was Sempronia, the sister of the Gracchi whose agrarian schemes he had vehemently opposed. She was suspected of having at least given admission to the assassin, and even her mother, the Cornelia who has been regarded as unparalleled among Roman women for the virtues appertaining to a wife and mother, did not escape the charge of complicity. Her son Caius was also among those suspected; but the more probable opinion is that Papirius Carbo was alone answerable for the crime. Carbo had been Scipio’s most bitter enemy, and had endeavored to inflame the people against him as their enemy.
[2 ]Scipio had at that session of the senate proposed a measure in the utmost degree offensive to Caius Gracchus and his party. The law of Tiberius Gracchus would have disposed, at the hands of the commissioners appointed under it, of large tracts of land belonging to the Italian allies. Scipio’s plan provided that such lands should be taken out of the jurisdiction of the commissioners, and that matters relating to them should be adjudged by a different board to be specially appointed, — a measure which would have been a virtual abrogation of the agrarian law. On this account he had his honorable escort home; and on this account, in all probability, he was murdered.
[1 ]The reference here is, of course, to the Epicureans. This school of philosophy had grown very rapidly, and numbered many disciples when this essay was written; but in the time of Laelius it had but recently invaded Rome, and Amafanius, who must have been his contemporary, was the earliest Roman writer who expounded its doctrines.
[2 ]This is sound reasoning, as these rites were annually renewed, and consisted in great part of the invocation of ancestors, — a custom which could not have originated if those ancestors were supposed to be utterly dead. This passage may remind the reader of the answer of Jesus Christ to the Sadducees, who denied that the Pentateuch contained any intimation of immortality. He quotes the passage in which God is represented as saying, “I am the God of Abraham, and the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob,” and adds, “God is not the God of the dead, but of the living,” implying that ancestors whom the writer of that record supposed to be dead could not have been thus mentioned.
[3 ]Latin Magnam Graeciam, — the name given to the cluster of Greek colonies that were scattered thick along the shore of Southern Italy. At Crotona, in Magna Graecia, Pythagoras established his school, and these colonies were the chief seat and seminary of his philosophy, which taught the immortality of the soul.
[1 ]The De Republica consists of dialogues on three successive days in Scipio’s garden, and Scipio is the chief speaker. The work was supposed to be irrecoverably lost, with the exception of this Dream of Scipio, and a few fragments; but considerable portions of it were discovered in a palimpsest in 1822. The Dream of Scipio will be found in the latter part of this volume.
[1 ]Laelius went with Scipio on the campaign which resulted in the destruction of Carthage.
[2 ]Those referred to are probably Theseus and Peirithous, Achilles and Patroclus, Orestes and Pylades, Damon and Phintias, — all but the last, perhaps the last also, mythical.
[1 ]This was the boast and pride of the Greek sophists.
[1 ]Latin, Neque id ad vivum reseco, literally, nor in this matter do I cut to the quick.
[2 ]The Stoics of the more rigid type, who maintained that the wise man alone is good, but denied that the truly wise man had yet made his appearance on the earth.
[3 ]Latin, agamus igitur pingui (ut aiunt) Minerva; that is, with a less refined, a grosser wisdom, — a wisdom more nearly conformed to the sound, if somewhat crass, common-sense of the majority.
[1 ]It may be doubted whether this close conformity of opinion and feeling is essential, or even favorable, to friendship. The amicable comparison and collision of thought and sentiment are certainly consistent with, and often conducive to, the most friendly intimacy. Friends are not infrequently the complements, rather than the likenesses, of each other. Cicero and Atticus were as close friends as Scipio and Laelius; but they were at many points exceedingly unlike. Atticus had the tact and skill in worldly matters which Cicero lacked. Atticus kept aloof from public affairs, while Cicero was unhappy whenever he could not imagine himself as taking a leading part in them. Atticus was an Epicurean, and Cicero never loses an opportunity of attacking the Epicurean philosophy.
[1 ]Literally, what is harder to say.
[2 ]The sense of this sentence is somewhat overlaid by the rhetoric; yet it undoubtedly means that an absent friend is esteemed and honored in the person of the friend who not only loves him, but is regarded as representing him; that a poor friend enjoys the prosperity of his rich friend as if it were his own; that a weak friend feels his feebleness energized by the friend who in need will fight his battles for him; and that no man is suffered to lapse from the kind and reverent remembrance of those who see his likeness in the friend who keeps his memory green.
[1 ]Empedocles. Only a few fragments of his great poem are extant. His theory seems like a poetical version of Newton’s law of universal gravitation. The analogy between physical attraction and the mutual attraction of congenial minds and souls has its record in the French word aimant, denoting loadstone or magnet.
[2 ]Or host; for the word hospes may have either meaning. It denotes not the fact of giving or receiving hospitality, but the permanent and sacred relation established between host and guest. This relation has lost much of its character in modern civilization, and I doubt whether it has a name in any modern European language.
[1 ]Among the many and conflicting legends about Orestes is that which seems to have been the theme of the lost tragedy of Pacuvius. Orestes, after avenging on his mother and her paramour the murder of his father, in order to expiate the guilt of matricide, was directed by the Delphian oracle to go to Tauris, and to steal and transport to Athens an image of Artemis that had fallen from heaven. His friend Pylades accompanied him on this expedition. They were seized by Thoas the king, and Orestes, as principal offender, was to be sacrificed to Artemis. His sister, Iphigeneia, priestess of Artemis, contrived their escape, and the three arrived safe at Athens with the sacred image.
[1 ]Carneades, when on an embassy to Rome, for the entertainment of his Roman hosts, on one day delivered a discourse in behalf of justice as the true policy for the State, and on the next day delivered an equally subtile and eloquent discourse maintaining the opposite thesis. In the third Book of the De Republica Philus is made a “devil’s advocate,” and has assigned to him the championship of what we are wont to call a Machiavelian policy, and, in general, of the morally wrong as the politically right. He is represented as taking the part reluctantly, saying that one consents to soil his hands in order to find gold, and he professes to give the substance of the famous discourse of Carneades. Laelius answers him, and, so far as we can judge from the fragments of his reply that are extant, with the preponderance of reason, which Cicero intended should incline on the better side. There was perhaps a sublatent irony in making Philus play this part; for he was an eminently upright man. Valerius Maximus eulogizes him for his rigid integrity and impartiality, and relates that when at the expiration of his consulship he was sent to take command of the army against Numantia, he chose for his lieutenants Metellus and Pompeius, both his intensely bitter enemies, but the men best fitted for the service.
[1 ]Amor, — amicitia.
[1 ]Pyrrhus, after the only victory that he obtained over the Romans, treated his prisoners with signal humanity, and restored them without ransom. See De Officiis, i. 12.
[2 ]It may be doubted whether Hannibal deserved the reproach here implied. The Roman historians ascribe to him acts of cruelty no worse than their own generals were chargeable with; while nothing of the kind is related by either Polybius or Plutarch. It is certain that after the battle of Cannae he checked the needless slaughter of the Roman fugitives, and Livy relates several instances in which he paid funeral honors to distinguished Romans slain in battle. The intense hostility of the Romans to Carthage may have led to an unfair estimate of the great general’s character, and to the invention or exaggeration of reports to his discredit.
[1 ]The Epicureans.
[1 ]The construction of this entire section is in the subjunctive imperfect, depending on the dicebat in the second sentence. It has seemed to me that the direct form of construction which I have adopted is more consonant with the genius of our language.
[1 ]Had Cicero not been personating Laelius, who died long before the quarrel occurred, he would undoubtedly have cited the case of Servilius Caepio and Livius Drusus. They married each other’s sisters, and were united in the closest intimacy, and seemingly in the dearest mutual love; but as rivals in bidding for a ring at an auction-sale they had their first quarrel, which grew into intense mutual hatred, led almost to a civil war between their respective partisans, and bore no small part in starting the series of dissensions which issued in the Social War, and the destruction of not far from three hundred thousand lives. I refer to this in a note, because it must have been fresh in Cicero’s memory, and had annotation been the habit of his time, he would most assuredly have given it the place which I now give it.
[1 ]Spurius Cassius Viscellinus, the author of the earliest agrarian law, passed, but never carried into execution. He was condemned to death, — probably a victim to the rancorous opposition of the patrician order, of which he was regarded as a recreant member by virtue of his advocacy of the rights or just claims of the plebs. Cicero in early life was by no means so hostile to the principle underlying the agrarian laws and to the memory of the Gracchi, as he was after he had reached the highest offices in the gift of the people.
[1 ]Maelius, of the equestrian order, but of a plebeian family, obtained unbounded popularity with the plebs by selling corn at a low price, and giving away large quantities of it, in a time of famine. He was charged with seeking kingly power, and, on account of his alleged movements with that purpose, Cincinnatus was appointed dictator, and Maelius, resisting a summons to his tribunal, was killed by Ahala, his master of the horse. There seems to have been little evidence of his actual guilt.
[2 ]Hospes, guest, host, or both.
[1 ]He took refuge with Aristonicus, King of Pergamus, then at war with Rome; and when Aristonicus was conquered, Blossius committed suicide for fear of being captured by the Roman army.
[1 ]Now; that is, at the time at which this dialogue has its assumed date, immediately after Scipio’s death. At that time Caius Gracchus was acting as a commissioner under his brother’s agrarian law.
[1 ]Publius Cornelius Scipio Nasica, who took the lead of the Senate in the assassination of Tiberius Gracchus, and incurred such popular odium that he could not safely stay in Rome. He was sent on a fictitious mission to Asia to get him out of the way of the people, and, not daring to return, wandered with no settled habitation till his death at Pergamum not long before the assumed date of this dialogue.
[2 ]Carbo succeeded Tiberius Gracchus on the commission for carrying the agrarian law into execution, and was shortly afterward chosen Tribune. He then proposed a law, permitting a tribune to be re-elected for an indefinite number of years. This law was vehemently opposed by Scipio Africanus the Younger, and if he was really killed by Carbo, it was probably on account of his hostility to Carbo’s ambitious schemes.
[3 ]The reference undoubtedly here is to the Papirian law which had been passed just before the assumed date of this dialogue, having been proposed and carried through by (Caius Papirius) Carbo. By this law the use of the ballot was established in all matters of popular legislation.
[4 ]By which magistrates were to be chosen by ballot.
[5 ]By which the judges were to be chosen by ballot. With reference to the use of the ballot the parties in Rome were prototypes of like parties in England. The voice of the people was for the ballot, on the ground that it made suffrage free, as it could not be when employers or patrons could dictate to their dependents and make them suffer for failure to vote in favor of their own candidates or measures. The aristocratic party opposed the ballot as fatal to their controlling influence, which many sincere patriots, like Cicero, regarded as essential to the public safety, while patrician demagogues, intriguers, and office-seekers made it subservient to their own selfish or partisan interests.
[1 ]No one of his own fellow-countrymen.
[1 ]If the story of Coriolanus be not a myth, as Niebuhr supposes it to be, his suicide forms no part of the story as Livy tells it. The suicide of Themistocles is related as a supposition, not as an established fact. If he died by poison, as was said, it may have been administered by a rival in the favor of Artaxerxes.
[2 ]This is a virtual repetition of the law of friendship announced at the beginning of the previous section, and Cicero probably so intended it. He states the rule, then demonstrates its validity, then repeats it in an almost identical form, implying what the mathematician expresses when he puts at the end of a demonstration Quod erat demonstrandum.
[1 ]This passage seems to be a paraphrase of a passage in the Hippolytus of Euripides, in which the Nurse says: “It behooves mortals to form moderate friendships with one another, and not to the very marrow of the soul; and the affections of the mind should be held loosely, so that we may slacken or tighten them. That one soul should be in travail for two is a heavy burden.” Euripides was regarded, and rightly, as no less a philosopher than a tragedian, and was not infrequently styled σοϕός. Cicero here veils his thorough conversance with Greek literature and philosophy, and assumes the part of Laelius, in whose time, though Greek was not omitted in the education of cultivated men, the study was comparatively new, and was not carried to any great extent.
[1 ]The Epicureans.
[2 ]Latin, mulierculae, a diminutive, meaning, however, not little women, but denoting the feebleness and dependence of women in comparison with men. It must be confessed, too, that the term is sometimes used, and perhaps here, semi-contemptuously; for the Roman man felt an overweening pride in mere manhood.
[1 ]Here, undoubtedly, Cicero refers to the sterner type of Stoicism, which in his time was already obsolescent, and was yielding place to the milder, while no less rigid, ethics of which the De Officiis may be regarded as the manual.
[1 ]Latin, redamare, a word coined by Cicero, and used with the apology, ut ita dicam.
[2 ]Latin, immunis, literally, without office.
[1 ]Latin, dum taxat ad tempus; that is, while the homage rendered is in close contact with the occasion, — with the immunity or profit to be purchased by it.
[1 ]We have here, first, a figure drawn from pecuniary accounts, then one from liquid measure, then one from dry measure, — all designed to affix the brand of the most petty meanness on the (so-called) friendship which makes it a point neither to leave nor to brook a preponderance of obligation on either side.
[1 ]Latin, inimiciorem (that is, in-amiciorem) amicitiae.
[1 ]This at first sight appears like a license to yield up moral considerations to friendship, though the qualification, in the sequel, “not so far as to incur absolute dishonor,” and “virtue is by no means to be sacrificed,” seem saving clauses. But Cicero certainly has a right to be his own interpreter, since in the De Officiis, as I think, he explains in full, and in accordance with the highest moral principle, what he means here; and we have a double right to insist on this interpretation, first, because the De Officiis was written so very little while after the De Amicitia, and both at so ripe an age, that a change of opinion on important matters was improbable, and, secondly, because in the later treatise he expressly refers to the former as giving in full his views on friendship, and thus virtually sanctions that treatise. Now in the De Officiis he says: “A good man will do nothing against the State, or in violation of his oath or of good faith, for the sake of his friend, not even if he were a judge in his friend’s case. . . . He will yield so far to friendship as to wish his friend’s case to be worthy of succeeding, and to accommodate him as to the time of trial, within legal limits. But inasmuch as he must give sentence upon his oath, he will bear it in mind that he has God for a witness.” In another passage of the De Officiis, Cicero asserts, somewhat hesitatingly, yet on the authority of Panaetius as the strictest of Stoics, the moral rightfulness of “defending on some occasions a guilty man, if he be not utterly depraved and false to all human relations.” As in the passage on which I am commenting special reference is made to the peril of life or reputation, what Cicero contends for, as it seems to me, is the right of defending a guilty friend as an advocate, or of favoring him as to time and mode of trial as a judge. Aulus Gellius, in connection with this passage in the De Amicitia, tells the following story of Chilo, who was on some of the lists of the seven wise men. Chilo, on the last day of his life, said that the only thing that gave him uneasy thought, and was burdensome to his conscience, was that once when he and two other men were judges in a case in which a friend of his was on trial for a capital crime, he, in accordance with his own conviction, voted his friend guilty, but so influenced the minds of his two associates that they gave their voice for his acquittal.
[1 ]Latin, colligere, to collect, or gather up, one by one, the goodwill of each individual citizen.
[1 ]Latin, signa et notas, the marks and tokens by which the quality and worth of goats and sheep were estimated.
[1 ]Wisdom and goodness were identical with the Stoics.
[1 ]Latin, subdifficilis, which I should render somewhat difficult, did not Cicero treat the question as one that presents no difficulty. In the ancient tongues, as in our own, or even more than in our own, a word is often better defined by its use than in the dictionary.
[2 ]Some of the best Italian wines will not “bear keeping,” and it was probably true of more of them in Cicero’s time than now that wines are so often vitiated by strong alcoholic mixtures in order to preserve them. Cato, in his De Re Rustica, prescribes a method of determining whether the wine of any given vintage will “keep.”
[3 ]Aristotle quotes this as a proverbial saying, so that it must be of very great antiquity.
[1 ]Therefore uninviting; for mountain and forest had not in early time the charm which we find in them. Indeed, the love of nature uncultivated and unadorned is, for the most part, of modern growth.
[2 ]Quintus Fabius Maximus Aemilianus, the eldest son of Aemilius Paulus, and the adopted son of Fabius Maximus.
[1 ]Or, as it might be rendered by supplying a se, “so ought the humbler to do what they can to raise themselves.” Some of the commentators prefer this sense; but if Cicero meant se, I think that he would have written it.
[2 ]The brother of Publius Rupilius, not his own brother.
[1 ]Or rather, could not have borne the indispensable part which it was predicted that he should bear in the taking of Troy.
[1 ]Laelius intending to present himself as a candidate for the consulship, Scipio asked Pompeius whether he was going to be a candidate, and when he replied in the negative, asked him to use his influence in behalf of Laelius. This Pompeius promised, and then, instead of being true to his word, offered himself for the consulship, and was elected.
[1 ]Scipio and Metellus, though their intimacy was suspended for political reasons, held each other in the highest regard; and no person in Rome expressed profounder sorrow than Metellus for Scipio’s death, or was more warm in his praise as a man of unparalleled ability, worth, and patriotism.
[1 ]Latin, verecundia, an indefinite word; for it may have almost any good meaning. I have rendered it respect, because I have no doubt that it derives its meaning here from verebuntur, which I have rendered reverence, in the preceding sentence.
[1 ]What this proverb may have been we cannot determine with precision from its opposite; but the caution based upon it might remind one of our proverb about shutting the barn-door after the horse is stolen. The words, acta agimus, so terse that they can be translated only by a paraphrase, are probably the converse of the proverb, which may have been something like non agenda sunt acta.
[1 ]Latin, liberaliter; that is, worthily of a free man.
[2 ]Plutarch says that Timon had an associate, virtually a friend, not unlike himself, Apemantus, on whom he freely vented his spite and scorn for all the world beside, and that he also took a special liking to Alcibiades in his youth, perhaps as to one fitted and destined to do an untold amount of mischief.
[3 ]Latin, nescio, quem, I know not whom, or, of whom I am ignorant; that is, there may or may not have been such a man.
[1 ]Latin, tam . . . ferreus, qui . . . ferre posset, — an assonance which cannot be represented by corresponding English words.
[1 ]Terence, with whom Laelius was so intimate that he was reported, probably on no sufficient ground, to have aided in the composition of some of the plays that bear Terence’s name. This verse is from the Andria.
[2 ]Obsequium.
[1 ]Latin, multis nominibus, which some commentators render “on many accounts,” nomen being used familiarly in the sense of “account” with reference to matters of purchase and sale, debt and credit. But I think that Cicero brings in adulatio, blanditia, and assentatio, as so many synonyms of obsequium, intending to comprehend in his indictment whatever alias the one vice may assume.
[1 ]A parasite, in Terence’s play of Eunuchus, from which these verses are quoted.
[1 ]Caius Papirius Carbo, the suspected murderer of Scipio.
[2 ]Latin, influebat, flowed in, a figure beautifully appropriate, but hardly translatable.
[3 ]There was an old law, which prohibited the re-election of a citizen to the same office till after an interval of ten years. In the law here referred to, Carbo — then Tribune — sought to provide for the re-election of tribunes as soon and as often as the people might choose, thus undoubtedly hoping to secure for himself a permanent tenure of office.
[1 ]The several pontifical colleges had been close corporations, filling their own vacancies. The law which Laelius defeated proposed transferring the election of priests to the people.
[2 ]It had been customary, when the Senate was in session, for him who harangued the people to face the temple where the Senate sat, thus virtually recognizing the supreme authority of that body.
[1 ]Latin, milites gloriosi. Miles Gloriosus is the title of one of the comedies of Plautus; and one of the stock characters of the ancient comedy is a conceited, swaggering, brainless soldier, who is perpetually boasting of his own valor and exploits, and who takes the most fulsome and ridiculous flattery as the due recognition of his transcendent merit. The verse here quoted is from Terence’s Eunuchus. Thraso, a miles gloriosus (from whom is derived our adjective thrasonical), asks this question of Gnatho, the parasite, one of whose speeches is quoted in § 25. Magnas is the word in the question; ingentes, in the answer.
[1 ]Epicleros, a comedy by Caecilius Statius, of whose works only a few fragments, like this, are extant. Next to the braggart soldier, a credulous old man — generally a father — who could have all manner of tricks played upon him without detecting their import, was the favorite butt for ridicule in the ancient comedy.
[1 ]Amor . . . amicitia . . . ab amando.
[1 ]This may refer to their living together on their campaigns, journeys, and rural sojourns; but more probably to the fact that each felt as much at home in the other’s house as in his own.
[1 ]Latin, communis. I do not find that this word has in Latin the sense of cheap and mean which our word common has. But here it cannot mean that Laelius and Scipio fed together, which is sufficiently said in the preceding idem victus. It must therefore denote such fare as was common to them with their fellow-citizens in general, and that is simple and not luxurious fare.
[1 ]The praenomen Marcus is given to Manilius in the manuscript of the De Republica discovered by Angelo Mai; but Manius is the reading in all previous authorities as to this special fragment.
[2 ]King of Numidia, — a country nearly identical in extent with the present province of Algeria. Its name defines its people, being derived from νομάδες, nomads. Its inhabitants were a wild, semi-savage cluster of tribes, black and white. Masinissa, though faithful to the Romans after he had convinced himself that theirs must be the ascendant star, was a crafty, treacherous, cruel prince, probably with enough of civilization to have acquired some of its vices, while he had not lost those of the savage.
[3 ]The elder Africanus had confirmed him in the possession of his own Numidia, and had added to it the adjoining kingdom of Cirta.
[4 ]The Numidians worshipped the heavenly bodies.
[1 ]The first verse of the Annales of Ennius was: — “In somnis mihi visus Homerus adesse poeta.”
[1 ]Tiberius Gracchus, whose mother, Cornelia, was the daughter of the elder Africanus.
[2 ]The Pythagoreans regarded seven as the number representing light, and eight as representing love. Seven was also a perfect number, as corresponding to the number of celestial orbits (including the sun, the moon, and the five known planets), the number of days in the quarter of the moon’s revolution, and the number of the gates of sense (so to speak), mouth, eyes, ears, and nostrils. Eight was a perfect number, as being first after unity on the list of cubes; and Plato in the Timaeus speaks of eight celestial revolutions — including that of the earth — as unequal in duration and velocity, but as forming, in some unexplained way, a cycle synchronous with the year.
[1 ]See De Amicitia § 3, note.
[1 ]By adoption. The younger Africanus was adopted by a son of the elder.
[1 ]Here crops out the Pantheism — the non-detachment or semi-detachment of God from nature — which casts a penumbra around monotheism and the approaches to it, almost always, except under Hebrew and Christian auspices.
[2 ]The middle, as the fifth of the nine spheres, enclosed by four, and enclosing four.
[1 ]The lowest because central, and therefore farthest from the outermost or celestial sphere.
[2 ]Therefore without sound.
[3 ]Latin, qui numerus (that is, septem) rerum omnium fers nodus est. Literally, “which number is the knot of almost everything.” The more intelligible form in which I have rendered these words seems to me to convey their true meaning, and my belief to that effect is confirmed by reading what several commentators say about the passage.
[1 ]Latin, maculis, — a figure so bold in Cicero’s time as to need an apology for its use, but now employed with no consciousness of its being otherwise than strictly literal.
[1 ]It hardly needs to be said, that the reference here is to the convex surface of the earth, on which those remote from one another may hold all the various angles to each other that are borne by the spokes of a wheel.
[1 ]The Stoics maintained that the visible universe would last through such a cycle as is here described, which in their conjectural astronomy comprehended many thousands of years, and then would be consumed by fire, or somehow be reduced to chaos, and a new universe take its place.
[1 ]Or, you will strive indeed.
[2 ]Latin, principium.
[1 ]From a first cause; the first cause, by hypothesis, having ceased to be.
[2 ]Latin, inanimum.
[3 ]Latin, animal. My renderings of inanimum and animal here, if not justified by any parallel instances (and I know not whether they are), are required by the obvious meaning of the sentence.
12: Epictetus, The Works of Epictetus. Consisting of His Discourses, in Four Books, The Enchiridion, and Fragments [100 AD]
Epictetus, The Works of Epictetus. Consisting of His Discourses, in Four Books, The Enchiridion, and Fragments. A Translation from the Greek based on that of Elizabeth Carter, by Thomas Wentworth Higginson (Boston: Little, Brown, and Co., 1865).
Accessed from oll.libertyfund.org/title/1477 on 2011-05-14
The text is in the public domain.
PREFACE.
ELIZABETH CARTER’S version of Epictetus has outlived every English prose translation of its day, and has admirably held its ground with readers. While Marcus Aurelius has had a series of English versions, the complete works of Epictetus have had but this one, reproduced in four different editions. Even of the “Enchiridion,” or Manual, of which there had been at least five different versions in England, before her time, — two of which had passed respectively through six editions, — I am not aware that any later translation has there been printed. And the main reason unquestionably is, that there was absolutely no work done, at that date, of so good a quality.
Thomas Taylor indeed grudgingly says that this translation “is as good as a person ignorant of philosophy can be supposed to make.”* But the philosophy of Epictetus was altogether of the practical sort, and quite unlike those cloudy regions of Proclus and Plotinus in which Thomas Taylor loved to wander. Whatever it was, Elizabeth Carter understood it, and rendered it almost too technically; and if she knew less of philosophy than “the Platonist,” she knew Greek a great deal better. There is no reason to doubt that she was, as her friend Dr. Johnson declared, the best Greek scholar in England of her day. She certainly surpassed the contemporary Latin translator, Upton, whose edition of Epictetus was deservedly the standard one, until that of Schweighäuser; and I have rarely examined a point disputed between her and Schweighäuser, without siding with her at last. After saying this, it is no great stretch of humility to admit my own inferiority, and to claim only the advantage of writing more than a century later, and hence with more side-lights and a more modern style.
I hesitated for some time, whether to call this book simply a revision of Elizabeth Carter’s translation, or a new one based on hers. The latter alternative was finally chosen, less in order to claim for myself any credit of hers, than to save her from sharing any discredit of mine. The enterprise was begun simply as a revision. But to revise any translation made a century ago, is like underrunning a telegraphic cable: one may inspect a good deal of it, and find but trifling repairs needful; and then one may come to a point where a wholly new piece must go in. These substitutions multiplied so rapidly, — and even where the changes were slight, they touched words and phrases so vital, — that the name I have chosen is really the least dishonest that could be given. After all, it shows the thoroughness of Elizabeth Carter’s work, that this process of “underrunning” was practicable at all. With the loose, dashing, piquant school of translators who preceded her in that century, as L’Estrange and Collier, such an attempt would have been absurdity. They are very racy reading, — indeed, a capital study for coarse, colloquial English, — but there is no foundation of accuracy in them. Yet the style of Epictetus has a concise and even delicate precision which no language but Greek could perhaps attain; and to do justice to this without loss of popular intelligibility requires all Elizabeth Carter’s faithfulness, combined with an amount of purely literary effort which she did not always make. She apologizes, in her letters, for “the uncouthness, in many places, of a version pretty strictly literal.” If she erred on this side, perhaps I have erred in allowing myself a terminology, not more diffuse than hers, but more pliant and varied. But after all, unless a new English version is to be popularized, there seems no use in making it at all.
Epictetus limits himself strictly to giving a code of practical ethics. Not ignoring metaphysics in their proper place, he directs his aims elsewhere. His essential principles are very simple. All things (he holds) receive their character from our judgment concerning them; all objects, all events, are merely semblances or phenomena, to be interpreted according to the laws which nature gives us. An obvious classification at once occurs; all things are either controllable by will, or uncontrollable. If controllable, we may properly exert towards them our desire or aversion, though always guardedly and moderately. If uncontrollable, they are nothing to us, and we are merely to acquiesce, not with resignation alone, but joyously, knowing that an all-wise Father rules the whole.* All success comes, according to Epictetus, from obedience to this rule; all failure proceeds from putting a false estimate on the phenomena of existence, from trying to control what is uncontrollable, or from neglecting what is within our power. “Two rules we should have always ready, — that there is nothing good or evil save in the Will; and, that we are not to lead events, but to follow them.” (p. 221.) This last is singularly identical with the wise Quaker motto, on which Elizabeth Fry based her remarkable practical successes, “to follow, not force, Providence.”
These simple principles are developed pithily in the “Enchiridion” or Manual, and more elaborately in the Discourses. Neither work was written by Epictetus, but both were taken down from his lips. The “Enchiridion” was made the subject, in the sixth century, of an elaborate Greek Commentary by Simplicius, which was translated into English by Stanhope, and was again made the text for a commentary longer than itself by Milton’s adversary, Salmasius.
There is no stain upon the consistent nobleness of these Discourses. One can point out some omissions, some points where our subtle human organization eludes the simple system of Epictetus. But all which is here is noble. All the common complaints against the Stoic philosophy, — all charges of arrogance, uncharitableness, cold isolation, approval of suicide, — are refuted altogether by his clear statements. “What is the first business of one who studies philosophy? To part with self-conceit.” (p. 148.) “That we ought not to be angry with the erring,” forms the subject of a special chapter. (p. 54.) “All is full of beloved ones . . . . by nature endeared to each other.” (p. 266.) “Who is there whom bright and agreeable children do not attract to play and creep and prattle with them?” (p. 185.) The philosopher, “when beaten, must love those who beat him.” (p. 250.) As to suicide, there is a special argument against it. (p. 30.) In other places he alludes to it ironically, in a sort of contempt; or vindicates Providence by showing that we are not coerced even into living on earth, if we do not desire, but even in this last resort, our will is free. He also implies, more than once, that suicide, which is the cowardice of a moment, is after all less blasphemous than the settled habit of faithless complaint. For this querulousness is what rouses beyond all things his indignation.
In his practical examples, he constantly recurs to the noblest traits of his famous predecessors, — as Socrates, Diogenes, and Zeno; and he also gives us glimpses of the finest characters, whose names are else unfamiliar, — as Rufus and Euphrates. Indeed, all his standards are practical; he denounces, satirizes, and riddles through and through all pretenders to philosophy, all mere logicians or rhapsodists; and brings all to the test of practical righteousness. Indeed, it is a favorite suggestion of his, that no man should ever profess to be a philosopher, but that each should leave this character to be inferred from his actions. “It is not reasonings that are wanted now,” he says, “for there are books stuffed full of stoical reasonings. What is wanted, then? The man who shall apply them; whose actions may bear testimony to his doctrines. Assume this character for me, that we may no longer make use in the schools of the examples of the ancients, but may have some examples of our own.” (p. 90.)
So far as the scanty record goes, and the testimony of contemporaries, Epictetus was himself such a man. He was probably born at Hierapolis in Phrygia, and he lived at Rome, in the first century of our era, as the slave of Epaphroditus, a freedman of Nero. Origen preserves an anecdote of Epictetus, that when his master once put his leg in the torture, his philosophic slave quietly remarked, “You will break my leg”; and when this presently happened, he added, in the same tone, “Did I not tell you so?” He afterwards became free, and lived very frugally at Rome, teaching philosophy. Simplicius says that the whole furniture of his house consisted of a bed, a cooking-vessel, and an earthen lamp; and Lucian ridicules a man who bought the latter, after his death, in hopes to become a philosopher by using it.
When Domitian banished the philosophers from Rome, Epictetus retired to Nicopolis, a city of Epirus, where he taught as before. He still lived in the same frugal way, his only companions being a young child, whom he adopted, in the later years of his life, because its parents abandoned it, and a woman whom he employed as its nurse. He suffered from extreme lameness, and, according to his contemporary, Aulus Gellius, composed a couplet to proclaim his gratitude to the Gods, in spite of these misfortunes. “Epictetus, a slave, maimed in body, an Irus in poverty, and favored by the Immortals.”* After Hadrian became Emperor ( 117), Epictetus was treated with favor, but probably did not return to Rome. In these later years of his life, his discourses were written down by his disciple Arrian, a man of the highest character, both as a philosopher and as an historian. But four of the original eight books remain. The date of Epictetus’s death is entirely unknown.
Marcus Aurelius ranked this philosopher with Socrates, and Origen thought that his writings had done more good than those of Plato. In modern times, Niebuhr has said of him. “Epictetus’s greatness cannot be questioned, and it is impossible for any person of sound mind not to be charmed by his works.” I am acquainted with no book more replete with high conceptions of the Deity, and noble aims for man; nor do I know any in which the inevitable laws of retribution are more grandly stated, with less of merely childish bribery or threatening. It is pathetic to see good Mrs. Carter apologizing for this elevation of thought as if it were a weakness, and to find Merivale censuring it as “a low and popular view” to represent vice as its own punishment and virtue as its own reward. It is not, however, my object to vindicate these plain principles, but to let them speak for themselves, with as much as possible of their original clearness.
It has not seemed to me strange, but very natural, to pass from camp life to the study of Epictetus. Where should a student find contentment in enforced withdrawal from active service, if not in “the still air of delightful studies”? There seemed a special appropriateness, also, in coming to this work from a camp of colored soldiers, whose great exemplar, Toussaint l’Ouverture, made the works of this his fellow-slave a favorite manual. Moreover, the return of peace seems a fitting time to call anew the public attention to those eternal principles on which alone true prosperity is based; and, in a period of increasing religious toleration, to revive the voice of one who bore witness to the highest spiritual truths, ere the present sects were born.
T. W. H.
LIST OF BOOKS CONSULTED.
[For the Complete Works.]
1. Epicteti quæ supersunt Dissertationes ab Arriano collectæ, . . . . illustravit Joannes Uptonus, Præbend. Rossensis. Londini, 1741. 2 vols. 8vo.
2. Epicteti Dissertationum libri iv. . . . . post J. Uptoni aliorumque curas, edidit J. Schweighäuser. Lipsiæ, 1799, 1800. 5 vols. in 6. 8vo.
3. The Works of Epictetus, . . . . translated from the original Greek, by Mrs. Elizabeth Carter. . . . . London, 1758. 4to. [2d ed., 2 vols., 12mo, 1759. 3d ed., 2 vols., 12mo, 1768. 4th ed., 2 vols., 8vo, 1804.]
4. . . . . Epicteti Dissertationes ab Arriani literis mandatæ. . . . . [Didot, Bib. Græc.] Parisiis, 1840. 8vo.
[For the Enchiridion.]
5. Simplicii Commentarius in Enchiridion Epicteti, . . . . cum versione Hier. Wolfii et Cl. Salmasii animadversionibus. . . . . Lugduni Batavorum, 1640. 4to.
6. The most excellent Morals of Epictetus made English in a Poetical Paraphrase, by Ellis Walker, M. A. London, 1692. 12mo. [Also, London, 1697, 1701, 1709, 1716, 1732; Boston, Mass., 1863, from the edition of 1716. The two latter are those which I have seen.]
7. Epictetus, his Morals, with Simplicius, his Commentary. Made English from the Greek by George Stanhope. . . . . London, 1694. 12mo. [Also, London, 1700, 1704, 1721, 1741, 1750.]
8. Epicteti Manuale. . . . . Græce et Latine in usum tyronum accommodati. . . . . illustravit Joseph Simpson. Editio Quarts. Londini, 1758. 8vo.
9. Epicteti Enchiridion Græce et Latine . . . . curavit Chr. Gottl. Heyne. Altera Editio. Varsaviæ, 1776. 18mo. [A previous edition at Dresden, 1756.]
10. Manuale di Epicteto . . . . secondo la Versione del Rev. Padre Pagnini. [Opere di G. D. Romagnosi. Vol. I. Part 2.] Milano, 1844. 8vo.
[The following English versions I find mentioned in Adam Clarke’s “Account of English Translations of Greek and Roman Classics.” London, 1806; — but I have not met with them.
1. The Manual of Epictetus, translated out of Greek into French, and now into English, compared with two Latin translations, . . . . by Jas. Sandford. London, 1567. 8vo.
2. The Life and Philosophy of Epictetus . . . . rendered into English by John Davies. London, 1670. 8vo.
3. The Manual of Epictetus the Philosopher, translated from the original Greek by Wm. Bond. London, 1730. 12mo.
Ellis Walker, in his preliminary life of Epictetus, speaks of still another English translation, by Healey; also of French versions by Du Vair and Boileau. There is also a critical edition of the Enchiridion, by Coray, with a French translation (Paris, 1826), which I have not seen.]
THE DISCOURSES OF EPICTETUS.
ARRIAN TO LUCIUS GELLIUS
WISHETH ALL HAPPINESS.I NEITHER composed the Discourses of Epictetus in such a manner as things of this nature are commonly composed, nor did I myself produce them to public view, any more than I composed them. But whatever sentiments I heard from his own mouth, the very same I endeavored to set down in the very same words, so far as possible, and to preserve as memorials for my own use, of his manner of thinking, and freedom of speech.
These Discourses are such as one person would naturally deliver from his own thoughts, extempore, to another; not such as he would prepare to be read by numbers afterwards. Yet, notwithstanding this, I cannot tell how, without either my consent or knowledge, they have fallen into the hands of the public. But it is of little consequence to me, if I do not appear an able writer, and of none to Epictetus, if any one treats his Discourses with contempt; since it was very evident, even when he uttered them, that he aimed at nothing more than to excite his hearers to virtue. If they produce that one effect, they have in them what, I think, philosophical discourses ought to have. And should they fail of it, let the readers however be assured, that when Epictetus himself pronounced them, his audience could not help being affected in the very manner he intended they should. If by themselves they have less efficacy, perhaps it is my fault, or perhaps it is unavoidable.
Farewell.
BOOK I.
CHAPTER I.
OF THE THINGS WHICH ARE, AND THE THINGS WHICH ARE NOT IN OUR OWN POWER.
OF other faculties, you will find no one that contemplates, and consequently approves or disapproves itself. How far does the proper sphere of grammar extend? As far as the judging of language. Of music? As far as the judging of melody. Does either of them contemplate itself, then? By no means.
Thus, for instance, when you are to write to your friend, grammar will tell you what to write; but whether you are to write to your friend at all, or no, grammar will not tell you. Thus music, with regard to tunes; but whether it be proper or improper, at any particular time, to sing or play, music will not tell you.
What will tell, then?
That which contemplates both itself and all other things.
And what is that?
The Reasoning Faculty; for that alone is found to consider both itself, its powers, its value, and likewise all the rest. For what is it else that says, gold is beautiful; for the gold itself does not speak? Evidently that faculty, which judges of the appearances of things. What else distinguishes music, grammar, the other faculties, proves their uses, and shows their proper occasions?
Nothing but this.
As it was fit then, this most excellent and superior faculty alone, a right use of the appearances of things, the gods have placed in our own power; but all other matters, they have not placed in our power. What, was it because they would not? I rather think, that if they could, they had granted us these too; but they certainly could not. For, placed upon earth, and confined to such a body, and to such companions, how was it possible that, in these respects, we should not be hindered by things without us?
But what says Zeus? “O Epictetus, if it were possible, I had made this little body and property of thine free, and not liable to hindrance. But now do not mistake: it is not thy own, but only a finer mixture of clay. Since, then, I could not give thee this, I have given thee a certain portion of myself; this faculty of exerting the powers of pursuit and avoidance, of desire and aversion, and, in a word, the use of the appearances of things. Taking care of this point, and making what is thy own to consist in this, thou wilt never be restrained, never be hindered; thou wilt not groan, wilt not complain, wilt not flatter any one. How, then! Do all these advantages seem small to thee? Heaven forbid! Let them suffice thee then, and thank the gods.”
But now, when it is in our power to take care of one thing, and to apply to one, we choose rather to take care of many, and to encumber ourselves with many; body, property, brother, friend, child, and slave; and, by this multiplicity of encumbrances, we are burdened and weighed down. Thus, when the weather doth not happen to be fair for sailing, we sit in distress and gaze out perpetually. Which way is the wind? — North. — What do we want of that? When will the west blow? — When it pleases, friend, or when Æolus pleases; for Zeus has not made you dispenser of the winds, but Æolus.
What then is to be done?
To make the best of what is in our power, and take the rest as it occurs.
And how does it occur?
As it pleases God.
What, then, must I be the only one to lose my head?
Why, would you have all the world, then, lose their heads for your consolation? Why are not you willing to stretch out your neck, like Lateranus,* when he was commanded by Nero to be beheaded? For, shrinking a little after receiving a weak blow, he stretched it out again. And before this, when Epaphroditus,† the freedman of Nero, interrogated him about the conspiracy: “If I have a mind to say anything,” replied he, “I will tell it to your master.”
What resource have we then upon such occasions? Why, what else but to distinguish between what is ours, and what not ours; what is right, and what is wrong. I must die, and must I die groaning too? — Be fettered. Must I be lamenting too? — Exiled. And what hinders me, then, but that I may go smiling, and cheerful, and serene? — “Betray a secret.” — I will not betray it; for this is in my own power. — “Then I will fetter you.”— What do you say, man? Fetter me? You will fetter my leg; but not Zeus himself can get the better of my free will. “I will throw you into prison: I will behead that paltry body of yours.” Did I ever tell you, that I alone had a head not liable to be cut off? — These things ought philosophers to study; these ought they daily to write; and in these to exercise themselves.
Thraseas* used to say, “I had rather be killed today, than banished to-morrow.” But how did Rufus† answer him? “If you prefer it as a heavier misfortune, how foolish a preference! If as a lighter, who has put it in your power? Why do not you study to be contented with what is allotted you?”
Well, and what said Agrippinus,‡ upon this account? “I will not be a hindrance to myself.” Word was brought him, “Your cause is trying in the senate.” — “Good luck attend it; but it is eleven o’clock” (the hour when he used to exercise before bathing): “Let us go to our exercise.” This being over, a messenger tells him, “You are condemned.” To banishment, says he, or to death? “To banishment.” — What of my estate? — “It is not taken away.” Well then, let us go as far as Aricia,* and dine there.
This it is to have studied what ought to be studied; to have placed our desires and aversions above tyranny and above chance. I must die: if instantly, I will die instantly; if in a short time, I will dine first; and when the hour comes, then I will die. How? As becomes one who restores what is not his own.
CHAPTER II.
IN WHAT MANNER, UPON EVERY OCCASION, TO PRESERVE OUR CHARACTER.
TO a reasonable creature, that alone is insupportable which is unreasonable; but everything reasonable may be supported. Stripes are not naturally insupportable. — “How so?” — See how the Spartans† bear whipping, after they have learned that it is a reasonable thing. Hanging is not insupportable; for, as soon as a man has taken it into his head that it is reasonable, he goes and hangs himself. In short we shall find by observation, that no creature is oppressed so much by anything, as by what is unreasonable; nor, on the other hand, attracted to anything so strongly, as to what is reasonable.
But it happens that different things are reasonable and unreasonable, as well as good and bad, advantageous and disadvantageous, to different persons. On this account, chiefly, we stand in need of a liberal education, to teach us to adapt the preconceptions of reasonable and unreasonable to particular cases, conformably to nature. But to judge of reasonable and unreasonable, we make use not only of a due estimation of things without us, but of what relates to each person’s particular character. Thus, it is reasonable for one man to submit to a menial office, who considers this only, that if he does not submit to it, he shall be whipt, and lose his dinner, but that if he does, he has nothing hard or disagreeable to suffer; whereas to another it appears insupportable, not only to submit to such an office himself, but to respect any one else who does. If you ask me, then, whether you shall do this menial office or not, I will tell you, it is a more valuable thing to get a dinner, than not; and a greater disgrace to be whipt, than not to be whipt; — so that, if you measure yourself by these things, go and do your office.
“Ay, but this is not suitable to my character.”
It is you who are to consider that, not I; for it is you who know yourself, what value you set upon yourself, and at what rate you sell yourself; for different people sell themselves at different prices.
Hence Agrippinus* when Florus was considering whether he should go to Nero’s shows, and perform some part in them himself, bid him go. — “But why do not you go then?” says Florus. “Because,” replied Agrippinus, “I do not deliberate about it.” For he who once sets himself about such considerations, and goes to calculating the worth of external things, approaches very near to those who forget their own character. For, why do you ask me whether death or life be the more eligible? I answer, life. Pain or pleasure? I answer, pleasure. — “But if I do not act a part, I shall lose my head.” — Go and act it then, but I will not.— “Why?” — Because you esteem yourself only as one thread of many that make up the piece. — “What then?” — You have nothing to care for, but how to be like the rest of mankind, as one thread desires not to be distinguished from the others. But I would be the purple,† that small and brilliant part, which gives a lustre and beauty to the rest. Why do you bid me resemble the multitude then? At that rate, how shall I be the purple?
This Priscus Helvidius‡ too saw, and acted accordingly; for when Vespasian had sent to forbid his going to the Senate, he answered, “It is in your power to prevent my continuing a senator; but while I am one, I must go.” — “Well then, at least be silent there.” — “Do not ask my opinion and I will be silent.” — “But I must ask it.” — “And I must speak what appears to me to be right.” — “But if you do, I will put you to death.” — “When did I ever tell you that I was immortal? You will do your part, and I mine: it is yours to kill and mine to die intrepid; yours to banish, mine to depart untroubled.”
What good, then, did Priscus do, who was but a single person? Why, what good does the purple do to the garment? What, but to be beautiful in itself, and to set a good example to the rest? Another, perhaps, if in such circumstances Cæsar had forbidden his going to the Senate, would have answered, “I am obliged to you for excusing me.” But such a one he would not have forbidden to go; well knowing, that he would either sit like a statue, or, if he spoke, would say what he knew to be agreeable to Cæsar, and would overdo it, by adding still more.
Thus acted even a wrestler, who was in danger of death, unless he consented to an ignominious amputation. His brother, who was a philosopher, coming to him, and saying “Well, brother, what do you design to do? Let us cut away this part, and return again to the field.” He refused, and courageously died.
When it was asked, whether he acted thus as a wrestler, or a philosopher? I answer, as a man, said Epictetus; but as a man who had been proclaimed a champion at the Olympic games; who had been used to such places, and not exercised merely in the school of Bato.* Another would have had his very head cut off, if he could have lived without it. This is that regard to character, so powerful with those who are accustomed to introduce it, from their own breasts, into their deliberations.
“Come now, Epictetus, take off your beard.”† — If I am a philosopher, I answer, I will not take it off. — “Then I will take off your head.” — If that will do you any good, take it off.
It was asked, How shall each of us perceive what belongs to his character? Whence, replied Epictetus, does a bull, when the lion approaches, alone recognize his own qualifications, and expose himself alone for the whole herd? It is evident, that with the qualifications, occurs, at the same time, the consciousness of being indued with them. And in the same manner, whoever of us hath such qualifications, will not be ignorant of them. But neither is a bull, nor a gallant-spirited man, formed all at once. We are to exercise, and qualify ourselves, and not to run rashly upon what doth not concern us.
Only consider at what price you sell your own free will, O man! if only that you may not sell it for a trifle. The highest greatness and excellence perhaps seem to belong to others, to such as Socrates. Why then, as we are born with a like nature, do not all, or the greater number, become such as he? Why, are all horses swift? Are all dogs sagacious? What then, because my gifts are humble, shall I neglect all care of myself? Heaven forbid! Epictetus may not surpass Socrates; granted: but could I overtake him, it might be enough for me. I shall never be Milo, and yet I do not neglect my body; nor Crœsus, and yet I do not neglect my property; nor should we omit any effort, from a despair of arriving at the highest.
CHAPTER III.
HOW, FROM THE DOCTRINE THAT GOD IS THE FATHER OF MANKIND, WE MAY PROCEED TO ITS CONSEQUENCES.
IF a person could be persuaded of this principle as he ought, that we are all originally descended from God, and that he is the father of men and gods; I conceive he never would think of himself meanly or ignobly. Suppose Cæsar were to adopt you, there would be no bearing your haughty looks; and will you not feel ennobled on knowing yourself to be the son of God? Yet, in fact, we are not ennobled. But having two things united in our composition, a body in common with the brutes, and reason in common with the gods, many incline to this unhappy and mortal kindred, and only some few to that which is happy and divine. And, as of necessity every one must treat each particular thing, according to the notions he forms about it; so those few, who suppose that they are made for faith and honor, and a wise use of things, will never think meanly or ignobly concerning themselves. But with the multitude the case is contrary; “For what am I? A poor contemptible man, with this miserable flesh of mine?” Miserable indeed. But you have likewise something better than this poor flesh. Why then, overlooking that, do you pine away in attention to this?
By means of this [animal] kindred, some of us, deviating towards it, become like wolves, faithless, and crafty, and mischievous; others, like lions, wild, and savage, and untamed; but most of us foxes, and disgraceful even among brutes. For what else is a slanderous and ill-natured man, but a fox, or something yet more wretched and mean? Watch and take heed then, that you do not sink thus low.
CHAPTER IV
OF PROGRESS.
HE who is entering on a state of progress, having learnt from the philosophers, that good should be sought and evil shunned; and having learnt too, that prosperity and peace are no otherwise attainable by man, than in not missing what he seeks, nor incurring what he shuns; such a one removes totally from himself and banishes all wayward desire, and shuns only those things over which he can have control. For if he should attempt to shun those things over which he has no control, he knows that he must sometimes incur that which he shuns, and be unhappy. Now if virtue promises happiness, prosperity, and peace; then progress in virtue is certainly progress in each of these. For to whatever point the perfection of anything absolutely brings us, progress is always an approach towards it.
How happens it then, that when we confess virtue to be such, yet we seek, and make an ostentatious show of progress in other things? What is the business of virtue?
A life truly prosperous.
Who is in a state of progress then? He who has best studied Chrysippus?* Why, does virtue consist in having read Chrysippus through? If so, progress is confessedly nothing else than understanding a great deal of Chrysippus; otherwise we confess virtue to consist in one thing, and declare progress, which is an approach to it, to be quite another thing.
This person, they say, is already able to understand Chrysippus, by himself. — “Certainly, sir, you have made a vast improvement!” What improvement? Why do you delude him? Why do you withdraw him from a sense of his real needs? Why do not you show him the real function of virtue, that he may know where to seek progress? — Seek it there, O! unfortunate, where your work lies. And where doth your work lie? In learning what to seek and what to shun, that you may neither be disappointed of the one, nor incur the other; in practising how to pursue and how to avoid, that you may not be liable to fail; in practising intellectual assent and doubt, that you may not be liable to be deceived. These are the first and most necessary things. But if you merely seek, in trembling and lamentation, to keep away all possible ills, what real progress have you made?
Show me then your progress in this point. As if I should say to a wrestler, Show me your muscle; and he should answer me, “See my dumb-bells.” Your dumb-bells are your own affair: I desire to see the effect of them.
“Take the treatise on the active powers, and see how thoroughly I have perused it.”
I do not inquire into this, O! slavish man; but how you exert those powers; how you manage your desires and aversions, how your intentions and purposes; how you meet events, whether in accordance with nature’s laws, or contrary to them. If in accordance, give me evidence of that, and I will say you improve: if the contrary, go your way, and not only comment on these treatises, but write such yourself, and yet what service will it do you? Do not you know that the whole volume is sold for five denarii? Doth he who comments upon it, then, value himself at more than that sum? Never make your life to consist in one thing and yet seek progress in another.
Where is progress, then?
If any of you, withdrawing himself from externals, turns to his own will, to train, and perfect, and render it conformable to nature; noble, free, unrestrained, unhindered, faithful, humble; if he hath learnt, too, that whoever desires or shuns things beyond his own power, can neither be faithful nor free, but must necessarily take his chance with them, must necessarily too be subject to others, to such as can procure or prevent what he desires or shuns; if, rising in the morning, he observes and keeps to these rules; bathes regularly, eats frugally; and to every subject of action, applies the same fixed principles, — if a racer to racing, if an orator to oratory; this is he, who truly makes progress; this is he, who hath not labored in vain. But if he is wholly intent on reading books, and hath labored that point only, and travelled for that; I bid him go home immediately, and do his daily duties; since that which he sought is nothing.
The only real thing is, to study how to rid life of lamentation, and complaint, and Alas! and I am undone, and misfortune, and failure; and to learn what death, what exile, what a prison, what poison is; that he may be able to say in a prison, like Socrates, “My dear Crito, if it thus pleases the gods, thus let it be”; and not, “Wretched old man, have I kept my gray hairs for this!” [Do you ask] who speaks thus? Do you think I quote some mean and despicable person? Is it not Priam who says it? Is it not Œdipus? Nay, how many kings say it? For what else is tragedy, but the dramatized sufferings of men, bewildered by an admiration of externals? If one were to be taught by fictions, that things beyond our will are nothing to us, I should rejoice in such a fiction, by which I might live prosperous and serene. But what you wish for, it is your business to consider.
Of what service, then, is Chrysippus to us?
To teach you, that those things are not false, on which true prosperity and peace depend. “Take my books, and you will see, how true and conformable to nature those things are, which give me peace.” How great a happiness! And how great the benefactor, who shows the way! To Triptolemus all men have raised temples and altars, because he gave us a milder kind of food: but to him who hath discovered, and brought to light, and communicated the truth to all;* the means, not of living merely, but of living well; who among you ever raised an altar or a temple, or dedicated a statue, or who worships God in his name? We offer sacrifices in memory of those who have given us corn and the vine; and shall we not give thanks to God, for those who have nurtured such fruit in the human breast; even the truth which makes us blessed?
CHAPTER V.
CONCERNING THE ACADEMICS.†
IT is said that there are those who will oppose very evident truths, and yet it is not easy to find a reason which may persuade such an one to alter his opinion. This may arise neither from his own strength, nor from the weakness of his teacher; but when a man becomes obstinate in error, reason cannot always reach him.
Now there are two sorts of obstinacy: the one, of the intellect; the other, of the will. A man may obstinately set himself not to assent to evident truths, nor to quit the defence of contradictions. We all dread a bodily paralysis; and would make use of every contrivance to avoid it: but none of us is troubled about a paralysis of the soul. And yet, indeed, even with regard to the soul, when a person is so affected as not to apprehend or understand anything, we think him in a sad condition; but where the emotions of shame and modesty are under an absolute paralysis, we go so far as even to call this strength of mind!
Are you certain that you are awake? — “I am not,” replies such a person, “for neither am I certain when in dreaming I appear to myself to be awake.” Is there no difference, then, between these appearances? — “None.” Shall I argue with this man any longer? For what steel or what caustic can I apply, to make him sensible of his paralysis? If he is sensible of it, and pretends not to be so, he is even worse than dead. He sees not his inconsistency, or, seeing it, holds to the wrong. He moves not, makes no progress; he rather falls back. His sense of shame is gone; his reasoning faculty is not gone, but brutalized. Shall I call this strength of mind? By no means: unless we allow it to be such in the vilest debauchees, publicly to speak and act out their worst impulses.
CHAPTER VI.
OF PROVIDENCE.
FROM every event that happens in the world it is easy to celebrate Providence, if a person hath but these two qualities in himself; a faculty of considering what happens to each individual, and a grateful temper. Without the first, he will not perceive the usefulness of things which happen; and without the other, he will not be thankful for them. If God had made colors, and had not made the faculty of seeing them, what would have been their use? None. On the other hand, if he had made the faculty of observation, without objects to observe, what would have been the use of that? None. Again; if he had formed both the faculty and the objects, but had not made light? Neither in that case would they have been of any use.
Who is it then that hath fitted each of these to the other? Who is it that hath fitted the sword to the scabbard, and the scabbard to the sword? Is there no such Being? From the very construction of a complete work, we are used to declare positively, that it must be the operation of some artificer, and not the effect of mere chance. Doth every such work, then, demonstrate an artificer; and do not visible objects, and the sense of seeing, and light, demonstrate one? Do not the difference of the sexes, and their inclination to each other, and the use of their several powers; do not these things demonstrate an artificer? Most certainly they do.
But further; this constitution of understanding, by which we are not simply impressed by sensible objects, but take and subtract and add and combine, and pass from point to point by inference; is not all this sufficient to prevail on some men, and make them ashamed of leaving an artificer out of their scheme? If not, let them explain to us what the power is that effects each of these; and how it is possible that chance should produce things so wonderful, and which carry such marks of design?
What, then, do these things belong to us alone?
Many indeed; such as are peculiarly necessary for a reasonable creature; but you will find many, which are common to us with mere animals.
Then, do they too understand what happens?
Not at all; for use is one affair, and understanding another. But God had need of animals, to make use of things; and of us to understand that use. It is sufficient, therefore, for them to eat, and drink, and sleep, and continue their species, and perform other such offices as belong to each of them; but to us, to whom he hath given likewise a faculty of understanding, these offices are not sufficient. For if we do not proceed in a wise and systematic manner, and suitably to the nature and constitution of each thing, we shall never attain our end. For where the constitution of beings is different, their offices and ends are different likewise. Thus where the constitution is adapted only to use, there use is alone sufficient; but where understanding is added to use, unless that too be duly exercised, the end of such a being will never be attained.
Well then; each of the animals is constituted either for food, or husbandry, to produce milk, or for some other like use; and for these purposes what need is there of understanding things, and being able to discriminate concerning them? But God hath introduced man, as a spectator of himself and of his works; and not only as a spectator, but an interpreter of them. It is therefore shameful that man should begin and end, where irrational creatures do. He is indeed to begin there, but to end where nature itself hath fixed our end; and that is, in contemplation and understanding, and in a scheme of life conformable to nature.
Take care, then, not to die without the contemplation of these things. You take a journey to Olympia to behold the work of Phidias, and each of you thinks it a misfortune to die without a knowledge of such things; and will you have no inclination to see and understand those works, for which there is no need to take a journey; but which are ready and at hand, even to those who bestow no pains! Will you never perceive what you are, or for what you were born, or for what purpose you are admitted to behold this spectacle?
But there are in life some things unpleasant and difficult.
And are there none at Olympia? Are not you heated? Are not you crowded? Are not you without good conveniences for bathing? Are not you wet through, when it happens to rain? Do you not have uproar, and noise, and other disagreeable circumstances? But I suppose, by comparing all these with the merit of the spectacle, you support and endure them. Well; and have you not received faculties by which you may support every event? Have you not received greatness of soul? Have you not received a manly spirit? Have you not received patience? What signifies to me anything that happens, while my soul is above it? What shall disconcert or trouble or appear grievous to me? Shall I not use my powers to that purpose for which I received them; but lament and groan at every casualty?
“True, no doubt; but I have such a disagreeable catarrh!” Attend to your diseases, then, as best you can. Do you say, it is unreasonable that there should be such a discomfort in the world?
And how much better is it that you should have a catarrh than complain? Pray, what figure do you think Hercules would have made, if there had not been a lion, and a hydra, and a stag, and unjust and brutal men, whom he expelled and cleared away? And what would he have done, if none of these had existed? Is it not plain, that he must have wrapt himself up and slept? In the first place, then, he would never have become a Hercules, by slumbering away his whole life in such delicacy and ease; or if he had, what good would it have done? What would have been the use of his arm and his strength, — of his patience and greatness of mind, — if such circumstances and subjects of action had not roused and exercised him?
What then, must we provide these things for ourselves; and introduce a boar, and a lion, and a hydra, into our country?
This would be madness and folly. But as they were in being, and to be met with, they were proper subjects to call out and exercise Hercules. Do you therefore likewise, being sensible of this, consider the faculties you have; and after taking a view of them, say, “Bring on me now, O Zeus, what difficulty thou wilt, for I have faculties granted me by thee, and powers by which I may win honor from every event.” — No; but you sit trembling, for fear this or that should happen, and lamenting, and mourning, and groaning at what doth happen; and then you accuse the gods. For what is the consequence of such a baseness, but impiety? And yet God hath not only granted these faculties, by which we may bear every event, without being depressed or broken by it; but, like a good prince, and a true father, hath placed their exercise above restraint, compulsion, or hindrance, and wholly within our own control; nor hath he reserved a power, even to himself, of hindering or restraining them. Having these things free, and your own, will you not use them, nor consider what you have received, nor from whom? But you sit groaning and lamenting, some of you, blind to him who gave them, and not acknowledging your benefactor; and others basely turn themselves to complaints and accusations against God! Yet I undertake to show you, that you have means and powers to exhibit greatness of soul, and a manly spirit; but what occasion you have to find fault, and complain, do you show me if you can.
CHAPTER VII.
OF THE USE OF THE FORMS OF RIGHT REASONING.
IT is not understood by most persons that the proper use of inferences and hypotheses and interrogations, and logical forms generally, has any relation to the duties of life. In every subject of action, the question is, how a wise and good man may come honestly and consistently out of it. We must admit, therefore, either that the wise man will not engage in difficult problems; or that, if he does, he will not think it worth his care to deal with them thoroughly; or if we allow neither of these alternatives, it is necessary to confess, that some examination ought to be made of those points on which the solution of these problems chiefly depends. For what is reasoning? To lay down true positions; to reject false ones; and to suspend the judgment in doubtful ones. Is it enough, then, to have learned merely this? It is enough, say you. — Is it enough, then, for him who would not commit any mistake in the use of money, merely to have heard, that we are to receive the good pieces, and to reject the bad? — This is not enough. — What must be added besides? That skill which tries and distinguishes what pieces are good, what bad. — Therefore, in reasoning too, the definition just given is not enough; but it is necessary that we should be able to prove and distinguish between the true, and the false, and the doubtful. This is clear.
And what further is professed in reasoning? — To admit the consequence of what you have properly granted. Well? and is it enough merely to know this necessity? — It is not; but we must learn how such a thing is the consequence of such another; and when one thing follows from one premise, and when from many premises. Is it not moreover necessary, that he, who would behave skilfully in reasoning, should both himself demonstrate whatever he asserts, and be able to comprehend the demonstrations of others; and not be deceived by such as sophisticate, as if they were demonstrating? Hence arises the use and practice of logical forms; and it appears to be indispensable.
But it may possibly happen, that from the premises which we have honestly granted, there arises some consequence, which, though false, is nevertheless a fair inference. What then ought I to do? To admit a falsehood? — Impossible. — To deny my concessions? — But this will not be allowed. — Or assert that the consequence does not fairly follow from the premises? — Nor is even this practicable. — What then is to be done in the case? — Is it not this? As the having once borrowed money is not enough to make a person a debtor, unless he still continues to owe money, and has not paid it; so the having granted the premises is not enough to make it necessary to grant the inference, unless we continue our concessions. If the premises continue to the end, such as they were when the concessions were made, it is absolutely necessary to continue the concessions, and to admit what follows from them. But if the premises do not continue such as they were when the concession was made, it is absolutely necessary to revoke the concession, and refuse to accept the inference. For this inference is no consequence of ours, nor belongs to us, when we have revoked the concession of the premises. We ought then thoroughly to consider our premises, and their different aspects, on which any one, by laying hold, — either on the question itself, or on the answer, or on the inference or elsewhere, — may embarrass the unthinking who did not foresee the result. So that in this way we may not be led into any unbecoming or confused position.
The same thing is to be observed in hypotheses and hypothetical arguments. For it is sometimes necessary to require some hypothesis to be granted, as a kind of step to the rest of the argument. Is every given hypothesis then to be granted, or not every one; and if not every one, which? And is he who has granted an hypothesis, forever to abide by it? Or is he sometimes to revoke it, and admit only consequences, but not to admit contradictions? — Ay, but a person may say, on your admitting a possible hypothesis I will drive you upon an impossibility. With such a one as this, shall the wise man never engage, but avoid all argument and conversation with him? — And yet who beside the wise man is capable of treating an argument, or who beside is sagacious in reasoning, and incapable of being deceived and imposed on by sophistry? — Or will he indeed engage, but without regarding whether he behaves rashly and heedlessly in the argument? — Yet how then can he be wise as we are supposing him? and without some such exercise and preparation, how can he hold his own? If this could be shown, then indeed all these forms of reasoning would be superfluous and absurd, and unconnected with our idea of the virtuous man.
Why then are we still indolent, and slothful, and sluggish, seeking pretences of avoiding labor? Shall we not be watchful to render reason itself accurate? — “But suppose after all, I should make a mistake in these points? it is not as if I had killed a father.” — O, slavish man! in this case you had no father to kill; but the only fault that you could commit in this instance, you have committed. This very thing I myself said to Rufus, when he reproved me for not finding the weak point in some syllogism. Why, said I, have I burnt the capitol then? Slave! answered he, was the thing here involved the capitol? Or are there no other faults, but burning the capitol, or killing a father? and is it no fault to treat rashly, and vainly, and heedlessly the things which pass before our eyes; not to comprehend a reason, nor a demonstration, nor a sophism; nor, in short, to see what is strong in reasoning and what is weak? Is there nothing wrong in this?
CHAPTER VIII.
THAT LOGICAL SUBTLETIES ARE NOT SAFE TO THE UNINSTRUCTED.
IN as many ways as equivalent syllogisms may be varied, in so many may the logical forms be varied likewise. As for instance: “If you had borrowed, and not paid, you owe me money. But you have not borrowed, and not paid; therefore you do not owe me money.” To perform these processes skilfully, is the peculiar mark of a philosopher. For if an enthymema be an imperfect syllogism; he who is versed in the perfect syllogism, must be equally ready to detect an imperfect one.
“Why then do not we exercise ourselves and others, after this manner?”
Because, even now, though we are not absorbed in these things, nor diverted, by me at least, from the study of morality; yet we make no eminent advances in virtue. What is to be expected then if we should add this avocation too? Especially as it would not only withdraw us from more necessary studies, but likewise afford a capital occasion of conceit and insolence. For the faculty of arguing, and of persuasive reasoning is great; and particularly, if it be constantly practised, and receive an additional ornament from rhetoric. For, in general, every such faculty is dangerous to weak and uninstructed persons, as being apt to render them arrogant and elated. For by what method can one persuade a young man, who excels in these kinds of study, that he ought not to be an appendage to these accomplishments, but they to him? Will he not trample upon all such advice; and walk about elated and puffed up, not bearing that any one should touch him, to put him in mind where he is wanting, and in what he goes wrong?
What then, was not Plato a philosopher?
Well, and was not Hippocrates a physician? Yet you see how he expresses himself. But what has his style to do with his professional qualities? Why do you confound things, accidentally united in the same men? If Plato was handsome and well made, must I too set myself to becoming handsome and well made; as if this was necessary to philosophy, because a certain person happened to be at once handsome and a philosopher? Why will you not perceive and distinguish what are the things that make men philosophers, and what belong to them on other accounts? Pray, if I were a philosopher, would it be necessary that you should be lame too?
What then? Do I reject these special faculties? By no means; — neither do I reject the faculty of seeing. But if you ask me, what is the good of man; I know not where it lies, save in dealing wisely with the phenomena of existence.
CHAPTER IX.
HOW FROM THE DOCTRINE OF OUR RELATIONSHIP TO GOD, WE ARE TO DEDUCE ITS CONSEQUENCES.
IF what philosophers say of the kinship between God and men be true, what has any one to do, but, like Socrates, when he is asked what countryman he is, never to say that he is a citizen of Athens, or of Corinth, but of the universe? For why, if you limit yourself to Athens, do you not farther limit yourself to that mere corner of Athens where your body was brought forth? Is it not, evidently, from some larger local tie, which comprehends not only that corner, and your whole house, but the whole country of your fathers, that you call yourself an Athenian, or a Corinthian? He then, who understands the administration of the universe, and has learned that the principal and greatest and most comprehensive of all things is this vast system, extending from men to God; and that from Him the seeds of being are descended, not only to one’s father or grandfather, but to all things that are produced and born on earth; and especially to rational natures, as they alone are qualified to partake of a communication with the Deity, being connected with him by reason; why may not such a one call himself a citizen of the universe? Why not a son of God? And why shall he fear anything that happens among men? Shall kinship to Cæsar, or any other of the great at Rome, enable a man to live secure, above contempt, and void of all fear whatever; and shall not the having God for our maker, and father, and guardian, free us from griefs and alarms?
“But wherewithal shall I be fed? For I have nothing.”
To what do fugitive slaves trust, when they run away from their masters? Is it to their estates? Their servants? Their plate? To nothing but themselves. Yet they do not fail to obtain the necessaries of life. And must a philosopher, think you, leave his own abode, to rest and rely upon others; and not take care of himself? Must he be more helpless and anxious than the brute beasts; each of which is self-sufficient, and wants neither proper food, nor any suitable and natural provision? One would think that you would need an instructor, not to guard you from thinking too meanly or ignobly of yourselves; but that his business would be to take care lest there be young men of such a spirit, that, knowing their affinity to the gods, and that we are as it were fettered by the body and its possessions, and by so many other things as are thus made needful for the daily pursuits of life, they should resolve to throw them all off, as both troublesome and useless, and depart to their divine kindred.
This is the work, if any, that ought to employ your master and preceptor, if you had one, that you should come to him, and say: “Epictetus, we can no longer bear being tied down to this poor body; feeding, and resting, and cleaning it, and vexed with so many low cares on its account. Are not these things indifferent, and nothing to us; and death no evil? Are we not of kindred to God; and did we not come from him? Suffer us to go back thither from whence we came: suffer us at length to be delivered from these fetters that bind and weigh us down. Here thieves and robbers, courts and tyrants, claim power over us, through the body and its possessions. Suffer us to show them that they have no power.”
And in this case it would be my part to answer: “My friends, wait for God till he shall give the signal, and dismiss you from this service; then return to him. For the present, be content to remain at this post, where he has placed you. The time of your abode here is short and easy, to such as are disposed like you; for what tyrant, what robber, what thief or what court can be formidable to those who thus count for nothing the body and its possessions. Stay, nor foolishly depart.”
Thus ought the case to stand between a preceptor and ingenuous young men. But how stands it now? The preceptor has no life in him; and you have none. When you have had enough to-day, you sit weeping about to-morrow, how you shall get food. Why, if you have it, slave, you will have it; if not, you will go out of life. The door is open; why do you lament; what room remains for tears; what occasion for flattery? Why should any one person envy another? Why should he be impressed with awe by those who have great possessions, or are placed in high rank? especially, if they are powerful and passionate? For what will they do to us? The things which they can do, we do not regard: the things about which we are concerned, they cannot reach. Who then, after all, shall hold sway over a person thus disposed? How behaved Socrates in regard to these things? As it became one conscious of kinship with the gods. He said to his judges: —
“If you should tell me, ‘We will acquit you, upon condition that you shall no longer discourse in the manner you have hitherto done, nor make any disturbance either among our young or our old people’; I would answer: ‘You are ridiculous in thinking, that if your general had placed me in any post, I ought to maintain and defend it, and choose to die a thousand times, rather than desert it; but that if God hath assigned me any station or method of life, I ought to desert that for you.’ ”
This it is, for a man to truly recognize his relationship with God. But we habitually think of ourselves as mere stomach and intestines and bodily parts. Because we fear, because we desire, we flatter those who can help us in these matters; we dread them too.
A person desired me once to write for him to Rome. He was one vulgarly esteemed unfortunate, as he had been formerly illustrious and rich, and was afterwards stripped of all his possessions, and reduced to live here. I wrote for him in a submissive style; but, after reading my letter, he returned it to me, and said: “I wanted your assistance, not your pity; for no evil hath befallen me.”
Thus Rufus, to try me, used to say, this or that you will have from your master. When I answered him, these are mere human affairs; Why then, says he, should I intercede with him,* when you can receive from yourself things more important? For what one hath of his own, it is superfluous and vain to receive from another. Shall I then, who can receive nobleness and a manly spirit from myself, receive an estate, or a sum of money, or a place, from you? Heaven forbid! I will not be so insensible of my own possessions. But, if a person is fearful and abject, what else is necessary, but to apply for permission to bury him as if he were dead. “Please forward to us the corpse of such a one.” For, in fact, such a one is that, and nothing more. For, if he were anything more, he would be sensible that man is not to be made miserable at the will of his fellow-man.
CHAPTER X.
CONCERNING THOSE WHO SEEK PREFERMENT AT ROME.
IF we all applied ourselves as heartily to our proper business, as the old politicians at Rome to their schemes, perhaps we too might make some proficiency. I know a man older than I am, who is now a commissary at Rome. When he passed through this place, on his return from exile, what an account did he give me of his former life! and how did he promise, that for the future, when he had returned, he would apply himself to nothing but how to spend the remainder of his days in repose and tranquillity. “For how few have I now remaining!” he said. — You will not do it, said I. When you are once within reach of Rome, you will forget all this; and, if you can but once gain admittance to court, you will be rejoiced and thank God. “If you ever find me, Epictetus,” said he, “putting one foot into the court, think of me whatever you please.” Now, after all, how did he act? Before he entered the city, he was met by a billet from Cæsar. On receiving it, he forgot all his former resolutions; and has ever since been accumulating business upon himself. I should be glad now to have an opportunity of putting him in mind of his discourse upon the road; and of pointing out by how much I was the truer prophet.
What then do I say? that man is made for an inactive life? No, surely. But why is not ours a life of action? For my own part, I wake at dawn to recollect what things I am to read over again [with my pupils], and then say to myself quickly, What is it to me how such a one reads? My present business is to sleep.
Yet what likeness is there between their kind of activity and ours? If you consider what it is they do, you will see. For about what are they employed the whole day, but in calculating, contriving, consulting, about provisions, about an estate, or other interests like these? Is there any likeness, then, between reading such a petition from any one, as, “I entreat you to give me a permission to export corn”; and, “I entreat you to learn from Chrysippus, what the administration of the universe is; and what place a reasonable creature holds in it. Learn, too, what you yourself are; and wherein your good and evil consist.” Are these things at all alike? Do they require an equal degree of application? And is it as shameful to neglect the one as the other?
Well, then, are we older men the only idle dream ers? No: but you young men are so in a greater degree. And as we old folks, when we see young ones trifling, are tempted to trifle with them; so, much more, if I were to see you earnest and ardent, I should be excited to labor with you.
CHAPTER XI.
OF NATURAL AFFECTION.
WHEN an important personage once came to visit him, Epictetus, having inquired into the particulars of his affairs, asked him, Whether he had a wife and children? The other replying that he had, Epictetus likewise inquired, In what manner do you live with them? “Very miserably,” says he. — How so? For men do not marry, and get children, to be miserable; but rather to make themselves happy. — “But I am so very miserable about my children, that the other day, when my daughter was sick, and appeared to be in danger, I could not bear even to be with her; but ran away, till it was told me, that she was recovered.” — And pray do you think this was acting right? — “It was acting naturally,” said he. — Well? do but convince me that it was acting naturally, and I can as well convince you that everything natural is right. — “All, or most of us fathers, are affected in the same way.” — I do not deny the fact; but the question between us is, whether it be right. For by this way of reasoning, it must be said, that diseases happen for the good of the body, because they do happen; and even that vices are natural, because all, or most of us, are guilty of them. Do you show me then, how such a behavior as yours appears to be natural.
“I cannot undertake that. But do you rather show me, that it is neither natural nor right.”
If we were disputing about black and white, what criterion must we call in, to distinguish them?
“The sight.”
If about hot and cold, or hard and soft, what?
“The touch.”
Well then? when we are debating about natural and unnatural, and right and wrong; what criterion are we to take?
“I cannot tell
And yet to be ignorant of a criterion of colors, or of smells, or tastes, might perhaps be no very great loss. But do you think, that he suffers only a small loss, who is ignorant of what is good and evil, and natural and unnatural to man?
“No. The very greatest.”
Well; tell me; are all things which are judged good and proper by some, rightly judged to be so? Thus, is it possible, that the several opinions of Jews, and Syrians, and Egyptians, and Romans, concerning food, should all be right?
“How can it be possible?”
I suppose then, it is absolutely necessary that, if the opinions of the Egyptians be right, the others must be wrong; if those of the Jews be good, all the rest must be bad.
“How can it be otherwise?”
And where ignorance is, there likewise is want of wisdom and instruction in the most necessary points.
“It is granted.”
Then as you are sensible of this, you will for the future apply to nothing, and think of nothing else, but how to learn the criterion of what is agreeable to nature; and to use that, in judging of each particular case.
At present the assistance I have to give you, towards what you desire, is this. Does affection seem to you to be a right and a natural thing?
“How should it be otherwise?”
Well; and is affection natural and right, and reason not so?
“By no means.”
Is there any opposition, then, between reason and affection?
“I think not.”
Suppose there were: if one of two opposites be natural, the other must necessarily be unnatural. Must it not?
“It must.”
What we find, then, to accord at once with love and reason, that we may safely pronounce to be right and good.
“Agreed.”
Well, then: you will not dispute this, that to run away, and leave a sick child, is contrary to reason. It remains for us to consider, whether it be consistent with affection.
“Let us consider it.”
Did you, then, from an affection to your child, do right in running away, and leaving her? Has her mother no affection for the child?
“Yes, surely, she has.”
Would it have been right, then, that her mother too should leave her; or would it not?
“It would not.”
And does not her nurse love her?
“She does.”
Then ought she likewise to leave her?
“By no means.”
And does not her preceptor love her?
“He does.”
Then ought he also to have run away, and left her; the child being thus left alone and unassisted, from the great affection of her parents, and her friends; or left to die among people, who neither loved her, nor took care of her?
“Heaven forbid!”
But is it not unreasonable and unjust, that what you think right in yourself, on account of your affection, should not be allowed to others, who have the very same affection with you?
“It is absurd.”
Pray, if you were sick yourself, should you be willing to have your family, and even your wife and children, so very affectionate, as to leave you helpless and alone?
“By no means.”
Or would you wish to be so loved by your friends, as from their excessive affection always to be left alone when you were sick? Or would you not rejoice, if it were possible, to have such a kind of affection from your enemies, as to make them thus let you alone? If so, it remains, that your behaviour was by no means affectionate. But now, was there no other motive that induced you to desert your child?
“How is that possible?”
I mean some such motive as induced a person at Rome to hide his face while a horse was running, to which he earnestly wished success; and when, beyond his expectation, it won the race, he was obliged himself to be sponged, to recover from his faintness.
“And what was this motive?”
At present, perhaps, it cannot be made clear to you. It is sufficient to be convinced, if what philosophers say be true, that we are not to seek any motive merely from without; but that there is the same [unseen] motive in all cases, which moves us to do or forbear any action; to speak or not to speak; to be elated or depressed; to avoid or pursue: that very impulse which hath now moved us two; you, to come, and sit and hear me; and me, to speak as I do.
“And what is that?”
Is it anything else, than that it seemed right to us to do so?
“Nothing else.”
And if it had seemed otherwise to us, what else should we have done, than what we thought right? This, and not the death of Patroclus, was the real source of the lamentation of Achilles, — for every man is not thus affected by the death of a friend, — that it seemed right to him. This too was the cause of your running away from your child, that it then seemed right; and if hereafter you should stay with her, it will be because that seems right. You are now returning to Rome, because it seems right to you; but if you should alter your opinion, you will not return. In a word, neither death, nor exile, nor pain, nor anything of this kind, is the real cause of our doing or not doing any action: but our inward opinions and principles. Do I convince you of this, or not?
“You do.”
Well then: such as the cause is, such will be the effect. From this day forward, then, whenever we do anything wrong, we will impute it to the wrong principle from which we act; and we will endeavor to remove and extirpate that, with greater care than we would remove wens and tumors from the body. In like manner, we will ascribe what we do right, to the same cause; and we will accuse neither servant, nor neighbor, nor wife, nor children, as the cause of any evil to us; persuaded that if we had not accepted such principles, we should not carry them to such consequences. The control of these principles lies in us, and not in any outward things. Of these principles we ourselves, and not externals, are the masters.
“Agreed.”
From this day, then, we will not so closely inquire as to any external conditions, — estate, or slaves, or horses, or dogs, — but only make sure of our own principles.
“Such is my desire,” said the visitor.
You see, then, that it is necessary for you to become a student, that being whom every one laughs at, if you really desire to make an examination of your own principles. But this, as you should know, is not the work of an hour or a day.
CHAPTER XII.
OF CONTENTMENT.
CONCERNING the gods, some affirm, that there is no deity; others, that he indeed exists, but is slothful, negligent, and without providential care; a third class admits both his being and his providence, but only in respect to great and heavenly objects, not earthly; a fourth recognizes him both in heaven and earth, but only in general, not individual matters; a fifth, like Ulysses and Socrates, says, “I cannot be hid from thee in any of my motions.”*
It is, before all things, necessary to examine each of these opinions; which is, and which is not rightly spoken. Now, if there are no gods, wherefore serve them? If there are, but they take no care of anything, how is the case bettered? Or, if they both are, and take care; yet, if there is nothing communicated from them to men, and therefore certainly nothing to me, how much better is it? A wise and good man, after examining these things, submits his mind to Him who administers the whole, as good citizens do to the laws of the commonwealth.
He, then, who comes to be instructed, ought to come with this aim: “How may I in everything follow the gods? How may I acquiesce in the divine administration? And how may I be free?” For he is free, to whom all happens agreeably to his desire, and whom no one can unduly restrain.
“What then, is freedom mere license?”
By no means; for madness and freedom are incompatible.
“But I would have that happen which appears to me desirable; however it comes to appear so.”
You are mad: you have lost your senses. Do not you know, that freedom is a very beautiful and valuable thing? But for me to choose at random, and for things to happen agreeably to such a choice, may be so far from a beautiful thing, as to be, of all others, the most undesirable. For how do we proceed in writing? Do I choose to write the name of Dion (for instance) as I will? No; but I am taught to be willing to write it as it ought to be written. And what is the case in music? The same. And what in every other art or science? Otherwise, it would be of no purpose to learn anything, if it were to be adapted to each one’s particular humor. Is it then only in the greatest and principal matter, that of freedom, permitted me to desire at random? By no means; but true instruction is this, — learning to desire that things should happen as they do. And how do they happen? As the appointer of them hath appointed. He hath appointed, that there should be summer and winter, plenty and dearth, virtue and vice, and all such contrarieties, for the harmony of the whole. To each of us he has given a body and its parts, and our several possessions and companions. Mindful of this appointment, we should enter upon a course of education and instruction, not in order to change the constitution of things; — a gift neither practicable nor desirable; — but that things being as they are with regard to us, we may have our mind accommodated to the facts. Can we, for instance, flee from mankind? How is that possible? Can we, by conversing with them, transform them? Who has given us such a power? What then remains, or what method is there to be found, for such a commerce with them, that, while they act according to the appearances in their own minds, we may nevertheless be affected conformably to nature?
But you are wretched and discontented. If you are alone, you term it a desert; and if with men, you call them cheats and robbers. You find fault too with your parents, and children, and brothers, and neighbors. Whereas you ought, if you live alone, to call that repose and freedom, and to esteem yourself as resembling the gods; and when you are in company, not to call it a crowd, and a tumult, and a trouble, but an assembly, and a festival; and thus to take all things contentedly. What then, is the punishment of those who do not so accept them? To be — as they are. Is any one discontented with being alone? Let him remain in his desert. Discontented with his parents? Let him be a bad son; and let him mourn. Discontented with his children? Let him be a bad father. Shall we throw him into prison? What prison? Where he already is, for he is in a situation against his will, and wherever any one is against his will, that is to him a prison; just as Socrates was not truly in prison, for he was willingly there.
“What, then, must my leg be lame?”
And is it for one paltry leg, wretch, that you accuse the universe? Can you not forego that, in consideration of the whole? Can you not give up something? Can you not gladly yield it to him who gave it? And will you be angry and discontented with the decrees of Zeus; which he, with the Fates, who spun in his presence the thread of your birth, ordained and appointed? Do not you know how very small a part you are of the whole? That is, as to body; for, as to reason, you are neither worse, nor less, than divine. For reason is not measured by size or height, but by principles. Will you not therefore place your good there, where you share with the gods?
“But how wretched am I, in such a father and mother!”
What, then, was it granted you to come beforehand, and make your own terms, and say, “Let such and such persons, at this hour, be the authors of my birth”? It was not granted; for it was necessary that your parents should exist before you, and so you be born afterwards. — Of whom? — Of just such as they were. What, then, since they are such, is there no remedy afforded you? Surely, you would be wretched and miserable, if you knew not the use of sight, and shut your eyes in presence of colors; and are not you more wretched and miserable, in being ignorant, that you have within you the needful nobleness and manhood wherewith to meet these accidents? Events proportioned to your reason are brought before you; but you turn it away, at the very time when you ought to have it the most open and discerning. Why do not you rather thank the gods, that they have made you superior to those events which they have not placed within your own control; and have rendered you accountable for that only, which is within your own control? Of your parents they acquit you, as not accountable: of your brothers they acquit you; of body, possessions, death, life, they acquit you. For what, then, have they made you accountable? For that which is alone in your own power; a right use of things as they appear. Why, then, should you draw those cares upon yourself, for which you are not accountable? This is giving one’s self vexation, without need.
CHAPTER XIII.
HOW EVERYTHING MAY BE PERFORMED TO THE DIVINE ACCEPTANCE.
WHEN a person inquired, how any one might eat to the divine acceptance; if he eats with justice, said Epictetus, and with gratitude, and fairly, and temperately, and decently, must he not also eat to the divine acceptance? And if you call for hot water, and your servant does not hear you; or, if he does, brings it only warm; or perhaps is not to be found at home; then to abstain from anger or petulance, is not this to the divine acceptance?
“But how, then, can one bear such things?”
O slavish man! will you not bear with your own brother, who has God for his Father, as being a son from the same stock, and of the same high descent? But, if you chance to be placed in some superior station, will you presently set yourself up for a tyrant? Will you not remember what you are, and over whom you bear rule? That they are by nature your relations, your brothers; that they are the offspring of God?
“But I have them by right of purchase, and not they me.”
Do you see what it is you regard? Your regards look downward towards the earth, and what is lower than earth, and towards the unjust laws of men long dead; but up towards the divine laws you never turn your eyes.
CHAPTER XIV.
THAT ALL THINGS ARE UNDER THE DIVINE SUPERVISION.
WHEN a person asked him, how any one might be convinced that his every act is under the supervision of God? Do not you think, said Epictetus, that all things are mutually connected and united?
“I do.”
Well; and do not you think, that things on earth feel the influence of the heavenly powers?
“Yes.”
Else how is it that in their season, as if by express command, God bids the plants to blossom and they blossom, to bud and they bud, to bear fruit and they bear it, to ripen it and they ripen; — and when again he bids them drop their leaves, and withdrawing into themselves to rest and wait, they rest and wait? Whence again are there seen, on the increase and decrease of the moon, and the approach and departure of the sun, so great changes and transformations in earthly things? Have then the very leaves, and our own bodies, this connection and sympathy with the whole; and have not our souls much more? But our souls are thus connected and intimately joined to God, as being indeed members and distinct portions of his essence; and must not he be sensible of every movement of them, as belonging and connatural to himself? Can even you think of the divine administration, and every other divine subject, and together with these of human affairs also; can you at once receive impressions on your senses and your understanding, from a thousand objects; at once assent to some things, deny or suspend your judgment concerning others, and preserve in your mind impressions from so many and various objects, by whose aid you can revert to ideas similar to those which first impressed you? Can you retain a variety of arts and the memorials of ten thousand things? And is not God capable of surveying all things, and being present with all, and in communication with all? Is the sun capable of illuminating so great a portion of the universe, and of leaving only that small part of it unilluminated, which is covered by the shadow of the earth, — and cannot He who made and moves the sun, a small part of himself, if compared with the whole, — cannot he perceive all things?
“But I cannot,” say you, “attend to all things at once.” Who asserts that you have equal power with Zeus? Nevertheless he has assigned to each man a director, his own good genius, and committed him to that guardianship; a director sleepless and not to be deceived. To what better and more careful guardian could he have committed each one of us? So that when you have shut your doors, and darkened your room, remember, never to say that you are alone; for you are not alone; but God is within, and your genius is within; and what need have they of light, to see what you are doing? To this God you likewise ought to swear such an oath as the soldiers do to Cæsar. For they, in order to receive their pay, swear to prefer before all things the safety of Cæsar; and will not you swear, who have received so many and so great favors; or, if you have sworn, will you not fulfil the oath? And what must you swear? Never to distrust, nor accuse, nor murmur at any of the things appointed by him; nor to shrink from doing or enduring that which is inevitable. Is this oath like the former? In the first oath persons swear never to dishonor Cæsar; by the last, never to dishonor themselves.
CHAPTER XV.
WHAT PHILOSOPHY PROMISES.
WHEN one consulted him, how he might persuade his brother to forbear treating him ill; — Philosophy, answered Epictetus, doth not promise to procure any outward good for man; otherwise it would admit something beyond its proper theme. For as the material of a carpenter is wood; of a statuary, brass; so of the art of living, the material is each man’s own life.
“What, then, is my brother’s life?”
That, again, is matter for his own art, but is external to you; like property, health, or reputation. Philosophy promises none of these. In every circumstance I will keep my will in harmony with nature. To whom belongs that will? To Him in whom I exist.
“But how, then, is my brother’s unkindness to be cured?”
Bring him to me, and I will tell him; but I have nothing to say to you about his unkindness.
But the inquirer still further asking for a rule for self-government, if he should not be reconciled; Epictetus answered thus: —
No great thing is created suddenly; any more than a bunch of grapes or a fig. If you tell me, that you desire a fig, I answer you, that there must be time. Let it first blossom, then bear fruit, then ripen. Since then, the fruit of a fig-tree is not brought to perfection suddenly, or in one hour; do you think to possess instantaneously and easily the fruit of the human mind? I warn you, expect it not.
CHAPTER XVI.
OF PROVIDENCE.
BE not surprised, if other animals have all things necessary to the body, ready provided for them, not only meat and drink, but lodging; if they want neither shoes, nor bedding, nor clothes; while we stand in need of all these. For they not being made for themselves, but for service, it was not fit that they should be so formed as to be waited on by others. For consider what it would be for us to take care, not only for ourselves, but for sheep and asses too; how they should be clothed, how shod, and how they should eat and drink. But as soldiers are furnished ready for their commander, shod, clothed, and armed, — for it would be a grievous thing for a colonel to be obliged to go through his regiment to put on their clothes, — so nature has furnished these useful animals, ready provided, and standing in need of no further care. So that one little boy, with only a crook, drives a flock.
But we, instead of being thankful for this, complain of God, that there is not the same kind of care taken of us likewise. And yet, good Heaven! any one thing in the creation is sufficient to demonstrate a Providence, to a humble and grateful mind. Not to instance great things, the mere possibility of producing milk from grass, cheese from milk, and wool from skins; who formed and planned it? No one, say you. O surprising irreverence and dulness! But come; let us omit the primary works of nature. Let us contemplate her merely incidental traits. What is more useless than the hairs upon one’s chin? And yet has she not made use even of these, in the most becoming manner possible? Has she not by these distinguished the sexes? Does not nature in each of us call out, even at a distance, I am a man; approach and address me as such; inquire no further; see the characteristic. On the other hand, with regard to women, as she has mixed something softer in their voice, so she has deprived them of a beard. But no; [some think] this living being should have been left undistinguished, and each of us should be obliged to proclaim, “I am a man!” But why is not this characteristic beautiful and becoming, and venerable? How much more beautiful than the comb of cocks; how much more noble than the mane of lions! Therefore, we ought to preserve the characteristics, made by the Creator; we ought not to reject them, nor confound, as much as in us lies, the distinct sexes.
Are these the only works of Providence, with regard to us? And what speech can fitly celebrate their praise? For, if we had any understanding, ought we not, both in public and in private, incessantly to sing and praise the Deity, and rehearse his benefits? Ought we not, whether we dig, or plough, or eat, to sing this hymn to God? Great is God, who has supplied us with these instruments to till the ground; great is God, who has given us hands and organs of digestion; who has given us to grow insensibly, to breathe in sleep. These things we ought forever to celebrate; but to make it the theme of the greatest and divinest hymn, that he has given us the power to appreciate these gifts, and to use them well. But because the most of you are blind and insensible, there must be some one to fill this station, and lead in behalf of all men, the hymn to God; for what else can I do, a lame old man, but sing hymns to God? Were I a nightingale, I would act the part of a nightingale; were I a swan, the part of a swan. But since I am a reasonable creature, it is my duty to praise God. This is my business. I do it. Nor will I ever desert this post, so long as it is permitted me; and I call on you to join in the same song.
CHAPTER XVII.
THAT THE ART OF REASONING IS NECESSARY.
SINCE it is Reason which shapes and regulates all other things, it ought not itself to be left in disorder. But by what shall it be regulated? Evidently, either by itself, or by something else. Well; either that too is Reason, or something else superior to Reason, which is impossible; and, if it be Reason, what again shall regulate that? For, if this Reason can regulate itself, so can the former; and, if we still require any further agent, the series will be infinite, and without end.
“But,” say you, “the essential thing is to prescribe for qualities of character.”
Would you hear about these, therefore? Well; hear. But then, if you say to me, that you cannot tell whether my arguments are true or false; and if I happen to express myself ambiguously, and you bid me make it clearer; I will then at once show you that this is the first essential. Therefore, I suppose, they first establish the art of reasoning; just as, before the measuring of corn, we settle the measure. For, unless we first determine the measure and the weight, how shall we be able to measure or weigh? Thus, in the present case; unless we have first learned, and fixed, that which is the criterion of other things, and by which other things are learned, how shall we be able accurately to learn anything else? How is it possible? Well; a bushel-measure is only wood, a thing of no value, but it measures corn. And logic is of no value in itself; — that we will consider hereafter, but grant it now; — it is enough that it distinguishes and examines, and, as one may say, measures and weighs all other things. Who says this? Is it only Chrysippus, and Zeno, and Cleanthes? Does not Antisthenes say it? And who is it then, who has written, that the beginning of a right education is the examination of words? Does not Socrates say it? Of whom, then, does Xenophon write, that he began by the examination of words, what each signified?
Is this, then, the great and admirable thing, to understand or interpret Chrysippus?
Who says that it is? But what, then, is the admirable thing?
To understand the will of nature.
Well then; do you conform to it yourself? In that case, what need have you for any one else? For, if it be true, that men err but unwillingly, and if you have learnt the truth, you must needs act rightly.
But, indeed, I do not conform to the will of nature.
Who, then, shall interpret that?
They say, Chrysippus. I go and inquire what this interpreter of nature says. Soon I cannot understand his meaning. I seek one to interpret that. I call on him to explain everything as clearly as if it were in Latin. Yet what right has this last interpreter to boast? Nor has Chrysippus himself, so long as he only interprets the will of nature, and does not follow it; and much less has his interpreter. For we have no need of Chrysippus, on his own account; but that, by his means, we may apprehend the will of nature; just as no one values a diviner on his own account, but that, by his assistance, men hope to understand future events and heavenly indications; nor the auguries, on their own account, but on account of what is signified by them; neither is it the raven, or the crow, that is admired, but the divine purposes displayed through their means. Thus I come to the diviner and interpreter of these higher things; and say, “Inspect the auguries for me: what is signified to me?” Having taken, and inspected them, he thus interprets them. You have a free will, O man! incapable of being restrained or compelled. This is written here in the auguries. I will show you this, first, in the faculty of assent. Can any one restrain you from assenting to truth? No one. Can any one compel you to admit a falsehood? No one. You see, then, that you have here a free will, incapable of being restrained, or compelled, or hindered. Well; is it otherwise with regard to pursuit and desire? What can displace one pursuit? Another pursuit. What, desire and aversion? Another desire and another aversion. “If you offer death as an alternative,” say you, you compel me. No; not the alternative does it, but your conviction that it is better to do such a thing than to die. Here, again, you see that it is your own conviction which compels you; that is, choice compels choice. For, if God had constituted that portion which he has separated from his own essence, and given to us, capable of being restrained or compelled, either by himself, or by any other, he would not have been God, nor have fitly cared for us.
These things, says the diviner, I find in the auguries. These things are announced to you. If you please, you are free. If you please, you will have no one to complain of, no one to accuse. All will be equally according to your own mind, and to the mind of God.
For the sake of this oracle, I go to this diviner and philosopher; admiring not alone him for his interpretation, but also the things which he interprets.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THAT WE OUGHT NOT TO BE ANGRY WITH THE ERRING.
IF what the philosophers say be true, that all men’s actions proceed from one source; that, as they assent, from a persuasion that a thing is so, and dissent, from a persuasion that it is not, and suspend their judgment, from a persuasion that it is uncertain; so, likewise, they seek a thing, from a persuasion that it is for their advantage; — and it is impossible to esteem one thing advantageous, and yet desire another; to esteem one thing a duty, and yet pursue another; — why, after all, should we be angry at the multitude?
“They are thieves and robbers.”
What do you mean by thieves and robbers? They are in an error concerning good and evil. Ought you, then, to be angry, or rather to pity them? Do but show them their error, and you will see, that they will amend their faults; but, if they do not see the error, they will rise no higher than their convictions.
“What, then, ought not this thief and this adulterer to be destroyed?”
Nay, call him rather one who errs and is deceived in things of the greatest importance; blinded, not in the vision, that distinguishes white from black, but in the reason, that discerns good from evil? By stating your question thus, you would see how inhuman it is; and just as if you should say, “Ought not this blind, or that deaf man, to be destroyed?” For, if the greatest hurt be a deprivation of the most valuable things, and the most valuable thing to every one be rectitude of will; when any one is deprived of this, why, after all, are you angry? You ought not to be affected, O man! contrary to nature, by the evil deeds of another. Pity him rather. Yield not to hatred and anger; nor say, as many do, “What! shall these execrable and odious wretches dare to act thus?” Whence have you so suddenly learnt wisdom?
Why are we thus enraged? Because we make idols of those things which such people take from us. Make not an idol of your clothes, and you will not be enraged with the thief. Make not an idol of a woman’s beauty, and you will not be enraged with an adulterer. Know, that thief and adulterer cannot reach the things that are properly your own; but those only which belong to others, and are not within your power. If you can give up these things, and look upon them as not essential, with whom will you any longer be enraged? But while you idolize them, be angry with yourself, rather than with others. Consider the case: you have a fine suit of clothes; your neighbor has not. You have a casement; you want to air them. He knows not in what the good of man consists, but imagines it is in a fine suit of clothes; just as you imagine. Shall he not come and take them away? When you show a cake to greedy people, and are devouring it all yourself; would not you have them snatch it from you? Do not tempt them. Do not have a casement. Do not expose your clothes. I, too, the other day, had an iron lamp burning before my household deities. Hearing a noise at the window, I ran. I found my lamp was stolen. I considered, that he who took it away did nothing unaccountable. What then? I said, to-morrow you shall find an earthen one; for a man loses only what he has. — “I have lost my coat.” Ay; because you had a coat. “I have a pain in my head.” You certainly can have none in your horns. Why then are you out of humor? For loss and pain can be only of such things as are possessed.
But the tyrant will chain — what? A leg. He will take away — what? A head. What is there, then, that he can neither chain nor take away? The free will. Hence the advice of the ancients, — Know thyself.
“What then ought we to do?”
Practise yourself, for heaven’s sake, in little things; and thence proceed to greater. “I have a pain in my head.” Do not lament. “I have a pain in my ear.” Do not lament. I do not say you may never groan; but do not groan in spirit; or, if your servant be a long while in bringing you something to bind your head, do not croak and go into hysterics, and say, “Everybody hates me.” For, who would not hate such a one?
Relying for the future on these principles, walk erect and free; not trusting to bulk of body, like a wrestler; for one should not be unconquerable in the sense that an ass is.
Who then is unconquerable? He whom the inevitable cannot overcome. For such a person I imagine every trial, and watch him as an athlete in each. He has been victorious in the first encounter. What will he do in the second? What, if he should be exhausted by the heat? What, if the field be Olympia? And so in other trials. If you throw money in his way, he will despise it. Is he proof against the seductions of women? What if he be tested by fame, by calumny, by praise, by death? He is able to overcome them all. — If he can bear sunshine and storm, discouragement and fatigue, I pronounce him an athlete unconquered indeed.
CHAPTER XIX.
OF THE RIGHT TREATMENT OF TYRANTS.
WHEN a person is possessed of some personal advantage, either real or imaginary, he will necessarily be puffed up with it, unless he has been well instructed. A tyrant openly says, “I am supreme over all.” And what can you bestow on me? Can you exempt my desires from disappointment? How should you? For do you never incur what you shun? Are your own aims infallible? Whence came you by that privilege? Pray, on shipboard, do you trust to yourself, or to the pilot? In a chariot, to whom but the driver? And to whom in all other arts? Just the same. In what, then, does your power consist?
“All men pay regard to me.”
So do I to my desk. I wash it, and wipe it; and drive a nail for my oil-flask.
“What, then, are these things to be valued beyond me?”
No; but they are of some use to me, and therefore I pay regard to them. Why, do I not pay regard to an ass? Do I not wash his feet? Do I not clean him? Do not you know, that every one pays such regard even to himself; and that he does it to you, just as he does to an ass? For who pays regard to you as a man? Show that. Who would wish to be like you? Who would desire to imitate you, as he would Socrates?
“But I can take off your head?”
You say rightly. I had forgot, that one is to pay regard to you as to a fever, or the cholera; and that there should be an altar erected to you, as there is to the goddess Fever at Rome.
What is it, then, that disturbs and terrifies the multitude? The tyrant and his guards? By no means. What is by nature free, cannot be disturbed or restrained by anything but itself. But its own convictions disturb it. Thus, when the tyrant says to any one, “I will chain your leg,” he who chiefly values his leg, cries out for pity; while he who chiefly values his own free will, says, “If you imagine it for your interest, chain it.”
“What! do not you care?”
No; I do not care.
“I will show you that I am master.”
You? How should you? Zeus has set me free. What! do you think he would suffer his own son to be enslaved? You are master of my carcass; take it.
“So that, when you come into my presence, you pay no regard to me?”
No, but to myself; or, if you will have me recognize you also, I will do it as if you were a piece of furniture. This is not selfish vanity; for every animal is so constituted, as to do everything for itself. Even the sun does all for himself; and for that matter so does even Zeus himself. But when he would be styled the dispenser of rain and plenty, and the father of gods and men, you see that he cannot attain these offices and titles, unless he contributes to the common good. And he has universally so constituted the nature of every reasonable creature, that no one can attain its own good without contributing something for the good of all. And thus it becomes not selfish to do everything for one’s self. For, do you expect, that a man should desert himself, and his own concerns; when all beings have one and the same original instinct, self-preservation? What follows then? That where we recognize those absurd convictions, which treat things outward as if they were the true good or evil of life, there must necessarily be a regard paid to tyrants; and I wish it were to tyrants only, and not to the very officers of their bed-chamber too. For how wise doth a man grow on a sudden, when Cæsar has made him his flunkey? How immediately we say, “Felicio talked very sensibly to me!” I wish he were turned out of office, that he might once more appear to you the fool he is.
Epaphroditus owned a shoemaker; whom, because he was good for nothing, he sold. This very fellow being, by some strange luck, bought by a courtier, became shoemaker to Cæsar. Then you might have seen how Epaphroditus honored him. “How is good Felicio, pray?” And, if any of us asked, what the great man himself was about, it was answered, “He is consulting about affairs with Felicio.” Did not he sell him previously as good for nothing? Who then, has all on a sudden, made a wise man of him? This it is to reverence externals.
Is any one exalted to the office of tribune? All who meet him congratulate him. One kisses his eyes, another his neck, and the slaves his hands. He goes to his house; finds it illuminated. He ascends the capitol; offers a sacrifice. Now, who ever offered a sacrifice for having good desires? For conforming his aims to Nature? Yet we thank the gods for that wherein we place our good.
A person was talking with me to-day about applying for the priesthood in the temple of Augustus. I said to him, let the thing alone, friend; you will be at great expense for nothing. “But my name,” said he, “will be written in the annals.” Will you stand by, then, and tell those who read them, “I am the person whose name is written there?” And even if you could tell every one so now, what will you do when you are dead? — “My name will remain.” — Write it upon a stone, and it will remain just as well. And, pray, what remembrance will there be of you out of Nicopolis? — “But I shall wear a crown of gold.” — If your heart is quite set upon a crown, make and put on one of roses; for it will make the prettier appearance.
CHAPTER XX.
IN WHAT MANNER REASON CONTEMPLATES ITSELF.
EVERY art, and every faculty, contemplates certain things as its principal objects. Whenever, therefore, it is of the same nature with the objects of its contemplation, it necessarily contemplates itself too. But, where it is of a different nature, it cannot contemplate itself. The art of shoemaking, for instance, is exercised upon leather; but is itself entirely distinct from the materials it works upon; therefore it does not contemplate itself. Again, grammar is exercised on articulate speech. Is the art of grammar itself, then, articulate speech? By no means. Therefore it cannot contemplate itself. To what purpose, then, is reason appointed by nature? To a proper use of the phenomena of existence. And what is reason? The art of systematizing these phenomena. Thus, by its nature, it becomes contemplative of itself too.
Again; what subjects of contemplation belong to prudence? Good and evil, and that which is indifferent. What, then, is prudence itself? Good. What imprudence? Evil.
You see, then, that it necessarily contemplates both itself and its contrary. Therefore, the first and greatest work of a philosopher is, to try and distinguish the phenomena of existence; and to admit none untried. Even in money, where our interest seems to be concerned, you see what an art we have invented, and how many ways an assayer uses to try its value. By the sight, the touch, the smell, and, lastly, the hearing. He throws the piece down, and attends to the jingle; and is not contented with its jingling only once; but, by frequent attention to it, trains his ear for sound. So when we think it of consequence whether we are deceived or not, we use the utmost attention to discern those things, which may deceive us. But, yawning and slumbering over our poor neglected reason, we are imposed upon by every appearance, nor know the mischief done. Would you know, then, how very languidly you are affected by good and evil, and how vehemently by things indifferent; consider how you feel with regard to bodily blindness, and how with regard to being deceived; and you will find, that you are far from being moved, as you ought, in relation to good and evil.
“But trained powers, and much labor, and learning, are here needed.”
What, then? Do you expect the greatest of arts to be acquired by slight endeavors? And yet the principal doctrine of the philosophers is in itself short. If you have a mind to know it, read Zeno, and you will see. It is not a long story to say, “Our end is to serve the gods,” and “The essence of good consists in the proper use of the phenomena of existence.” If you say, what then is God? What are phenomena? What is particular, what universal nature? Here the long story comes in. And so, if Epicurus should come and say, that good lies in the body; here, too, it will be a long story, and it will be necessary to hear, what is the principal, and substantial, and essential part in us. It is unlikely, that the good of a snail should be placed in the shell; and, is it likely, that the good of a man should? You yourself, Epicurus, have in you something superior to this. What is that in you, which deliberates, which examines, which recognizes the body as the principal part? Why light your lamp, and labor for us, and write so many books? That we may not be ignorant of the truth? But what are we? What are we to you? Thus the doctrine becomes a long story.
CHAPTER XXI.
OF THE DESIRE OF ADMIRATION.
WHEN one maintains his proper attitude in life, he does not long after externals. What would you have, O man?
“I am contented, if my desires and aversions are conformable to nature; if I seek and shun that which I ought, and thus regulate my purposes, my efforts, and my opinions.”
Why, then, do you walk as if you had swallowed a ramrod?
“Because I could wish moreover to have all who meet me, admire me, and all who follow me, cry out, what a great philosopher!”
Who are those, by whom you would be admired? Are they not the very people, who, you used to say, were mad? What, then, would you be admired by madmen?
CHAPTER XXII.
OF GENERAL PRINCIPLES.
THE same general principles are common to all men, nor does one such principle contradict another. For which of us does not admit, that good is advantageous and eligible, and in all cases to be pursued and followed? Who does not admit that justice is fair and becoming? Where, then, arises the dispute? In adapting these principles to particular cases. As, when one cries, “Such a person has acted well; he is a gallant man”; and another, “No; he has acted like a fool.” Hence arises dispute among men. This is the dispute between Jews, and Syrians, and Egyptians, and Romans; not whether the right be preferable to all things, and in every instance to be sought; but whether the eating swine’s flesh be consistent with right, or not. This, too, you will find to have been the dispute between Achilles and Agamemnon. For call them forth. What say you, Agamemnon. Ought not that to be done, which is fit and right? — “Yes, surely.” — Achilles, what say you? Is it not agreeable to you, that what is right should be done? — “Yes; I desire it beyond everything.” Apply your principles then. Here begins the dispute. One says, “It is not fit that I should restore Chryseis to her father.” The other says, “Yes; but it is.” One or the other of them, certainly, makes a wrong conception of the principle of fitness. Again, the one says: “If it be fit that I should give up Chryseis, it is fit, too, that I should take some of your prizes.” The other answers, “What, that you should take my mistress?” — “Ay; yours.” — “What, mine only? Must I only, then, lose my prize?”
What then is it to be properly educated? To learn how to apply the principles of natural right to particular cases, and, for the rest, to distinguish that some things are in our power, while others are not. In our own power are the will, and all voluntary actions; out of our power, the body and its parts, property, parents, brothers, children, country; and, in short, all our fellow-beings. Where, then, shall we place good? In what shall we define it to consist? In things within our own power. “But are not health, and strength, and life, good? And are not children, parents, country? You talk unreasonably.”
Let us, then, try another point of view. Can he who suffers evil, and is disappointed of good, be happy? He cannot. And can he preserve a right behavior with regard to society? How is it possible that he should? For I am naturally led to seek my own highest good. If, therefore, it is my highest good to have an estate, it is for my good likewise to take it away from my neighbor. If it is my highest good to have a suit of clothes, it is for my good likewise to steal it wherever I find it. Hence wars, seditions, tyranny, unjust invasions. How shall I, if this be the case, be able, any longer, to do my duty towards Zeus? If I suffer evil, and am disappointed, he takes no care of me. And, what is he to me, if he cannot help me; or, again, what is he to me, if he chooses I should be in the condition that I am? Then I begin to hate him. What, then, do we build temples, do we raise statues, to Zeus, as to evil demons, as to the goddess Fever? How then is he the preserver; and how the dispenser of rain and plenty? If we place the essence of good on any such ground, all this will follow. What, then, shall we do?
This is the inquiry which interests him who philosophizes in earnest, and to some result. Do I not now see what is good, and what is evil, or am I mad? Suppose I place good only in things dependent on my own will? Why, every one will laugh at me. Some gray-headed old fellow will come, with his fingers covered with gold rings, and will shake his head, and say; “Hark ye, child, it is fit you should learn philosophy; but it is fit, too, you should have common-sense. All this is nonsense. You learn syllogisms from philosophers; but how you are to act, you know better than they.” Then, what displeases you if I do know? What can I say to this unfortunate? If I make no answer, he will burst; so I must answer thus: “Bear with me, as with lovers. Granted; I am not myself. I have lost my senses.”
CHAPTER XXIII.
AGAINST EPICURUS.
EVEN Epicurus is sensible that we are by nature sociable beings; but having once placed our good in the mere outward shell, he can say nothing afterwards inconsistent with that. For again, he strenuously maintains, that we ought not to admire, or accept, anything separated from the nature of good. And he is in the right to maintain it. But how, then, arise any affectionate anxieties, unless there be such a thing as natural affection towards our offspring? Then why do you, Epicurus, dissuade a wise man from bringing up children? Why are you afraid, that, upon their account, he may fall into anxieties? Does he fall into any for a mouse, that feeds within his house? What is it to him, if a little mouse bewails itself there? But Epicurus knew, that, if once a child is born, it is no longer in our power not to love and be solicitous for it. On the same grounds he says, that a wise man will not engage himself in public business, knowing very well what must follow. If men are only so many flies, why should he not engage in it?
And does he, who knows all this, dare to forbid us to bring up children? Not even a sheep, or a wolf, deserts its offspring; and shall man? What would you have? That we should be as silly as sheep? Yet even these do not desert their offspring. Or as savage as wolves? Neither do these desert them. Pray, who would mind you, if he saw his child fallen upon the ground and crying? For my part, I am of opinion, that your father and mother, even if they could have foreseen that you would have been the author of such doctrines, would not have thrown you away.
CHAPTER XXIV.
HOW WE OUGHT TO STRUGGLE WITH DIFFICULTIES.
DIFFICULTIES are things that show what men are. For the future, in case of any difficulty, remember, that God, like a gymnastic trainer, has pitted you against a rough antagonist. For what end? That you may be an Olympic conqueror; and this cannot be without toil. No man, in my opinion, has a more profitable difficulty on his hands than you have; provided you will but use it, as an athletic champion uses his antagonist.
Suppose we were to send you as a scout to Rome. But no one ever sends a timorous scout, who, when he only hears a noise, or sees a shadow, runs back frightened, and says, “The enemy is at hand.” So now, if you should come and tell us: “Things are in a fearful way at Rome; death is terrible, banishment terrible, calumny terrible, poverty terrible; run, good people, the enemy is at hand”; — we will answer: Get you gone, and prophesy for yourself; our only fault is, that we have sent such a scout. Diogenes was sent a scout before you, but he told us other tidings. He says that death is no evil, for it is nothing base; that calumny is only the noise of madmen. And what account did this spy give us of pain, of pleasure, of poverty? He says, that to be naked is better than a purple robe; to sleep upon the bare ground, the softest bed; and gives a proof of all he says by his own courage, tranquillity, and freedom; and, moreover, by a healthy and robust body. “There is no enemy near,” he says. “All is profound peace.” How so, Diogenes? “Look upon me,” he says. “Am I hurt? Am I wounded? Have I run away from any one?” This is a scout worth having. But you come, and tell us one thing after another. Go back and look more carefully, and without fear.
“What shall I do, then?”
What do you do when you come out of a ship? Do you take away with you the rudder, or the oars? What do you take, then? Your own, your bundle and your flask. So, in the present case, if you will but remember what is your own, you will not covet what belongs to others. If some tyrant bids you put off your consular robe? “Well, I am in my equestrian robe.” Put off that too. “I have only my coat.” Put off that too. “Well, I am naked.” I am not yet satisfied. “Then e’en take my whole body. If I can throw off a paltry body, am I any longer afraid of a tyrant?”
“But such a one will not leave me his heir.” What, then, have I forgotten, that such things are never really mine? How then do we call them ours? As with a bed, in an inn. If the landlord, when he dies, leaves you the bed, well and good; but if to another, it will be his, and you will seek one elsewhere; and, consequently, if you do not find one, you will sleep upon the ground; only sleep fearlessly and profoundly, and remember, that tragedies find their theme among the rich, and kings, and tyrants. No poor man fills any other place in one, than as part of the chorus; whereas kings begin, indeed, with prosperity: “Crown the palace”; — but continue about the third and fourth act: “Alas, Citheron! Why didst thou receive me!”* Where are thy crowns, wretch; where is thy diadem? Cannot thy guards help thee?
Whenever you are brought into any such society, think then that you meet a tragic actor, or rather, not an actor, but Œdipus himself. “But such a one is happy. He walks with a numerous train.” Well; I too walk with a numerous train.
But remember the principal thing; that the door is open. Do not be more fearful than children; but as they, when the play does not please them, say, “I will play no longer”; so do you, in the same case, say, “I will play no longer”; and go; but, if you stay, do not complain.
CHAPTER XXV.
ON THE SAME SUBJECT.
IF these things are true; and if we are not stupid, or insincere, when we say, that the good or ill of man lies within his own will, and that all beside is nothing to us; why are we still troubled? Why do we still fear? What truly concerns us is in no one’s power: what is in the power of others concerns not us. What embarrassment have we left?
“But you must direct me.”
Why should I direct you? Has not Zeus directed you? Has he not given you what is your own, incapable of restraint or hindrance; and what is not your own, liable to both? What directions, then, what orders, have you brought from him? “By all means guard what is your own: what belongs to others do not covet. Honesty is your own: a sense of virtuous shame is your own. Who, then, can deprive you of these? Who can restrain you from making use of them, but yourself? And how do you do it? When you make that your concern which is not truly your own, you lose that which is.” Having such precepts and directions from Zeus, what sort do you still want from me? Am I better than He, or more worthy of credit? If you observe these precepts, what others do you need? Are not these His? Apply the recognized principles; apply the demonstrations of philosophers; apply what you have often heard, and what you have said yourself; what you have read, and what you have carefully studied.
How long is it right to devote one’s self to these things and not break up the game?
As long as it goes on well. A king is chosen at the Saturnalian Festival, supposing that it was agreed to play at that game: he orders: “Do you drink; you mix the wine; you sing; you go; you come.” I obey; that the game may not be broken up by my fault.
[Then he orders] “I bid you think yourself to be unhappy.” I do not think so; and who shall compel me to think so?
Again; suppose we agreed to play Agamemnon and Achilles. He who is appointed for Agamemnon says to me, “Go to Achilles, and force away Briseis.” I go. “Come.” I come. We should deal with life as with these imaginary orders.
“Suppose it to be night.” Well; suppose it. “Is it day then?” No: for I admitted the hypothesis, that it was night. “Suppose that you think it to be night.” Well; suppose it. “But you must really think that it is night.” That by no means follows from the hypothesis. Thus it is in the case illustrated. Suppose you have ill luck. Suppose it. “Are you then unlucky?” Yes. “Are you thoroughly unfortunate?” Yes. “Well; but you must really regard yourself as miserable.” But this is no part of the assumption, and there is a power who forbids me to admit that.
How far then are we to carry such analogies? As far as is useful; that is, till we go farther than is reasonable and fit.
Moreover, some are peevish and fastidious, and say, I cannot dine with such a fellow, to be obliged to hear him all day recounting how he fought in Mysia. “I told you, my friend, how I gained the eminence.” There I begin to suffer another siege. But another says, “I had rather get a dinner, and hear him prate as much as he pleases.”
Do you decide between these opinions; but do not let it be with depression and anxiety, and the assumption that you are miserable; for no one compels you to that. Is there smoke in my house? If it be moderate, I will stay; if very great, I will go out. For you must always remember, and hold to this, that the door is open. “You are forbidden to live at Nicopolis.” I will not live there. “Nor at Athens.” Well, nor at Athens. “Nor at Rome.” Nor at Rome. “But you shall live at Gyaros.”* I will live there. But suppose that living at Gyaros seems to me like living in a great smoke. I can then retire where no one can forbid me to live, for it is an abode open to all; and put off my last garment, this poor body of mine; beyond this, no one has any power over me.
Thus Demetrius said to Nero: “You sentence me to death; and Nature you.” If I prize my body first, I have surrendered myself as a slave; if my estate, the same; for I at once betray where I am vulnerable. Just as when a reptile pulls in his head, I bid you strike that part of him which he guards; and be you assured, that wherever you show a desire to guard yourself, there your master will attack you. Remember but this, and whom will you any longer flatter or fear?
“But I want to sit where the senators do.”
Do not you see, that by this you incommode and torment yourself?
“Why, how else shall I see the show in the Amphitheatre advantageously?”
Do not insist on seeing it, O man! and you will not be incommoded. Why do you vex yourself? Or wait a little while; and when the show is over, go sit in the senators’ places, and sun yourself. For remember, that this holds universally; we incommode and torment ourselves; that is, our own preconceived notions do it for us. What is it to be reviled, for instance? Stand by a stone, and revile it; and what will you get by it? If you, therefore, would listen only as a stone, what would your reviler gain? But, if the reviler has the weakness of the reviled for a vantage-ground, then he carries his point.
“Strip him,” [bids the tyrant]. What mean you by him? Take my clothes, strip them, at your pleasure. “I meant only to insult you.” Much good may it do you.
These things were the study of Socrates; and, by these means, he always preserved the same countenance. Yet we had rather exercise and study anything, than how to become unrestrained and free. “But the philosophers talk paradoxes.” And are there not paradoxes in other arts? What is more paradoxical, than to prick any one’s eye, that he may see? Should one tell this to one ignorant of surgery, would not he laugh at him? What wonder then, if, in philosophy also, many truths appear paradoxes to the ignorant?
CHAPTER XXVI.
WHAT THE RULE OF LIFE IS.
AS some one was reading hypothetical propositions, Epictetus remarked that it was a rule in these to admit whatever was in accordance with the hypothesis; but much more a rule in life, to do what was in accordance with nature. For, if we desire in every matter and on every occasion to conform to nature; we must, on every occasion, evidently make it our aim, neither to omit anything thus conformable, nor to admit anything inconsistent. Philosophers, therefore, first exercise us in theory, which is the more easy task, and then lead us to the more difficult; for in theory, there is nothing to hinder our following what we are taught, but in life there are many things to draw us aside. It is ridiculous then to say, we must begin with these applications, for it is not easy to begin with the most difficult; and this excuse children should make to those parents who dislike that they should study philosophy. “Am I to blame then, sir, and ignorant of my duty, and of what is incumbent on me? If this is neither to be learned, nor taught, why do you find fault with me? If it is to be taught, pray teach me yourself; or, if you cannot, let me learn it from those who profess to understand it. For what think you; that I voluntarily fall into evil, and miss good? Heaven forbid! What, then, is the cause of my faults? Ignorance. Are you not willing, then, that I should get rid of my ignorance? Who was ever taught the art of music, or navigation, by anger? Do you expect, then, that your anger should teach me the art of living?”
This, however, can properly be said only by one who is really in earnest. But he who reads these things, and applies to the philosophers, merely for the sake of showing, at some entertainment, that he understands hypothetical reasonings; what aim has he but to be admired by some senator, who happens to sit near him?* Great possessions may be won by such aims as that, but what we hold as wealth passes there for folly. It is hard, therefore, to overcome by appearances, where vain things thus pass for great.
I once saw a person weeping and embracing the knees of Epaphroditus; and deploring his hard fortune, that he had not more than 150,000 drachmæ left. What said Epaphroditus then? Did he laugh at him, as we should do? No; but cried out with astonishment: “Poor man! How could you be silent under it? How could you bear it?”
The first step, therefore, towards becoming a philosopher, is to be sensible in what state the ruling faculty of the mind is; for on knowing it to be weak, no person will immediately employ it in great attempts. But, for want of this, some, who can scarce digest a crumb, will yet buy and swallow whole treatises; and so they throw them up again, or cannot digest them; and then come colics, fluxes, and fevers. Such persons ought to consider what they can bear. Indeed, it is easy to convince an ignorant person, so far as concerns theory; but in matters relating to life, no one offers himself to conviction, and we hate those who have convinced us. Socrates used to say, that we ought not to live a life unexamined.*
CHAPTER XXVII.
OF THE VARIED APPEARANCES OF THINGS TO THE MIND, AND WHAT MEANS ARE AT HAND BY WHICH TO REGULATE THEM.
APPEARANCES to the mind are of four kinds. Things either are what they appear to be; or they neither are, nor appear to be; or they are, and do not appear to be; or they are not, and yet appear to be. Rightly to aim, in all these cases, is the wise man’s task. Whatever unduly constrains us, to that a remedy must be applied. If the sophistries of Pyrrhonism, or the Academy, constrain us, the remedy must be applied there; if specious appearances, by which things seem to be good which are not so, let us seek for a remedy there. If it be custom which constrains us, we must endeavor to find a remedy against that.
“What remedy is to be found against custom?”
Establish a contrary custom. You hear the vulgar say, “Such a one, poor soul! is dead.” Well, his father died: his mother died. “Ay, but he was cut off in the flower of his age, and in a foreign land.” Observe these contrary ways of speaking; and abandon such expressions. Oppose to one custom, a contrary custom; to sophistry, the art of reasoning, and the frequent use and exercise of it. Against specious appearances we must set clear convictions, bright and ready for use. When death appears as an evil, we ought immediately to remember, that evils are things to be avoided, but death is inevitable. For what can I do, or where can I fly from it? Let me suppose myself to be Sarpedon, the son of Jove, that I may speak as nobly. “I go either to excel, or to give another the occasion to excel.”* If I can achieve nothing myself, I will not grudge another his achievement.
But suppose this to be a strain too high for us; do not these following thoughts befit us? Whither shall I fly from death? Show me the place, show me the people, to whom I may have recourse, whom death does not overtake. Show me the charm to avoid it. If there be none, what would you have me do? I cannot escape death; but cannot I escape the dread of it? Must I die trembling, and lamenting? For the very origin of the disease lies in wishing for something that is not obtained. Under the influence of this, if I can make outward things conform to my own inclination, I do it; if not, I feel inclined to tear out the eyes of whoever hinders me. For it is the nature of man not to endure the being deprived of good; not to endure the falling into evil. And so, at last, when I can neither control events, nor tear out the eyes of him who hinders me, I sit down, and groan, and revile him whom I can; Zeus, and the rest of the gods. For what are they to me, if they take no care of me?
“Oh! but then you will be impious.”
What then? Can I be in a worse condition than I am now? In general, remember this, that unless we place our religion and our treasure in the same thing, religion will always be sacrificed.
Have these things no weight? Let a Pyrrhonist, or an Academic, come and oppose them. For my part, I have neither leisure nor ability to stand up as an advocate for common sense. Even if the business were concerning an estate, I should call in another advocate. To what advocate, then, shall I now appeal? I will leave it to any one who may be upon the spot. Thus I may not be able to explain how sensation takes place, whether it be diffused universally, or reside in a particular part; for I find perplexities in either case; but that you and I are not the same person, I very exactly know.
“How so?”
Why, I never, when I have a mind to swallow anything, carry it to your mouth; but my own. I never, when I wanted bread, seized a broom instead, but went directly to the bread as I needed it. You who deny all evidence of the senses, do you act otherwise? Which of you, when he wished to go into a bath, ever went into a mill?
“Why then, must not we, to the utmost, defend these points? stand by common sense; be fortified against everything that opposes it?”*
Who denies that? But it must be done by him who has ability and leisure to spare; but he, who is full of trembling and perturbation, and inward disorders of heart, must first employ his time about something else.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THAT WE OUGHT NOT TO BE ANGRY WITH MANKIND. WHAT THINGS ARE LITTLE, WHAT GREAT, AMONG MEN.
WHAT is the cause of assent to anything? Its appearing to be true. It is not possible, therefore, to assent to what appears to be not true. Why? Because it is the very nature of the understanding to agree to truth, to be dissatisfied with falsehood, and to suspend its belief, in doubtful cases.
What is the proof of this?
Persuade yourself, if you can, that it is now night. Impossible. Dissuade yourself from the belief that it is day. Impossible. Persuade yourself that the number of the stars is even or odd. Impossible.
When any one, then, assents to what is false, be assured that he doth not wilfully assent to it, as false; for, as Plato affirms, the soul is unwillingly deprived of truth;* but what is false appears to him to be true. Well, then; have we, in actions, anything correspondent to this distinction between true and false?
Right and wrong; advantageous and disadvantageous; desirable and undesirable; and the like.
A person then, cannot think a thing truly advantageous to him, and not choose it?
He cannot. But how says Medea?
- “I know what evils wait upon my purpose;
- But wrath is stronger than this will of mine.”*
Was it that she thought the very indulgence of her rage, and the punishing her husband, more advantageous than the preservation of her children? Yes; but she is deceived. Show clearly to her that she is deceived, and she will forbear; but, till you have shown it, what has she to follow, but what appears to herself? Nothing.
Why, then, are you angry with her, that the unhappy woman is deceived in the most important points, and instead of a human creature, becomes a viper? Why do not you rather, as we pity the blind and lame, so likewise pity those who are blinded and lamed in their superior faculties? Whoever, therefore, duly remembers, that the appearance of things to the mind is the standard of every action to man; that this is either right or wrong, and, if right, he is without fault, if wrong, he himself suffers punishment; for that one man cannot be the person deceived, and another the only sufferer; — such a person will not be outrageous and angry at any one; will not revile, or reproach, or hate, or quarrel with any one.
“So then, have all the great and dreadful deeds, that have been done in the world, no other origin than [true or false] appearances?”
Absolutely, no other. The Iliad consists of nothing but such appearances and their results. It seemed to Paris that he should carry off the wife of Menelaus. It seemed to Helen, that she should follow him. If, then, it had seemed to Menelaus, that it was an advantage to be robbed of such a wife, what could have happened? Not only the Iliad had been lost, but the Odyssey too.
“Do such great events, then, depend on so small a cause?”
What events, then, call you great?
“Wars and seditions; the destruction of numbers of men, and the overthrow of cities.”
And what in all this is great? Nothing. What is great in the death of numbers of oxen, numbers of sheep, or in the burning or pulling down numbers of nests of storks or swallows?
“Are these things then similar?”
They are. The bodies of men are destroyed, and the bodies of sheep and oxen. The houses of men are burnt, and the nests of storks. What is there so great or fearful in all this? Pray, show me what difference there is between the house of a man and the nest of a stork, considered as a habitation, except that houses are built with beams, and tiles, and bricks; and nests with sticks and clay?
“What, then, are a stork and a man similar? What do you mean?”
Similar in body.
“Is there no difference, then, between a man and a stork?”
Yes, surely; but not in these things.
“In what then?”
Inquire; and you will find, that the difference lies in something else. See whether it be not in rationality of action, in social instincts, fidelity, honor, providence, judgment.
“Where then is the real good or evil of man?”
Just where this difference lies. If this distinguishing trait is preserved, and remains well fortified, and neither honor, fidelity, nor judgment is destroyed, then he himself is likewise saved; but when any one of these is lost or demolished, he himself is lost also. In this do all great events consist. Paris, they say, was undone, because the Greeks invaded Troy, and laid it waste, and his family were slain in battle. By no means; for no one is undone by an action not his own. All that was only like laying waste the nests of storks. But his true undoing was, when he lost modesty, faith, honor, virtue. When was Achilles undone? When Patroclus died? By no means. But when he gave himself up to rage; when he wept over a girl; when he forgot, that he came there, not to win mistresses, but to fight. This is human undoing; this is the siege; this the overthrow; when right principles are ruined and destroyed.
“But when wives and children are led away captives, and the men themselves killed, are not these evils?”
Whence do you conclude them such? Pray inform me, in my turn.
“Nay; but whence do you affirm that they are not evils?”
Recur to the rules. Apply your principles. One cannot sufficiently wonder at what happens among men. When we would judge of light and heavy, we do not judge by guess; nor when we judge of straight and crooked; and, in general, when it concerns us to know the truth on any special point, no one of us will do anything by guess. But where the first and principal source of right or wrong action is concerned, of being prosperous or unprosperous, happy or unhappy; there only do we act rashly, and by guess. Nowhere anything like a balance; nowhere anything like a rule; but something seems thus or so to me, and I at once act accordingly. For am I better than Agamemnon or Achilles; that they, by following what seemed best to them, should do and suffer so many things, and yet that seeming should not suffice me? And what tragedy hath any other origin? The Atreus of Euripides, what is it? Seeming. The Œdipus of Sophocles? Seeming. The Phœnix? The Hippolytus? All seeming. Who then, think you, can escape this influence? What are they called who follow every seeming? Madmen. Yet do we, then, behave otherwise?
CHAPTER XXIX.
OF COURAGE.
THE essence of good and evil is a certain disposition of the will.
What are things outward then?
Materials on which the will may act, in attaining its own good or evil.
How, then, will it attain good?
If it be not dazzled by its own materials; for right principles concerning these materials keep the will in a good state; but perverse and distorted principles, in a bad one. This law hath God ordained, who says, “If you wish for good, receive it from yourself.” You say, No; but from another. “Nay; but from yourself.”
Accordingly, when a tyrant threatens, and sends for me, I say, Against what is your threatening pointed? If he says, “I will chain you”; I answer, It is my hands and feet that you threaten. If he says, “I will cut off your head”; I answer, It is my head that you threaten. If he says, “I will throw you into prison”; I answer, It is the whole of this paltry body that you threaten; and, if he threatens banishment, just the same.
“Does not he threaten you, then?”
If I am persuaded, that these things are nothing to me, he does not; but, if I fear any of them, it is me that he threatens. Who is it, after all, that I fear? The master of what? Of things in my own power? Of these no one is the master. Of things not in my power? And what are these to me?
“What, then! do you philosophers teach us a contempt of kings?”
By no means. Which of us teaches any one to contend with them, about things of which they have the command? Take my body; take my possessions; take my reputation; take away even my friends. If I persuade any one to claim these things as his own, you may justly accuse me. “Ay; but I would command your principles too.” And who hath given you that power? How can you conquer the principle of another? “By applying terror, I will conquer it.” Do not you see, that what conquers itself, is not conquered by another? And nothing but itself can conquer the will. Hence, too, the most excellent and equitable law of God; that the better should always prevail over the worse. Ten are better than one.
“For what purpose?”
For chaining, killing, dragging where they please; for taking away an estate. Thus ten conquer one, in the cases wherein they are better.
“In what, then, are they worse?”
When the one has right principles, and the others have not. For can they conquer in this case? How should they? If we were weighed in a scale, must not the heavier outweigh?
“How then came Socrates to suffer such things from the Athenians?”
O foolish man! what mean you by Socrates? Express the fact as it is. Are you surprised that the mere body of Socrates should be carried away, and dragged to prison, by such as were stronger; that it should be poisoned by hemlock and die? Do these things appear wonderful to you? These things unjust? Is it for such things as these that you accuse God? Had Socrates, then, no compensation for them? In what, then, to him, did the essence of good consist? Whom shall we regard; you, or him? And what says he? “Anytus and Melitus may indeed kill; but hurt me they cannot.” And again: “If it so pleases God, so let it be.”
But show me, that he who has the worse principles can get the advantage over him who has the better. You never will show it, nor anything like it; for the Law of Nature and of God is this, — let the better always prevail over the worse.
“In what?”
In that wherein it is better. One body may be stronger than another; many, than one; and a thief, than one who is not a thief. Thus I, for instance, lost my lamp; because the thief was better at keeping awake than I. But for that lamp he paid the price of becoming a thief; for that lamp he lost his virtue and became like a wild beast. This seemed to him a good bargain; and so let it be!
But some one takes me by the collar, and drags me to the forum; and then all the rest cry out, “Philosopher, what good do your principles do you? See, you are being dragged to prison; see, you are going to lose your head!” And, pray, what rule of philosophy could I contrive, that, when a stronger than myself lays hold on my collar, I should not be dragged? Or that, when ten men pull me at once, and throw me into prison, I should not be thrown there? But have I learned nothing, then? I have learned to know, whatever happens, that, if it concerns not my will, it is nothing to me. Have my principles, then, done me no good? What, then! do I seek for anything else to do me good, but what I have learned? Afterwards, as I sit in prison, I say, He who has made all this disturbance neither recognizes any guidance, nor heeds any teaching, nor is it any concern to him, to know what philosophers say, or do. Let him alone.
“Come forth again from prison.” If you have no further need for me in prison, I will come out; if you want me again, I will return. “For how long?” Just so long as reason requires I should continue in this body; when that is over, take it, and fare ye well. Only let us not act inconsiderately, nor from cowardice, nor on slight grounds, since that would be contrary to the will of God; for he hath need of such a world, and such beings to live on earth. But, if he sounds a retreat, as he did to Socrates, we are to obey him when he sounds it, as our General.
“Well; but can these things be explained to the multitude?”
To what purpose? Is it not sufficient to be convinced one’s self? When children come to us clapping their hands, and saying, “To-morrow is the good feast of Saturn”; do we tell them that good doth not consist in such things? By no means; but we clap our hands also. Thus, when you are unable to convince any one, consider him as a child, and clap your hands with him; or, if you will not do that, at least hold your tongue. These things we ought to remember; and, when we are called to any trial, to know, that an opportunity is come of showing whether we have been well taught. For he who goes from a philosophical lecture to a difficult point of practice, is like a young man who has been studying to solve syllogisms. If you propose an easy one, he says, “Give me rather a fine intricate one, that I may try my strength.” Thus athletic champions are displeased with a slight antagonist. “He cannot lift me,” says one. Is this a youth of spirit? No; for when the occasion calls upon him, he may begin crying, and say, “I wanted to learn a little longer first.” Learn what? If you did not learn these things to show them in practice, why did you learn them?
I trust there must be some one among you, sitting here, who feels secret pangs of impatience, and says: “When will such a trial come to my share, as hath now fallen to his? Must I sit wasting my life in a corner, when I might be crowned at Olympia? When will any one bring the news of such a combat, for me?” Such should be the disposition of you all. Even among the gladiators of Cæsar, there are some who bear it very ill, that they are not brought upon the stage, and matched; and who offer vows to God, and address the officers, begging to fight. And will none among you appear such? I would willingly take a voyage on purpose to see how a champion of mine acts; how he meets his occasion.
This is not the contest I would choose, say you. Is it in your power, then, to make the selection? Such a body is given you, such parents, such brothers, such a country, and such a rank in it; and then you come to me, to change the conditions! Have you not abilities to manage that which is given you? You should say to me, “It is your business to propose; mine, to treat the subject well.” No; but you say, “Do not meet me with such a perplexity, but such a one; do not offer such an obstacle to me, but such a one.” There will be a time, I suppose, when tragedians will fancy themselves to be mere masks, and buskins, and long train. These things are your materials, man, and your stage-properties. Speak something; that we may know whether you are a tragedian, or a buffoon; for both have all the rest in common. Suppose any one should take away his buskins and his mask, and bring him upon the stage, in his common dress, is the tragedian lost, or does he remain? If he has a voice, he remains. “Here, this instant, take upon you the command.” I take it; and, taking it, I show how a skilful man performs the part. “Now lay aside your robe; put on rags, and come upon the stage in that character.” What then? Is it not in my power to express the character by a suitable voice?
“In what character do you now appear?” As a witness summoned by God. “Come you, then, and bear witness for me; for you are a fit witness to be produced by me. Is anything which is inevitable, to be classed as either good or evil? Do I hurt any one? Have I made the good of each individual to rest on any one, but himself? What evidence do you give for God?”
“I am in a miserable condition, O Lord; I am undone: no mortal cares for me; no mortal gives me anything; all blame me; all speak ill of me.”
Is this the evidence you are to give? And will you bring disgrace upon his summons, who hath conferred such an honor upon you, and thought you worthy of being produced as a witness in such a cause?
But some one in authority has given a sentence. “I judge you to be impious and profane.” What has befallen you? — I have been judged to be impious and profane. — Anything else? — Nothing. — Suppose he had passed his judgment upon any process of reasoning, and pronounced it to be a false conclusion, that, if it be day, it is light; what would have befallen the proposition? In this case, who is judged, who condemned; the proposition, or he who cannot understand it? Does he know, who claims the power of ruling in your case, what pious or impious means? Has he made it his study or learned it? Where? From whom? A musician would not regard him, if he pronounced bass to be treble; nor a mathematician, if he passed sentence, that lines drawn from the centre to the circumference, are not equal. And shall he, who is instructed in the truth, respect an ignorant man, when he pronounces upon pious and impious, just and unjust?
“O the persecutions to which the wise are exposed!” Is it here that you have learned this talk? Why do not you leave such pitiful discourse to idle, pitiful fellows; and let them sit in a corner, and receive some little mean pay; or grumble, that nobody gives them anything? But do you come, and make some use of what you have learned. It is not reasonings that are wanted now, for there are books stuffed full of stoical reasonings.
“What is wanted, then?”
The man who shall apply them; whose actions may bear testimony to his doctrines. Assume this character for me, that we may no longer make use in the schools of the examples of the ancients, but may have some examples of our own.
“To whom, then, does the contemplation of these abstractions belong?”
To any one who has leisure for them. For man is a being fond of contemplation. But it is shameful to take only such view of things as truant slaves take of a play. We ought to sit calmly, and listen, whether to the actor, or to the musician; and not do like those poor fellows, who come in and admire the actor, constantly glancing about them, and then, if any one happens to name their master, run frightened away. It is shameful for a philosopher, thus to contemplate the works of nature. What, in this parallel case, stands for the master? Man is not the master of man; but death, and life, and pleasure, and pain; for without these, bring even Cæsar to me, and you will see how intrepid I shall be. But, if he comes thundering and lightening with these, and these are the objects of my terror; what do I else, but, like the truant slave, acknowledge my master? While I have any respite from these, as the truant comes into the theatre, so I bathe, drink, sing; but all with terror and anxiety. But, if I free myself from my masters, that is, from such things as render a master terrible, what trouble, what master have I remaining?
“Shall we then insist upon these things with all men?”
No. But make allowance for the ignorant, and say, This poor man advises me to what he thinks good for himself. I excuse him; for Socrates, too, excused the jailer, who wept when he was to drink the poison; and said, “How heartily he sheds tears for us.” Was it to him that Socrates said, “For this reason we sent the women out of the way”? No; but to his friends; to such as were capable of hearing it; while he humored the other, as a child.
CHAPTER XXX.
WEAPONS READY FOR DIFFICULT OCCASIONS.
WHEN you are going before any of the great, remember, that there is another, who sees from above, what passes, and whom you ought to please, rather than man. He, therefore, asks you:
“In the schools, what did you use to call exile, and prison, and chains, and death, and calumny?”
I? Indifferent things.
“What, then, do you call them now? Are they at all changed?”
No.
“Are you changed, then?”
No.
“Tell me, then, what things are indifferent.”
Things not dependent on our own will.
“What is the inference?”
Things not dependent on my own will are nothing to me.
“Tell me, likewise, what appeared to be the good of man.”
Rectitude of will, and to understand the appearances of things.
“What his end?”
To follow Thee.
“Do you say the same things now, too?”
Yes. I do say the same things, even now.
Well, go in then boldly, and mindful of these things; and you will show the difference between the instructed and the ignorant. I protest, I think you will then have such thoughts as these: “Why do we provide so many and great resources for nothing? Is the power, the antechamber, the attendants, the guards, no more than this? Is it for these, that I have listened to so many dissertations? These are nothing; and yet I had qualified myself as for some great encounter.”
BOOK II.
CHAPTER I.
THAT COURAGE IS NOT INCONSISTENT WITH CAUTION.
THERE is an assertion of the philosophers which may perhaps appear a paradox to many; yet let us fairly examine whether it be true: — that it is possible in all things, to act at once with caution and courage. For caution seems, in some measure, contrary to courage; and contraries are by no means consistent. The appearance of a paradox in the present case seems to me to arise as follows. If indeed we assert, that courage and caution are to be used in the same instances, we might justly be accused of uniting contradictions; but, in the way that we affirm it, where is the absurdity? For, if what has been so often said, and so often demonstrated, be certain, that the essence of good and evil consists in the use of things as they appear, and that things inevitable are not to be classed either as good or evil, what paradox do the philosophers assert, if they say, “Where events are inevitable, meet them with courage, but otherwise, with caution”? For in these last cases only, if evil lies in a perverted will, is caution to be used. And if things inevitable and uncontrollable are nothing to us, in these we are to make use of courage. Thus we shall be at once cautious and courageous; and, indeed, courageous on account of this very caution; for by using caution, with regard to things really evil, we shall gain courage, with regard to what are not so.
But we are in the same condition with deer; when these in a fright fly from the plumes [which hunters wave], whither do they turn, and to what do they retire for safety? To the nets. And thus they are undone, by inverting the objects of fear and confidence. Thus we, too. When do we yield to fear? About things inevitable. When, on the other hand, do we behave with courage, as if there were nothing to be dreaded? About things that might be controlled by will. To be deceived then, or to act rashly or imprudently, or to indulge a scandalous desire, we treat as of no importance, in our effort to bring about things which we cannot, after all, control. But where death, or exile, or pain, or ignominy, is concerned, then comes the retreat, the flutter, and the fright. Hence, as it must be with those who err in matters of the greatest importance, we turn what should be courage into rashness, desperation, recklessness, effrontery; and what should be caution becomes timid, base, and full of fears and perturbations. Let one apply his spirit of caution to things within the reach of his own will, then he will have the subject of avoidance within his own control; but if he transfers it to that which is inevitable, trying to shun that which he cannot control and others can, then he must needs fear, be harassed and be disturbed. For it is not death or pain that is to be dreaded, but the fear of pain or death. Hence we commend him who says:
“Death is no ill, but shamefully to die.”*
Courage, then, ought to be opposed to death, and caution to the fear of death; whereas we, on the contrary, oppose to death, flight; and to these our false convictions concerning it, recklessness, and desperation, and assumed indifference.
Socrates used, very properly, to call these things masks; for, as masks appear shocking and formidable to children, from their inexperience; so we are thus affected with regard to things, for no other reason. For what constitutes a child? Ignorance. What constitutes a child? Want of instruction; for they are our equals, so for as their degree of knowledge permits. What is death? A mask. Turn it on the other side and be convinced. See, it doth not bite. This little body and spirit must be again, as once, separated, either now or hereafter; why, then, are you displeased if it be now? For if not now it will be hereafter. Why? To fulfil the course of the universe; for that hath need of some things present, others to come, and others already completed.
What is pain? A mask. Turn it and be convinced.
This weak flesh is sometimes affected by harsh, sometimes by smooth impressions. If suffering be beyond endurance, the door is open; till then, bear it. It is fit that the final door should be open against all accidents, since thus we escape all trouble.
What, then, is the fruit of these principles? What it ought to be; the most noble, and the most suitable to the wise, — tranquillity, security, freedom. For in this case, we are not to give credit to the many, who say, that none ought to be educated but the free; but rather to the philosophers, who say, that the wise alone are free.
“How so?”
Thus: is freedom anything else than the power of living as we like?
“Nothing else.”
Well; tell me then, do you like to live in error?
“We do not. No one, who lives in error, is free.”
Do you like to live in fear? Do you like to live in sorrow? Do you like to live in perturbation?
“By no means.”
No one, therefore, in a state of fear, or sorrow, or perturbation, is free; but whoever is delivered from sorrow, fear, and perturbation, by the same means is delivered likewise from slavery. How shall we believe you, then, good legislators, when you say, “We allow none to be educated but the free”? For the philosophers say, “We allow none to be free but the wise”; that is, God doth not allow it.
“What, then, when any person hath turned his slave about, before the consul,* has he done nothing?”
Yes, he has.
“What?”
He has turned his slave about, before the consul.
“Nothing more?”
Yes. He pays a fine for him.
“Well, then; is not the man, who has gone through this ceremony, rendered free?”
Only so far as he is emancipated from perturbation. Pray, have you, who are able to give this freedom to others, no master of your own? Are you not a slave to money? To a girl? To a boy? To a tyrant? To some friend of a tyrant? Else, why do you tremble when any one of these is in question? Therefore, I so often repeat to you, let this be your study and constant pursuit, to learn in what it is necessary to be courageous, and in what cautious; courageous against the inevitable, cautious so far as your will can control.
“But have I not read my essay to you? Do not you know what I am doing?”
In what?
“In my essays.”
Show me in what state you are, as to desires and aversions; whether you do not fail of what you wish, and incur what you would avoid; but, as to these commonplace essays, if you are wise, you will take them, and destroy them.
“Why, did not Socrates write?”
Yes; who so much? But how? As he had not always one at hand, to argue against his principles, or be argued against in his turn, he argued with and examined himself; and always made practical application of some one great principle at least. These are the things which a philosopher writes; but such commonplaces as those of which I speak, he leaves to the foolish, or to the happy creatures whom idleness furnishes with leisure; or to such as are too weak to regard consequences. And yet will you, when opportunity offers, come forward to exhibit and read aloud such things, and take a pride in them?
“Pray, see how I compose dialogues.”
Talk not of that, man, but rather be able to say, See how I accomplish my purposes; see how I avert what I wish to shun. Set death before me; set pain, a prison, disgrace, doom, and you will know me. This should be the pride of a young man come out from the schools. Leave the rest to others. Let no one ever hear you waste a word upon them, nor suffer it, if any one commends you for them; but admit that you are nobody, and that you know nothing. Appear to know only this, never to fail nor fall. Let others study cases, problems, and syllogisms. Do you rather contemplate death, change, torture, exile; and all these with courage, and reliance upon Him, who hath called you to them, and judged you worthy a post in which you may show what reason can do, when it encounters the inevitable. And thus, this paradox ceases to be a paradox, that we must be at once cautious and courageous; courageous against the inevitable; and cautious, when events are within our own control.
CHAPTER II.
OF TRANQUILLITY.
CONSIDER, you who are going to take your trial, what you wish to preserve, and in what to succeed. For if you wish to preserve a will in harmony with nature, you are entirely safe; everything goes well; you have no trouble on your hands. While you wish to preserve that freedom which belongs to you, and are contented with that, for what have you longer to be anxious? For who is the master of things like these? Who can take them away? If you wish to be a man of modesty and fidelity, who shall prevent you? If you wish not to be restrained or compelled, who shall compel you to desires contrary to your principles; to aversions, contrary to your opinion? The judge, perhaps, will pass a sentence against you, which he thinks formidable; but can he likewise make you receive it with shrinking? Since, then, desire and aversion are in your own power, for what have you to be anxious? Let this be your introduction; this your narration; this your proof; this your conclusion; this your victory; and this your applause. Thus said Socrates to one who put him in mind to prepare himself for his trial: “Do you not think that I have been preparing myself for this very thing, my whole life long?” — By what kind of preparation? — “I have attended to my own work.” — What mean you? — “I have done nothing unjust, either in public, or in private life.”
But if you wish to make use of externals too, your body, your estate, your dignity; I advise you immediately to prepare yourself by every possible preparation; and besides, to consider the disposition of your judge, and of your adversary. If it be necessary to embrace his knees, do so; if to weep, weep; if to groan, groan. For when you have once made yourself a slave to externals, be a slave wholly; do not struggle, and be alternately willing and unwilling, but be simply and thoroughly the one or the other; free, or a slave; instructed, or ignorant; a game-cock, or a craven; either bear to be beaten till you die, or give out at once; and do not be soundly beaten first, and then give out at last.
If both alternatives be shameful, learn immediately to distinguish where good and evil lie. They lie where truth likewise lies. Where truth and nature dictate, there exercise caution or courage. Why, do you think that, if Socrates had concerned himself about externals, he would have said, when he appeared at his trial, “Anytus and Melitus may indeed kill, but hurt me they cannot”? Was he so foolish as not to see that this way did not lead to safety, but the contrary? What, then, is the reason, that he not only disregarded, but defied, his judges? Thus my friend Heraclitus, in a trifling suit, about a little estate at Rhodes, after having proved to the judges that his cause was good, when he came to the conclusion of his speech, “I will not entreat you,” said he; “nor be anxious as to what judgment you give; for it is rather you who are to be judged, than I.” And thus he lost his suit. What need was there of this? Be content not to entreat; yet do not proclaim that you will not entreat; unless it be a proper time to provoke the judges designedly, as in the case of Socrates. But if you too are preparing such a speech as his, what do you wait for? Why do you consent to be tried? For if you wish to be hanged, have patience, and the gibbet will come. But if you choose rather to consent, and make your defence as well as you can, all the rest is to be ordered accordingly; with a due regard, however, to the preservation of your own proper character.
For this reason it is absurd to call upon me for specific advice. How should I know what to advise you? Ask me rather to teach you to accommodate yourself to whatever may be the event. The former is just as if an illiterate person should say, “Tell me how to write down some name that is proposed to me”; and I show him how to write the name of Dion; and then another comes, and asks him to write the name, not of Dion, but of Theon; — what will be the consequence? What will he write? Whereas, if you make writing your study, you are ready prepared for whatever word may occur; if not, how can I advise you? For, if the actual case should suggest something else, what will you say, or how will you say, or how will you act? Remember, then, the general rule, and you will need no special suggestions; but if you are absorbed in externals, you must necessarily be tossed up and down, according to the inclination of your master.
Who is your master? He who controls those things which you seek or shun.
CHAPTER III.
CONCERNING SUCH AS RECOMMEND PERSONS TO THE PHILOSOPHERS
DIOGENES rightly answered one who desired letters of recommendation from him: “At first sight he will know you to be a man; and whether you are a good or a bad man, if he has any skill in distinguishing, he will know likewise; and, if he has not, he will never know it, though I should write a thousand times.” Just as if you were a piece of coin, and should desire to be recommended to any person as good, in order to be tried; — if it be to an assayer, he will know your value, for you will recommend yourself.
We ought, therefore, in life also, to have something analogous to this skill in gold; that one may be able to say, like the assayer, Bring me whatever piece you will, and I will find out its value; or, as I would say with regard to syllogisms, Bring me whomsoever you will, and I will distinguish for you, whether he knows how to solve syllogisms, or not. Why? Because I can do that myself, and have that faculty which is necessary for one, who can discern persons skilled in such solutions. But how do I act in life? I sometimes call a thing good; at other times, bad. What is the cause of this? Something contrary to what occurs to me in syllogisms, — ignorance, and inexperience.
CHAPTER IV.
CONCERNING A MAN WHO HAD BEEN GUILTY OF ADULTERY.
JUST as he was once saying, that man is made for fidelity, and that whoever subverts this, subverts the peculiar property of man; there entered one of the so-called literary men, who had been found guilty of adultery, in that city. — But, continued Epictetus, if, laying aside that fidelity for which we were born, we form designs against the wife of our neighbor, what do we? What else but destroy and ruin — what? Fidelity, honor, and sanctity of manners. Only these? And do not we ruin neighborhood? Friendship? Our country? In what rank do we then place ourselves? How am I to consider you, sir? As a neighbor? A friend? What sort of one? As a citizen? How shall I trust you? Indeed, if you were some potsherd, so noisome that no use could be made of you, you might be thrown on a dunghill, and no mortal would take the trouble to pick you up; but if, being a man, you cannot fill any one place in human society, what shall we do with you? For, suppose you cannot hold the place of a friend, can you hold even that of a slave? And who will trust you? Why, then, should not you also be contented to be thrown upon some dunghill, as a useless vessel, and indeed as worse than that? Will you say, after this, Has no one any regard for me, a man of letters? Why, you are wicked, and fit for no use. Just as if wasps should take it ill that no one has any regard for them; but all shun, and whoever can, beats them down. You have such a sting, that whoever you strike with it, is thrown into troubles and sorrows. What would you have us do with you? There is nowhere to place you.
“What, then, are not women made by nature common?”
I admit it; and so is food at table common to those who are invited. But, after it is distributed, will you go and snatch away the share of him who sits next you; or slyly steal it, or stretch out your hand, and taste; and, if you cannot tear away any of the meat, dip your fingers and lick them? A fine companion! A Socratic guest indeed! Again; is not the theatre common to all the citizens? Therefore come, when all are seated, if you dare, and turn any one of them out of his place. In this sense, only, are women common by nature; but when the laws, like a good host, have distributed them, cannot you, like the rest of the company, be contented with your own share, but must you pilfer, and taste what belongs to another?
“But I am a man of letters, and understand Archedemus.”
With all your understanding of Archedemus, then, you will be an adulterer, and a rogue; and instead of a man, a wolf or an ape. For where is the difference?
CHAPTER V.
HOW NOBLENESS OF MIND MAY BE CONSISTENT WITH PRUDENCE.
THE materials of action are variable, but the use we make of them should be constant.
How, then, shall one combine composure and tranquillity with energy; doing nothing rashly, nothing carelessly?
By imitating those who play at games. The dice are variable; the pieces are variable. How do I know what will fall out? But it is my business, to manage carefully and dexterously whatever happens. Thus in life too, this is the chief business, to consider and discriminate things; and say, “Externals are not in my power; choice is. Where shall I seek good and evil? Within; in what is my own.” But in what is controlled by others, count nothing good or evil, profitable or hurtful, or any such thing.
What, then, are we to treat these in a careless way?
By no means; for this, on the other hand, would be a perversion of the will, and so contrary to nature. But we are to act with care, because the use of our materials is not indifferent; and at the same time with calmness and tranquillity, because the materials themselves are uncertain. For where a thing is not uncertain, there no one can restrain or compel me. Where I am capable of being restrained or compelled, the acquisition does not depend upon me; nor is it either good or evil. The use of it, indeed, is either good or evil; but that does depend upon me. It is difficult, I own, to blend and unite tranquillity in accepting, and energy in using, the facts of life; but it is not impossible; if it be, it is impossible to be happy. How do we act in a voyage? What is in my power? To choose the pilot, the sailors, the day, the hour. Afterwards comes a storm. What have I to care for? My part is performed. This matter belongs to another, to the pilot. But the ship is sinking; what then have I to do? That which alone I can do; I submit to being drowned, without fear, without clamor, or accusing God; but as one who knows, that what is born, must likewise die. For I am not eternity, but a man; a part of the whole, as an hour is of the day. I must come like an hour, and like an hour must pass away. What signifies it whether by drowning, or by a fever? For, in some way or other, pass I must.
This you may see to be the practice of those who play skilfully at ball. No one contends for the ball itself, as either a good or an evil; but how he may throw and catch it again. Here lies the address, here the art, the nimbleness, the skill; lest I fail to catch it, even when I open my breast for it, while another catches it, whenever I throw it. But if we catch or throw it, in fear and trembling, what kind of play will this be? How shall we keep ourselves steady; or how see the order of the game? One will say, throw: another, do not throw: a third, you have thrown once already. This is a mere quarrel; not a play. Therefore Socrates well understood playing at ball.
“What do you mean?”
When he joked at his trial. “Tell me,” said he, “Anytus, how can you say that I do not believe in a God? What do you think demons are? Are they not either the offspring of the gods, or compounded of gods and men?” — Yes. — “Do you think, then, that one can believe there are mules, and not believe that there are asses?” This was just as if he had been playing at ball. And what was the ball he had to play with? Life, chains, exile, a draught of poison, separation from a wife, and leaving his children orphans. These were what he had to play with; and yet he did play, and threw the ball with address. Thus we should be careful as to the play, but indifferent as to the ball. We are by all means to manage our materials with art; not taking them for the best; but showing our art about them, whatever they may happen to be. Thus a weaver does not make the wool, but employs his art upon what is given him. It is another who gives you food, and property; and may take them away, and your paltry body too. Do you, however, work upon the materials you have received; and then, if you come off unhurt, others, no doubt, who meet you, will congratulate you on your escape. But he who has a clearer insight into such things, will praise and congratulate you if he sees you to have done well; but if you owe your escape to any unbecoming action, he will do the contrary. For where there is a reasonable cause for rejoicing, there is cause likewise for congratulation.
How, then, are some external circumstances said to be according to nature; others contrary to it?
Only when we are viewed as isolated individuals. I will allow that it is natural for the foot, (for instance,) to be clean. But if you take it as a foot, and not as a mere isolated thing, it will be fit that it should walk in the dirt, and tread upon thorns; and sometimes that it should even be cut off, for the good of the whole; otherwise it is no longer a foot. We should reason in some such manner concerning ourselves. Who are you? A man. If then, indeed, you consider yourself isolatedly, it is natural that you should live to old age, should be prosperous and healthy; but if you consider yourself as a man, and as a part of the whole, it will be fit, in view of that whole, that you should at one time be sick; at another, take a voyage, and be exposed to danger; sometimes be in want; and possibly die before your time. Why, then, are you displeased? Do not you know, that otherwise, just as the other ceases to be a foot, so you are no longer a man? For what is a man? A part of a commonwealth; first and chiefly of that which includes both gods and men; and next, of that to which you immediately belong, which is a miniature of the universal city.
What, then, must I, at one time, go before a tribunal; must another, at another time, be scorched by a fever; another be exposed to the sea; another die; another be condemned?
Yes; for it is impossible, in such a body, in such a world, and among such companions, but that some one or other of us must meet with such circumstances. Your business, then, is simply to say what you ought, to order things as the case requires. After this comes some one and says, “I pronounce that you have acted unjustly.” Much good may it do you; I have done my part. You are to look to it, whether you have done yours; for you may as well understand that there is some danger in that quarter also.
CHAPTER VI.
OF CIRCUMSTANCES.*
A PROCESS of reasoning may be an indifferent thing; but our judgment concerning it is not indifferent; for it is either knowledge, or opinion, or mistake. So the events of life occur indifferently, but the use of it is not indifferent. When you are told, therefore, that these things are indifferent, do not, on that account, ever be careless; nor yet, when you are governed by prudence, be abject, and dazzled by externals. It is good to know your own qualifications and powers; that, where you are not qualified, you may be quiet, and not angry that others have there the advantage of you. For you too will think it reasonable, that you should have the advantage in the art of reasoning; and, if others should be angry at it, you will tell them, by way of consolation, “This I have learned, and you have not.” Thus too, wherever practice is necessary, do not pretend to what can only be attained by practice; but leave the matter to those who are practised, and do you be contented in your own serenity.
“Go, for instance, and pay your court to such a person.” — How? I will not do it abjectly. So I find myself shut out; for I have not learned to get in at the window, and finding the door shut, I must necessarily either go back, or get in at the window. — “But speak to him at least.” I am willing. “In what manner?” Not basely at any rate. “Well, you have failed.” This is not your business, but his. Why do you claim what belongs to another? Always remember what is your own, and what is another’s, and you will never be disturbed.
Hence Chrysippus rightly says: While consequences are uncertain, I will keep to those things which will bring me most in harmony with nature; for God himself hath formed me to choose this. If I knew, that it was inevitable for me to be sick, I would conform my inclinations that way; for even the foot, if it had understanding, would be inclined to get into the dirt. For why are ears of corn produced, if it be not to ripen? and why do they ripen, if not to be reaped? For they are not isolated, individual things. If they were capable of sense, do you think they would wish never to be reaped? It would be a curse upon ears of corn not to be reaped, and we ought to know that it would be a curse upon man not to die; like that of not ripening, and not being reaped. Since, then, it is necessary for us to be reaped, and we have, at the same time, understanding to know it, are we angry at it? This is only because we neither know what we are, nor have we studied what belongs to man, as jockies do what belongs to horses. Yet Chrysantas, when he was about to strike an enemy, on hearing the trumpet sound a retreat, drew back his hand; for he thought it more eligible to obey the command of his general, than his own inclination.* But not one of us, even when necessity calls, is ready and willing to obey it; but we weep and groan over painful events, calling them our “circumstances.” What circumstances, man? For if you call what surrounds you circumstances, everything is a circumstance; but, if by this you mean hardships, where is the hardship, that whatever is born must die? The instrument is either a sword, or a wheel, or the sea, or a tile, or a tyrant. And what does it signify to you by what way you descend to Hades? All are equal; but, if you would hear the truth, the shortest is that by which a tyrant sends you. No tyrant was ever six months in cuting any man’s throat; but a fever often takes a year. All these things are mere sound, and the rumor of empty names.
“My life is in danger from Cæsar.”
And am I not in danger, who dwell at Nicopolis, where there are so many earthquakes? And when you yourself recross the Adriatic, what is then in danger? Is it not your life?
“Ay, and my convictions also.”
What, your own? How so? Can any one compel you to have any convictions contrary to your own inclination?
“But the convictions of others too.”
And what danger is it of yours, if others have false convictions?
“But I am in danger of being banished.”
What is it to be banished? only to be somewhere else than at Rome.
“Yes? but what if I should be sent to Gyaros?”
If it be thought best for you, you will go; if not, there is another place than Gyaros whither you are sure to go, — where he who now sends you to Gyaros must go likewise, whether he will or not. Why, then, do you come to these, as to great trials? They are not equal to your powers. So that an ingenuous young man would say, it was not worth while for this, to have read and written so much, and to have sat to long listening to this old man. Only remember the distinction between what is your own, and what is not your own, and you will never claim what belongs to others. Judicial bench or dungeon, each is but a place, one high, the other low; but your will is equal to either condition, and if you have a mind to keep it so, it may be so kept. We shall then become imitators of Socrates, when, even in a prison, we are able to write hymns of praise;* but as we now are, consider whether we could even bear to have another say to us in prison, “Shall I read you a hymn of praise?” — “Why do you trouble me; do you not know my sad situation? In such circumstances, am I able to hear hymns?” — What circumstances? — “I am going to die.” — And are all other men to be immortal?
CHAPTER VII.
OF DIVINATION.
FROM an unseasonable regard to divination, we omit many duties: for what can the diviner contemplate besides death, danger, sickness, and such matters. When it is necessary, then, to expose one’s self to danger for a friend, or even a duty to die for him, what occasion have I for divination? Have not I a diviner within, who has told me the essence of good and evil; and who explains to me the indications of both? What further need, then, have I of signs or auguries. Can I tolerate the other diviner, when he says, “This is for your interest”? For does he know what is for my interest? Does he know what good is? Has he learned the indications of good and evil, as he has those of the victims? If so, he knows the indications likewise of fair and base, just and unjust. You may predict to me, sir, what is to befall me; life or death, riches or poverty. But whether these things are for my interest, or not, I shall not inquire of you. “Why?” Because you cannot even give an opinion about points of grammar; and do you give it here, in things about which all men differ and dispute? Therefore the lady, who was going to send a month’s provision to Gratilla,* in her banishment, made a right answer to one, who told her that Domitian would seize it. “I had rather,” said she, “that he should seize it, than I not send it.”
What, then, is it, that leads us so often to divination? Cowardice; the dread of events. Hence we flatter the diviners. “Pray, sir, shall I inherit my father’s estate?” — “Let us see: let us sacrifice upon the occasion.” — “Nay, sir, just as fortune pleases.” Then if he predicts that we shall inherit it, we give him thanks, as if we received the inheritance from him. The consequence of this is, that they impose upon us.
What, then, is to be done?
We should come without previous desire or aversion; as a traveller inquires the road of the person he meets, without any desire for that which turns to the right hand, more than for that to the left; for he wishes for neither of these, but only for that road which leads him properly. Thus we should come to God, as to a guide. Just as we make use of our eyes; not persuading them to show us one object rather than another, but receiving such as they present to us. But now we conduct the augury with fear and trembling; and in our invocations to God, entreat him: “Lord have mercy upon me, suffer me to come off safe.” Foolish man! would you have anything then but what is best? And what is best but what pleases God? Why would you then, so far as in you lies, corrupt your judge and seduce your adviser?
CHAPTER VIII.
WHEREIN CONSISTS THE ESSENCE OF GOOD.
GOD is beneficial. Good is also beneficial. It should seem, then, that where the essence of God is, there too is the essence of good. What then is the essence of God? Flesh? By no means. An estate? Fame? By no means. Intelligence? Knowledge? Right reason? Certainly. Here, then, without more ado, seek the essence of good. For do you seek that quality in a plant? No. Or in a brute? No. If, then, you seek it only in a rational subject, why do you seek it anywhere but in what distinguishes that from things irrational? Plants make no voluntary use of things; and therefore you do not apply the term of good to them. — Good, then, implies such use. And nothing else? If so, you may say, that good, and happiness, and unhappiness, belong to mere animals. But this you do not say, and you are right; for, how much soever they have the use of things, they have not the intelligent use; and with good reason; for they are made to be subservient to others, and not of primary importance. Why was an ass made? Was it as being of primary importance? No; but because we had need of a back, able to carry burdens. We had need too that he should be capable of locomotion; therefore he had the voluntary use of things added; otherwise he could not have moved. But here his endowments end; for, if an understanding of that use had been likewise added, he would not, in reason, have been subject to us, nor have done us these services; but would have been like and equal to ourselves. Why will you not, therefore, seek the essence of good in that without which you cannot say that there is good in anything?
What then? Are not all these likewise the works of the gods? They are; but not primary existences, nor parts of the gods. But you are a primary existence. You are a distinct portion of the essence of God; and contain a certain part of him in yourself. Why then are you ignorant of your noble birth? Why do not you consider whence you came? why do not you remember, when you are eating, who you are who eat; and whom you feed? When you are in the company of women; when you are conversing; when you are exercising; when you are disputing; do not you know, that it is the Divine you feed; the Divine you exercise? You carry a God about with you, poor wretch, and know nothing of it. Do you suppose I mean some god without you of gold or silver? It is within yourself that you carry him; and you do not observe that you profane him by impure thoughts and unclean actions. If the mere external image of God were present, you would not dare to act as you do; and when God himself is within you, and hears and sees all, are not you ashamed to think and act thus; insensible of your own nature, and at enmity with God?
Why then are we afraid, when we send a young man from the school, into active life, that he should behave indecently, eat indecently, converse indecently with women; that he should either debase himself by slovenliness, or clothe himself too finely? Knows he not the God within him? Knows he not in what company he goes? It is provoking to hear him say [to his instructor], “I wish to have you with me.” Have you not God? Do you seek any other, while you have him? Or will He tell you any other things than these? If you were a statue of Phidias, as Zeus or Minerva, you would remember both yourself and the artist; and, if you had any sense, you would endeavor to be in no way unworthy of him who formed you, nor of yourself; nor to appear in an unbecoming manner to spectators. And are you now careless how you appear, when you are the workmanship of Zeus himself? And yet, what comparison is there, either between the artists, or the things they have formed? What work of any artist has conveyed into its structure those very faculties which are shown in shaping it? Is it anything but marble, or brass, or gold, or ivory? And the Minerva of Phidias, when its hand is once extended, and a Victory placed in it, remains in that attitude forever. But the works of God are endowed with motion, breath, the powers of use and judgment. Being, then, the work of such an artist, will you dishonor him, — especially, when he hath not only formed you, but given your guardianship to yourself? Will you not only be forgetful of this, but, moreover, dishonor the trust? If God had committed some orphan to your charge, would you have been thus careless of him? He has delivered yourself to your care; and says, “I had no one fitter to be trusted than you: preserve this person for me, such as he is by nature; modest, faithful, noble, unterrified, dispassionate, tranquil.” And will you not preserve him?
But it will be said: “What need of this lofty look, and dignity of face?”
I answer, that I have not yet so much dignity as the case demands. For I do not yet trust to what I have learned, and accepted. I still fear my own weakness. Let me but take courage a little, and then you shall see such a look, and such an appearance, as I ought to have. Then I will show you the statue, when it is finished, when it is polished. Do you think I will show you a supercilious countenance? Heaven forbid? For Olympian Zeus doth not haughtily lift his brow; but keeps a steady countenance, as becomes him who is about to say,
“My promise is irrevocable, sure.”*
Such will I show myself to you; faithful, modest, noble, tranquil.
“What, and immortal too, and exempt from age and sickness?”
No. But sickening and dying as becomes the divine within me. This is in my power; this I can do. The other is not in my power, nor can I do it. Shall I show you the muscular training of a philosopher?
“What muscles are those?”
A will undisappointed; evils avoided; powers duly exerted; careful resolutions; unerring decisions. These you shall see.
CHAPTER IX.
THAT SOME PERSONS, FAILING TO FULFIL WHAT THE CHARACTER OF A MAN IMPLIES, ASSUME THAT OF A PHILOSOPHER.
IT were no slight attainment, could we merely fulfil what the nature of man implies. For what is man? A rational and mortal being. Well; from what are we distinguished by reason? From wild beasts. From what else? From sheep, and the like.
Take care, then, to do nothing like a wild beast; otherwise you have destroyed the man; you have not fulfilled what your nature promises. Take care too, to do nothing like cattle; for thus likewise the man is destroyed.
In what do we act like cattle?
When we act gluttonously, lewdly, rashly, sordidly, inconsiderately, into what are we sunk? Into cattle. What have we destroyed? The rational being.
When we behave contentiously, injuriously, passionately, and violently, into what have we sunk? Into wild beasts.
And further; some of us are wild beasts of a larger size; others, little mischievous vermin; such as suggest the proverb, Let me rather be eaten by a lion.
By all these means, that is destroyed which the nature of man implies.
For, when is a conjunctive proposition sustained? When it fulfils what its nature implies. So then the sustaining of such a proposition consists in this: that its several parts remain a series of truths.
When is a disjunctive proposition sustained? When it fulfils what its nature implies.
When is a flute, a harp, a horse, or a dog, preserved in existence? While each fulfils what its nature implies.
Where is the wonder, then, that manhood should be preserved or destroyed in the same manner? All things are preserved and improved by exercising their proper functions; as a carpenter, by building; a grammarian, by grammar: but if he permit himself to write ungrammatically, his art will necessarily be spoiled and destroyed. Thus modest actions preserve the modest man, and immodest ones destroy him; faithful actions preserve the faithful man, and the contrary destroy him. On the other hand, the contrary actions heighten the contrary characters. Thus the practice of immodesty develops an immodest character; knavery, a knavish one; slander, a slanderous one; anger, an angry one; and fraud, a covetous one.
For this reason, philosophers advise us not to be contented with mere learning; but to add meditation likewise, and then practice. For we have been long accustomed to perverse actions, and have practised upon wrong opinions. If, therefore, we do not likewise habituate ourselves to practise upon right opinions, we shall be nothing more than expositors of the abstract doctrines of others. For who among us is not already able to discourse, according to the rules of art, upon good and evil? “That some things are good, some evil, and others indifferent: the good include the virtues and all things appertaining; the evil comprise the contrary; and the indifferent include riches, health, reputation”; — and then, if, while we are saying all this, there should happen some more than ordinary noise, or one of the by-standers should laugh at us, we are disconcerted. Philosopher, what is become of what you were saying? Whence did it proceed? Merely from your lips? Why then, do you confound the remedies which might be useful to others? Why do you trifle on the most important subjects? It is one thing to hoard up provision in a storehouse, and another to eat it. What is eaten is assimilated, digested, and becomes nerves, flesh, bones, blood, color, breath. Whatever is hoarded is ready indeed, whenever you desire to show it; but is of no further use to you than in the mere knowledge that you have it.
For what difference does it make whether you discourse on these doctrines, or those of the heterodox? Sit down and comment skilfully on Epicurus, for instance; perhaps you may comment more profitably than himself. Why then do you call yourself a Stoic? Why do you act like a Jew, when you are a Greek? Do not you see on what terms each is called a Jew, a Syrian, an Egyptian? And when we see any one wavering, we are wont to say, This is not a Jew, but only acts like one. But, when he assumes the sentiments of one who has been baptized and circumcised, then he both really is, and is called, a Jew. Thus we, falsifying our profession, may be Jews in name, but are in reality something else. We are inconsistent with our own discourse; we are far from practising what we teach, and what we pride ourselves on knowing. Thus, while we are unable to fulfil what the character of a man implies, we are ready to assume besides so vast a weight as that of a philosopher. As if a person, incapable of lifting ten pounds, should endeavor to heave the same stone with Ajax.
CHAPTER X.
HOW WE MAY INFER THE DUTIES OF LIFE FROM ITS NOMINAL FUNCTIONS.
CONSIDER who you are. In the first place, a man; that is, one who recognizes nothing superior to the faculty of free will, but all things as subject to this; and this itself as not to be enslaved or subjected to anything. Consider then, from what you are distinguished by reason. You are distinguished from wild beasts: you are distinguished from cattle. Besides, you are a citizen of the universe, and a part of it; not a subordinate, but a principal part. You are capable of comprehending the Divine economy; and of considering the connections of things. What then does the character of a citizen imply? To hold no private interest; to deliberate of nothing as a separate individual, but rather like the hand or the foot, which, if they had reason, and comprehended the constitution of nature, would never pursue, or desire, but with a reference to the whole. Hence the philosophers rightly say, that, if it were possible for a wise and good man to foresee what was to happen, he might co-operate in bringing on himself sickness, and death, and mutilation, being sensible that these things are appointed in the order of the universe; and that the whole is superior to a part, and the city to the citizen. But, since we do not foreknow what is to happen, it becomes our duty to hold to what is more agreeable to our choice, for this too is a part of our birthright.
Remember next, that perhaps you are a son; and what does this character imply? To esteem everything that is his, as belonging to his father; in every instance to obey him; not to revile him to any one; not to say or do anything injurious to him; to give way and yield in everything; co-operating with him to the utmost of his power.
After this, know likewise that you are a brother too; and that to this character it belongs, to make concessions; to be easily persuaded; to use gentle language; never to claim, for yourself, any nonessential thing; but cheerfully to give up these, to be repaid by a larger share of things essential. For consider what it is, instead of a lettuce, for instance, or a chair, to procure for yourself a good temper. How great an advantage gained!
If, beside this, you are a senator of any city, demean yourself as a senator; if a youth, as a youth; if an old man, as an old man. For each of these names, if it comes to be considered, always points out the proper duties. But, if you go and revile your brother, I tell you that you have forgotten who you are, and what is your name. If you were a smith, and made an ill use of the hammer, you would have forgotten the smith; and if you have forgotten the brother, and are become, instead of a brother, an enemy, do you imagine you have made no change of one thing for another, in that case? If, instead of a man, a gentle, social creature, you have become a wild beast, mischievous, insidious, biting; have you lost nothing? Is it only the loss of money which is reckoned damage; and is there no other thing, the loss of which damages a man? If you were to part with your skill in grammar, or in music, would you think the loss of these a damage; and yet, if you part with honor, decency, and gentleness, do you think that no matter? Yet the first may be lost by some cause external and inevitable; but the last only by our own fault. There is no shame in not having, or in losing the one; but either not to have, or to lose the other, is equally shameful, and reproachful, and unhappy. What does the debauchee lose? Manhood. What does he lose, who made him such? Many things, but manhood also. What does an adulterer lose? The modest, the chaste character; the good neighbor. What does an angry person lose? A coward? Each loses his portion. No one is wicked without some loss, or damage. Now if, after all, you treat the loss of money as the only damage, all these are unhurt and uninjured. Nay, they may be even gainers; as, by such practices, their money may possibly be increased. But consider; if you refer everything to money, then a man who loses his nose is not hurt. Yes, say you; he is maimed in his body. Well, but does he who loses his sense of smell itself lose nothing? Is there, then, no faculty of the soul, which benefits the possessor, and which it is an injury to lose?
“Of what sort do you mean?”
Have we not a natural sense of honor?
“We have.”
Does he, who loses this, suffer no damage? Is he deprived of nothing? Does he part with nothing that belongs to him? Have we no natural fidelity? No natural affection? No natural disposition to mutual usefulness, to mutual forbearance? Is he, then, who carelessly suffers himself to be damaged in these respects, still safe and uninjured?
“What, then, shall not I injure him who has injured me?”
Consider first what injury is; and remember what you have heard from the philosophers. For, if both good and evil lie in the will, see whether what you say does not amount to this: “Since he has hurt himself, by injuring me, shall I not hurt myself by injuring him?” Why do we not make to ourselves some such representation as this? Are we hurt, when any detriment happens to our bodily possesions; and are we not at all hurt, when our will is depraved? He who has erred, or injured another, has indeed no pain in his head; nor loses an eye, nor a leg, nor an estate; and we wish for nothing beyond these. Whether our will be habitually humble and faithful, or shameless and unfaithful, we regard as a thing indifferent, except only in the discussions of the schools. In that case, all the improvement we make reaches only to words; and beyond them is absolutely nothing.
CHAPTER XI.
THE BEGINNING OF PHILOSOPHY.
THE beginning of philosophy, at least to such as enter upon it in a proper way, and by the door, is a consciousness of our own weakness and inability in necessary things. For we came into the world without any natural idea of a right-angled triangle; of a diesis, or a semitone, in music; but we learn each of these things by some artistic instruction. Hence, they who do not understand them, do not assume to understand them. But who ever came into the world without an innate idea of good and evil; fair and base; becoming and unbecoming; happiness and misery; proper and improper; what ought to be done, and what not to be done? Hence we all make use of the terms, and endeavor to apply our impressions to particular cases. “Such a one hath acted well, not well; right, not right; is unhappy, is happy; is just, is unjust.” Which of us refrains from these terms? Who defers the use of them, till he has learnt it; as those do, who are ignorant of lines and sounds? The reason of this is, that we come instructed, in some degree, by nature, upon these subjects; and from this beginning, we go on to add self-conceit. “For why,” say you, “should I not know what fair or base is? Have I not the idea of it?” You have. “Do I not apply this idea to the particular instance?” You do. “Do I not apply it rightly then?” Here lies the whole question; and here arises the self-conceit. Beginning from these acknowledged points, men proceed, by applying them improperly, to reach the very position most questionable. For, if they knew how to apply them also, they would be all but perfect.
If you think that you know how to apply your general principles to particular cases, tell me on what you base this application.
“Upon its seeming so to me.”
But it does not seem so to another; and does not he too think that he makes a right application?
“He does.”
Is it possible, then, that each of you should rightly apply your principles, on the very subjects about which your opinions conflict?
“It is not.”
Have you anything to show us, then, for this application, beyond the fact of its seeming so to you? And does a madman act any otherwise than seems to him right? Is this then a sufficient criterion for him too?
“It is not.”
Come, therefore, to some stronger ground than seeming.
“What is that?”
The beginning of philosophy is this; the being sensible of the disagreement of men with each other; an inquiry into the cause of this disagreement; and a disapprobation, and distrust of what merely seems; a careful examination into what seems, whether it seem rightly; and the discovery of some rule which shall serve like a balance, for the determination of weights; like a square, for distinguishing straight and crooked. This is the beginning of philosophy.
Is it possible that all things which seem right to all persons, are so? Can things contradictory be right? We say not all things; but all that seem so to us. And why more to you than to the Syrians, or Egyptians? Than to me, or to any other man? Not at all more.
Therefore what seems to each man, is not sufficient to determine the reality of a thing. For even in weights and measures we are not satisfied with the bare appearance; but for everything we find some rule. And is there then, in the present case, no rule preferable to what seems? Is it possible, that what is of the greatest necessity in human life, should be left incapable of determination and discovery?
There must be some rule. And why do we not seek and discover it, and, when we have discovered, ever after make use of it, without fail, so as not even to move a finger without it. For this, I conceive, is what, when found, will cure those of their madness, who make use of no other measure, but their own perverted way of thinking. Afterwards, beginning from certain known and determinate points, we may make use of general principles, properly applied to particulars.
Thus, what is the subject that falls under our inquiry? Pleasure. Bring it to the rule. Throw it into the scale. Must good be something in which it is fit to confide, and to which we may trust? Yes. Is it fit to trust to anything unstable? No. Is pleasure, then, a stable thing? No. Take it, then, and throw it out of the scale, and drive it far distant from the place of good things.
But, if you are not quick-sighted, and one balance is insufficient, bring another. Is it fit to be elated by good? Yes. Is it fit, then, to be elated by a present pleasure? See that you do not say it is; otherwise I shall not think you so much as worthy to use a scale. Thus are things judged, and weighed, when we have the rules ready. This is the part of philosophy, to examine, and fix the rules; and to make use of them, when they are known, is the business of a wise and good man.
CHAPTER XII.
OF DISPUTATION.
WHAT things are to be learned, in order to the right use of reason, the philosophers of our sect have accurately taught; but we are altogether unpractised in the due application of them. Only give to any one of us whom you will, some illiterate person for an antagonist, and he will not find out how to treat him. But when he has a little moved the man, if he happens to answer at cross purposes, the questioner knows not how to deal with him any further, but either reviles or laughs at him, and says: “He is an illiterate fellow; there is no making anything of him.” Yet a guide, when he perceives his charge going out of the way, does not revile and ridicule, and then leave him; but leads him into the right path. Do you also show your antagonist the truth, and you will see that he will follow. But till you show it, do not ridicule him; but rather be sensible of your own incapacity.
How, then, did Socrates use to act? He obliged his antagonist himself to bear testimony to him; and wanted no other witness. Hence he might well say:* “I give up all the rest, and am always satisfied with the testimony of my opponent; and I call in no one to vote, but my antagonist alone.” For he rendered the arguments drawn from natural impressions so clear, that every one saw and avoided the contradiction. — “Does an envious man rejoice?” — “By no means; he rather grieves.” (This he moves him to say, by proposing the contrary.) — “Well; and do you think envy to be a grief caused by evils?” — “And who ever envied evils?” — (Therefore he makes the other say, that envy is a grief caused by things good.) — “Does any one envy those things which are nothing to him?” — “No, surely.” Having thus fully drawn out his idea, he then leaves that point; not saying, “Define to me what envy is”; and after he has defined it, “You have defined it wrong; for the definition does not correspond to the thing defined.”
There are phrases repulsive and obscure to the illiterate, which yet we cannot dispense with. But we have no capacity at all to move them, by such arguments as might lead them, in following the methods of their own minds, to admit or abandon any position. And, from a consciousness of this incapacity, those among us, who have any modesty, give the matter entirely up; but the greater part, rashly entering upon these debates, mutually confound and are confounded; and, at last, reviling and reviled, walk off. Whereas it was the principal and most peculiar characteristic of Socrates, never to be provoked in a dispute, nor to throw out any reviling or injurious expression; but to bear patiently with those who reviled him, and thus put an end to the controversy. If you would know how great abilities he had in this particular, read Xenophon’s Banquet, and you will see how many controversies he ended. Hence, even among the poets, this is justly mentioned with the highest commendation,
“Wisely at once the greatest strife to still.”*
But what then? This is no very safe affair now, and especially at Rome. For he who does it, must not do it in a corner; but go to some rich consular senator, for instance, and question him. Pray, sir, can you tell me to whom you intrust your horses? “Yes, certainly.” Is it then, to any one indifferently, though he be ignorant of horsemanship? “By no means.” To whom do you intrust your gold, or your silver, or your clothes? “Not to any one indifferently.” And did you ever consider to whom you committed the care of your body? “Yes, surely.” To one skilled in exercise, or medicine, I suppose. “Without doubt.” Are these things your chief good; or are you possessed of something better than all of them? “What do you mean?” Something which makes use of these; and deliberates and counsels about each of them? “What then, do you mean the soul?” You have guessed rightly; for indeed I do mean that. “I do really think it a much better possession than all the rest.” Can you show us, then, in what manner you have taken care of this soul? For it is not probable, that a person of your wisdom and approved character in the state, would carelessly suffer the most excellent thing that belongs to you to be neglected and lost. “No, certainly.” But do you take care of it yourself? And is it done by the instructions of another, or by your own ability? — Here, now, comes the danger, that he may first say, “Pray, good sir, what business is that of yours; what are you to me?” Then, if you persist in troubling him, he may lift up his hand, and give you a box on the ear. I myself was once a great admirer of this method of instruction, till I fell into such kind of adventures.
CHAPTER XIII.
OF ANXIETY.
WHEN I see any one anxious, I say, what does this man mean? Unless he wanted something or other, not in his own power, how could he still be anxious? A musician, for instance, feels no anxiety, while he is singing by himself, but when he appears upon the stage he does; even if his voice be ever so good, or he plays ever so well. For what he wishes is not only to sing well, but likewise to gain applause. But this is not in his own power. In short, where his skill lies, there is his courage. Bring any ignorant person, and he does not mind him. But in the point which he neither understands, nor has studied, there he is anxious.
“What point is that?”
He does not understand what a multitude is, nor what the applause of a multitude. He has learnt, indeed, how to sound bass and treble; but what the applause of the many is, and what force it has in life, he neither understands, nor has studied. Hence he must necessarily tremble, and turn pale. I cannot indeed say, that a man is no musician, when I see him afraid; but I can say something else, and indeed many things. And, first of all, I call him a stranger, and say, this man does not know in what country he is; and though he has lived here so long, he is ignorant of the laws and customs of the state, and what is permitted, and what not; nor hath he ever consulted any legal adviser, who might tell and explain to him the laws. But no man writes a will, without knowing how it ought to be written, or consulting some one who knows; nor does he rashly sign a bond, or give security. Yet he indulges his desires and aversions, exerts his pursuits, intentions, and resolutions, without consulting any legal adviser about the matter.
“How do you mean, without a legal adviser?”
He knows not, when he chooses what is not allowed him, and does not choose what is necessary; and he knows not what is his own, and what belongs to others; for if he did know, he would never be hindered, would never be restrained, would never be anxious.
“How so?”
Why? does any one fear things that are not evils?
“No.”
Does any one fear things, that seem evils indeed, but which it is in his own power to prevent?
“No, surely.”
If, then, the things independent of our will are neither good nor evil; and all things that do depend on will, are in our own power, and can neither be taken away from us, nor given to us, unless we please; what room is there left for anxiety? But we are anxious about this paltry body or estate of ours, or about what Cæsar thinks; and not at all about anything internal. Are we ever anxious not to take up a false opinion? No; for this is within our own power. Or not to follow any pursuit contrary to nature? No; nor this. When, therefore, you see any one pale with anxiety, just as the physician pronounces from the complexion, that such a patient is disordered in the spleen, and another in the liver; so do you likewise say, this man is disordered in his desires and aversions; he cannot walk steadily; he is in a fever. For nothing else changes the complexion, or causes trembling, or sets the teeth chattering.
“He crouching walks, or squats upon his heels.”*
Therefore Zeno,† when he was to meet Antigonus, felt no anxiety. For over that which he prized, Antigonus had no power: and those things over which he had power, Zeno did not regard. But Antigonus felt anxiety when he was to meet Zeno; and with reason, for he was desirous to please him; and this was external ambition. But Zeno was not solicitous to please Antigonus; for no one skilful in any art is solicitous to please a person unskilful.
“I am solicitous to please you.”
For what? Do you know the rules, by which one man judges of another? Have you studied to understand what a good, and what a bad man is; and how each becomes such? Why then are not you yourself a good man?
“In what respect am I not?”
Because no good man laments, or sighs, or groans; no good man turns pale, and trembles, and says, “How will such a one receive me; how will he hear me?” — As he thinks fit, foolish man. Why do you trouble yourself about what belongs to others? Is it not his fault, if he receives you ill?
“Yes, surely.”
And can one person be in fault, and another the suffer?
“No.”
Why then are you anxious about what belongs to others?
“Well; but I am anxious how I shall speak to him.”
What then, cannot you speak to him as you will?
“But I am afraid I shall be disconcerted.”
If you were going to write down the name of Dion, should you be afraid of being disconcerted?
“By no means.”
What is the reason? Is it because you have learned how to write?
“Yes.”
And if you were going to read, would it not be exactly the same?
“Exactly.”
What is the reason?
“Because every art gives a certain assurance and confidence, on its own ground.
Have you not learned, then, how to speak? And what else did you study at school?
“Syllogisms, and convertible propositions.”
For what purpose? Was it not in order to talk properly? And what is that, but to talk seasonably, and discreetly, and intelligently, and without flutter or hesitation; and by means of all this, with courage?
“Very true.”
When, therefore, you go into the field on horseback, are you anxious on being matched against one who is on foot? you being practised and he unpractised?
“Ay, but the person has power to kill me.”
Then speak the truth, O! unfortunate! and be not arrogant, nor take the philosopher upon you, nor conceal from yourself who are your masters; but while you are thus to be held by the body, follow the strongest. Socrates, indeed, had studied how to speak, who talked in such a manner to tyrants and judges, and in prison. Diogenes* had studied how to speak, who talked in such a manner to Alexander, to Philip, to the pirates, to the person who bought him. This belonged to those who had studied the matter; who had courage. But do you go where you belong and remain there. Retire into some corner, and there sit and weave syllogisms, and propose them to others. For there is not in you a man who can rule the city.
CHAPTER XIV.
CONCERNING NASO.
WHEN a certain Roman came to him with his son, and had heard one lesson, — “This,” said Epictetus, “is the method of teaching”; and ceased. When the other desired him to go on, he answered, Every art seems tedious, when it is delivered to a person ignorant and unskilful in it. The things performed by the common arts, quickly manifest the use for which they were made; and most of them have something attractive and agreeable. Thus the trade of a shoemaker, as one seeks to learn it, is an unpleasant thing; but the shoe is useful, and not unpleasing to the eye. The trade of a smith is extremely unattractive to an ignorant observer, but the work shows the usefulness of the art. You will see this much more strongly in music; for if you stand by, while a person is learning, it will appear to you of all sciences the most unpleasant; but the effects are agreeable and delightful, even to those who do not understand it.
So here we take it to be the work of one who studies philosophy, to bring his will into harmony with events; so that none of the things which happen may happen against our inclination, nor those which do not happen be desired by us. Hence they, who have settled this point, have it in their power never to be disappointed in what they seek, nor to incur what they shun; but to lead their own lives without sorrow, fear, or perturbation; and in society to preserve all the natural or acquired relations of son, father, brother, citizen, husband, wife, neighbor, fellow-traveller, ruler, or subject. Something like this is what we take to be the work of a philosopher. It remains to inquire, how it is to be effected. Now we see that a carpenter becomes a carpenter by learning certain things; and a pilot, by learning certain things, becomes a pilot. Probably then it is not sufficient, in the present case, merely to be willing to be wise and good; but it is moreover necessary that certain things should be learned. What these things are, is the question. The philosophers say, that we are first to learn that there is a God; and that his providence directs the whole; and that it is not merely impossible to conceal from him our actions, but even our thoughts and emotions. We are next to learn, what the gods are; for such as they are found to be, such must he seek to be to the utmost of his power, who would please and obey them. If the Deity is faithful, he too must be faithful: if free, beneficent, and noble, he must be free, beneficent, and noble likewise; in all his words and actions, behaving as an imitator of God.
“Whence, then, are we to begin?”
If you will give me leave, I will tell you. It is necessary, in the first place, that you should understand words.
“So then! I do not understand them now?”
No. You do not.
“How is it, then, that I use them?”
Just as the illiterate use the words of the learned; and as brutes use the phenomena of nature. For use is one thing, and understanding another. But if you think you understand them, bring whatever words you please, and let us see whether we understand them or not.
“Well; but it is a grievous thing for a man to be confuted who has grown old; and has perhaps served through his three campaigns to a senatorship.”
I know it very well. For you now come to me, as if you wanted nothing. And how can it enter into your imagination, that there should be anything in which you are deficient? You are rich; and perhaps have a wife and children, and a great number of domestics. Cæsar takes notice of you: you have many friends at Rome: you render to all their dues: you know how to requite a favor, and revenge an injury. In what are you deficient? Suppose then, I should prove to you, that you are deficient in what is most necessary and important to happiness; and that hitherto you have taken care of everything, rather than your duty; and, to complete all, that you understand not what God or man, or good or evil, means? That you are ignorant of all the rest, perhaps, you may bear to be told; but if I prove to you that you are ignorant even of yourself, how will you bear with me, and how will you have patience to stay and be convinced? Not at all. You will immediately be offended, and go away. And yet what injury have I done you; unless a looking-glass injures a person not handsome, when it shows him to himself, such as he is? Or unless a physician can be thought to affront his patient, when he says to him: “Do you think, sir, that you are not ill? You have a fever. Eat no meat to-day, and drink water.” Nobody cries out here, “What an intolerable affront!” But, if you say to any one: You exhibit feverishness in your desires, and low habits in what you shun; your aims are contradictory, your pursuits not conformable to nature, your opinions rash, and mistaken; he presently goes away, and complains that he is affronted.
This is the position we assume. As, in a crowded fair, the horses and cattle are brought to be sold, and most men come either to buy or sell; but there are a few, who come only to look at the fair, and inquire how it is carried on, and why in that manner, and who appointed it, and for what purpose; — thus, in this fair [of the world] some, like cattle, trouble themselves about nothing but fodder. To all of you, who busy yourselves about possessions, and farms, and domestics, and public posts, these things are nothing else but mere fodder. But there are some few men, among the crowd, who are fond of looking on, and considering: “What then, after all, is the world? Who governs it? Has it no governor? How is it possible, when neither a city nor a house can remain, ever so short a time, without some one to govern and take care of it, that this vast and beautiful system should be administered in a fortuitous and disorderly manner? Is there then a governor? Of what sort is he? And how does he govern; and what are we, who are under him? And for what designed? Have we some connection and relation to him, or none?” In this manner are the few affected; and apply themselves only to view the fair, and then depart. Well; and they are laughed at by the multitude? Why, so are the lookers-on, by the buyers and sellers; and, if the cattle had any apprehension, they too would laugh at such as admired anything but fodder.
CHAPTER XV.
CONCERNING THOSE WHO OBSTINATELY PERSIST IN WHATEVER THEY HAVE DETERMINED.
SOME, when they hear such discourses as these, “That we ought to be steadfast; that the will is by nature free and unconstrained; and that all else is liable to restraint, compulsion, slavery, and tyranny,” imagine that they must remain immutably fixed to everything which they have determined. But it is first necessary that the determination should be a wise one. I agree, that there should be sinews in the body, but such as in a healthy, an athletic body; for if you show me that you exhibit the [convulsed] sinews of a lunatic, and value yourself upon that, I will say to you, Seek a physician, man; this is not muscular vigor, but is really enervation. Such is the distemper of mind in those who hear these discourses in a wrong manner; like an acquaintance of mine, who, for no reason, had determined to starve himself to death. I went the third day, and inquired what was the matter. He answered, “I am determined.” — Well; but what is your motive? For, if your determination be right, we will stay, and assist your departure; but, if unreasonable, change it. — “We ought to keep our determinations.” — What do you mean, sir? Not all of them; but such as are right. Else, if you should fancy that it is night, if this be your principle, do not change, but persist, and say, “We ought to keep to our determinations.” What do you mean, sir? Not to all of them. Why do you not begin by first laying the foundation, inquiring whether your determination be a sound one, or not; and then build your firmness and constancy upon it. For, if you lay a rotten and crazy foundation, you must not build; since the greater and more weighty the superstructure, the sooner will it fall. Without any reason, you are withdrawing from us, out of life, a friend, a companion, a fellow-citizen both of the greater and the lesser city; and while you are committing murder, and destroying an innocent person, you say, “We must keep to our determinations.” Suppose, by any means, it should ever come into your head to kill me; must you keep such a determination?
With difficulty this person was, however, at last convinced; but there are some at present, whom there is no convincing. So that now I think I understand, what before I did not, the meaning of that common saying, that a fool will neither bend nor break. May it never fall to my lot to have a wise, that is an untractable fool for my friend. “It is all to no purpose; I am determined.” So are madmen too; but the more strongly they are determined upon absurdities, the more need have they of hellebore. Why will you not act like a sick person, and apply yourself to a physician? “Sir, I am sick. Give me your assistance; consider what I am to do. It is my part to follow your directions.” So say in the present case: “I know not what I ought to do; and I am come to learn.” — “No; but talk to me about other things; for upon this I am determined.” What other things? What is of greater consequence, than to convince you that it is not sufficient to be determined, and to persist? This is the vigor of a madman; not of one in health. “I will die, if you compel me to this.” Why so, man; what is the matter? “I am determined.” I have a lucky escape, that it is not your determination to kill me. “I will not be bribed [from my purpose.”] Why so? “I am determined.” Be assured, that with that very vigor which you now employ to refuse the bribe, you may hereafter have as unreasonable a propensity to take it; and again to say, “I am determined.” As, in a distempered and rheumatic body, the humor tends sometimes to one part, sometimes to another; thus it is uncertain which way a sickly mind will incline. But if to its inclination and bent a spasmodic vigor be likewise added, the evil then becomes desperate and incurable.
CHAPTER XVI.
THAT WE DO NOT STUDY TO MAKE USE OF THE ESTABLISHED PRINCIPLES CONCERNING GOOD AND EVIL.
WHERE lies good? In the will. Where evil? In the will. Where neither good nor evil? In things inevitable. What then? Does any one of us remember these lessons out of the schools? Does any one of us study how to answer for himself in the affairs of life, as in common questions? “Is it day?” — “Yes.” — “Is it night, then?” — “No.” — “Is the number of stars even?” — “I cannot tell.” — When a bribe is offered you, have you learned to make the proper answer, that it is not a good? Have you exercised yourself in such answers as these; or only in sophistries? Why do you wonder, then, that you improve in points which you have studied; while in those which you have not studied, there you remain the same? When an orator knows that he has written well; that he has committed to memory what he has written; and that he brings an agreeable voice with him; why is he still anxious? Because he is not contented with what he has studied. What does he want then? To be applauded by the audience. He has studied the power of speaking, then; but he has not studied censure and applause. For when did he hear from any one what applause, what censure is? What is the nature of each? What kind of applause is to be sought, and what kind of censure to be shunned? And when did he ever apply himself to study what follows from these lessons? Why do you wonder then, if, in what he has learned, he excels others; but, where he has not studied, he is the same with the rest of the world? Just as a musician knows how to play, sings well, and has the proper dress of his profession; yet trembles when he comes upon the stage. For the first he understands; but what the multitude is, or what mean the clamor and laughter of the multitude, he does not understand. Nor does he even know what anxiety itself is; whether it be our own affair, or that of others; or whether it be possible to suppress it, or not. Hence, if he is applauded, he is puffed up, when he makes his exit: but if he is laughed at, the inflation is punctured, and subsides.
Thus are we too affected. What do we admire? Externals. For what do we strive? Externals. And are we then in any doubt why we fear and are anxious? What is the consequence, then, when we esteem the things that are brought upon us to be evils? We cannot but fear; we cannot but be anxious. And then we say, “O Lord God, how shall I avoid anxiety!” Have you not hands, foolish man? Hath not God made them for you? You might as well kneel and pray to be cured of your catarrh. Take care of your disease, rather; and do not murmur. Well; and hath he given you nothing in the present case? Hath he not given you patience? Hath he not given you magnanimity? Hath he not given you fortitude? When you have such hands as these, do you still seek for aid from another? But we neither study nor regard these things. For give me but one, who cares how he does anything, who does not regard the success of anything, but his own manner of acting. Who, when he is walking, regards his own action? Who, when he is deliberating, prizes the deliberation itself, and not the success that is to follow it? If it happens to succeed, he is elated; and cries: “How prudently have we deliberated! Did not I tell you, my dear friend, that it was impossible, when we considered about anything, that it should not happen right?” But if it miscarries, the poor wretch is dejected; and knows not what to say about the matter. Who among us ever, for such a purpose, consulted a diviner? Who of us ever slept in a temple, to be instructed [in a dream] concerning his manner of acting? I say, who? Show me one who is truly noble and ingenuous, that I may see what I have long sought. Show me either a young or an old man.
Why then are we still surprised, if, when we waste all our attention on the mere materials of action, we are, in the manner of action itself, low, sordid, unworthy, timid, wretched, and altogether failures? For we do not care about these things, nor make them our study. If we had feared, not death or exile, but fear itself, we should have studied not to fall into what appears to us to be evil. But, as the case now stands, we are eager and loquacious in the schools; and, when any little question arises about any of these things, we are prepared to trace its consequences; but drag us into practice, and you will find us miserably shipwrecked. Let something of alarming aspect attack us, and you will perceive what we have been studying, and in what we are exercised. Besides, through this negligence, we always exaggerate, and represent things greater than the reality. In a voyage, for instance, casting my eyes down upon the ocean below, and looking round me, and seeing no land, I am beside myself, and imagine that, if I should be shipwrecked, I must swallow all that ocean; nor does it occur to me, that three pints are enough for me. What is it then, that alarms me? The ocean? No; but my own impressions. Again; in an earthquake, I imagine the city is going to fall upon me; but is not one little stone enough to knock my brains out? What is it then, that oppresses, and makes us beside ourselves? Why, what else but our own impressions? For what is it, but mere impressions, that distress him, who leaves his country, and is separated from his acquaintance, and friends, and place, and usual manner of life? When children cry, if their nurse happens to be absent for a little while, give them a cake, and they forget their grief. Shall we compare you to these children then?
“No, indeed. For I do not desire to be pacified by a cake; but by right impressions. And what are they?”
Such as a man ought to study all day long, so as not to be absorbed in what does not belong to him; neither friend, place, nor academy, nor even his own body; but to remember the law, and to have that constantly before his eyes. And what is the divine law? To preserve inviolate what is properly our own; not to claim what belongs to others; to use what is given us, and not desire what is not given us; and, when anything is taken away, to restore it readily, and to be thankful for the time you have been permitted the use of it; and not cry after it, like a child for its nurse and its mamma. For what does it signify, what gets the better of you, or on what you depend? Which is the worthier, one crying for a doll, or for an academy? You lament for the portico and the assembly of young people, and such entertainments. Another comes lamenting that he must no longer drink the water of Dircè.* Why, is not the Marcian water as good? “But I was used to that.” And in time you will be used to the other. And, when you are attached to this too, you may weep again, and set yourself, in imitation of Euripides, to celebrate, in verse,
The baths of Nero, and the Marcian water.
Hence see the origin of Tragedy, when trifling accidents befall foolish men. “Ah, when shall I see Athens and the citadel again?” Foolish man, are not you contented with what you see every day? Can you see anything better than the sun, the moon, the stars, the whole earth, the sea? But if, besides, you comprehend him who administers the whole, and carry him about within yourself, do you still long after certain stones, and a fine rock? What will you do then, when you are to leave even the sun and moon? Will you sit crying, like an infant? What, then, have you been doing in the school? What did you hear? What did you learn? Why have you written yourself down a philosopher, instead of writing the real fact? “I have prepared some abstracts, and read over Chrysippus; but I have not so much as approached the door of philosophy. For what pretensions have I in common with Socrates, who died and who lived in such a manner? Or with Diogenes? Do you observe either of these crying, or out of humor, that he is not to see such a man, or such a woman; nor to live any longer at Athens, nor at Corinth; but at Susa, for instance, or Ecbatana? For does he stay and repine, who may at any time, if he will, quit the entertainment, and play no longer? Why does he not stay, as children do, so long as he is amused? Such a one, no doubt, will bear perpetual banishment and a sentence of death wonderfully well! Why will not you be weaned, as children are; and take more solid food? Will you never cease to cry after your mammas and nurses, whom the old women about you have taught you to bewail? “But if I go away, I shall trouble them also.” You trouble them! No; it will not be you; but that which troubles you too, — a mere impression. What have you to do then? Rid yourself of that impression; and, if they are wise, they will do the same for theirs; or, if not, they must lament for themselves.
Boldly make a desperate push, man, as the saying is, for prosperity, for freedom, for magnanimity. Lift up your head at last, as being free from slavery. Dare to look up to God, and say, “Make use of me for the future as Thou wilt. I am of the same mind; I am one with Thee. I refuse nothing which seems good to Thee. Lead me whither Thou wilt. Clothe me in whatever dress Thou wilt. Is it Thy will that I should be in a public or a private condition; dwell here, or be banished; be poor, or rich? Under all these circumstances I will testify unto Thee before men. I will explain the nature of every dispensation.” No? Rather sit alone, then, in safety, and wait till your mamma comes to feed you. If Hercules had sat loitering at home, what would he have been? Eurystheus, and not Hercules. Besides, by travelling through the world, how many acquaintances and how many friends he made. But none more his friend than God; for which reason he was believed to be the son of God; and was so. In obedience to him, he went about extirpating injustice and lawless force. But you are not Hercules, nor able to extirpate the evils of others; nor even Theseus, to extirpate the evils of Attica. Extirpate your own then. Expel, instead of Procrustes and Sciron,* grief, fear, desire, envy, malevolence, avarice, effeminacy, intemperance. But these can be no otherwise expelled than by looking up to God alone, as your pattern; by attaching yourself to him alone, and being consecrated to his commands. If you wish for anything else, you will, with sighs and groans, follow what is stronger than you; always seeking prosperity without, and never able to find it. For you seek it where it is not, and neglect to seek it where it is.
CHAPTER XVII.
HOW TO APPLY GENERAL PRINCIPLES TO PARTICULAR CASES.
WHAT is the first business of one who studies philosophy? To part with self-conceit. For it is impossible for any one to begin to learn what he thinks that he already knows. We all go to the philosophers, talking at random upon negative and positive duties; good and evil; fair and base. We praise, censure, accuse; we judge and dispute about fair and base enterprises. And yet for what do we go to the philosophers? To learn what we suppose ourselves not to know. And what is this? Propositions. We are desirous to hear what the philosophers say, for its elegance and acuteness; and some with a view only to gain. Now it is ridiculous to suppose, that a person will learn anything but what he desires to learn; or make an improvement, in what he does not learn. But most are deceived, in the same manner as Theopompus, the orator, when he blames Plato for defining everything. “For,” he says, “did none of us, before you, use the words good and just; or did we utter them as empty sounds, without understanding what each of them meant?” Why, who tells you, Theopompus, that we had not natural ideas and general principles as to each of these? But it is not possible to apply principles in detail, without having minutely distinguished them, and examined what details appertain to each. You may make the same objection to the physicians. For who of us did not use the words wholesome and unwholesome, before Hippocrates was born; or did we utter them as empty sounds? For we have some general conception of what is wholesome too; but we cannot apply it. Hence one says, let the patient abstain from meat; another, give it to him: one says, let him be bled; another, cup him. And what is the reason, but not being able to adapt the general conception of wholesomeness to particular cases? Thus, too, in life; who of us does not talk of good or evil, advantageous and disadvantageous; for who of us has not a general conception of each of these? But is it then a distinct and perfect one? Show me this.
“How shall I show it?”
Apply it properly in detail. Plato, to go no further, puts definitions under the general head of useful; but you, under that of useless. Can both of you be right? How is it possible? Again; does not one man adapt the general conception of good, to riches? Another, not to riches, but to pleasure, or health? In general, unless we who use words employ them vaguely, or without proper care in discrimination, why do we differ? Why do we wrangle? Why do we censure each other? But what occasion have I to mention this mutual contradiction? If you yourself apply your principles properly, how comes it to pass, that you do not prosper? Why do you meet with any hindrance? Let us for the present omit our second point, concerning the pursuits, and the duties relative to them: let us omit the third too, concerning assent. I waive all these for you. Let us insist only on the first;* which affords almost a sensible proof, that you do not properly apply your principles. You desire what is possible in itself, and possible for you. Why then are you hindered? Why are not you in a prosperous way? You do not shrink from the inevitable. Why then do you incur anything undesirable? Why are you unfortunate? When you desire anything, why does it not happen? When you do not desire it, why happens it? For this is the greatest proof of ill success and misery: “I desire something and it does not happen; and what is more wretched than I?” From such impatience Medea came to murder her own children; a lofty action in this point of view alone, that she had a proper impression of what it was to fail of one’s aim. “Thus I shall punish him who has injured and dishonored me; and what is so wicked a wretch good for? But how is this to be effected? I will murder the children; but that will be punishing myself. And what care I?” This is the error of a powerful soul. For she knew not where the fulfilment of our desires is to be found; that it is not to be had from without, nor by altering the appointment of things. Do not demand the man for your husband, and nothing which you do desire will fail to happen. Do not desire to keep him to yourself. Do not desire to stay at Corinth, and, in a word, have no will, but the will of God; and who shall restrain you; who shall compel you, any more than Zeus? When you have such a guide, and conform your will and inclinations to his, why need you fear being disappointed? Fix your desire and aversion on riches, or poverty; the one will be disappointed, the other incurred. Fix them on health, power, honors, your country, friends, children, in short, on anything beyond the control of your will, you will be unfortunate. But fix them on Zeus, on the gods. Give yourself up to these; let these govern; let your powers be ranged on the same side with these; and how can you be any longer unprosperous? But if, poor wretch, you envy, and pity, and are jealous, and tremble, and never cease a single day from complaining of yourself and the gods, why do you boast of your education? What education, man? That you have learned syllogisms? Why do not you, if possible, unlearn all these, and begin again; convinced that hitherto you have not even touched upon the essential point? And, for the future, beginning from this foundation, proceed in order to the superstructure; that nothing may happen which you do not wish, and that everything may happen which you desire. Give me but one young man, who brings this intention with him to the school; who is a champion for this point, and says, “I yield up all the rest; it suffices me, if once I become able to pass my life free from hindrance and grief; to stretch out my neck to all events as free; and to look up to Heaven, as the friend of God, fearing nothing that can happen.” Let any one of you show himself of such a disposition, that I may say, “Come into the place, young man, that is of right your own; for you are destined to be an ornament to philosophy. Yours are these possessions; yours these books; yours these discourses.” Then, when he has thoroughly mastered this first class, let him come to me again, and say: “I desire indeed to be free from passion, and perturbation; but I desire too, as a pious, a philosophic, and a diligent man, to know what is my duty to God, to my parents, to my relations, to my country, and to strangers.” Come into the second class too; for this likewise is yours. “But I have now sufficiently studied the second class too; and I would willingly be secure, and unshaken by error and delusion, not only when awake, but even when asleep; when warmed with wine; when diseased with the spleen.” You are becoming as a god, man; your aims are sublime!
“Nay; but I, for my part, desire to understand what Chrysippus says, in his logical treatise of the Pseudomenos.”* — Go hang yourself, pitiful man, with only such an aim as this! What good will it do you? You will read the whole, lamenting all the while; and say to others, trembling, “Do as I do. Shall I read to you, my friend, and you to me? You write amazingly well; and you very finely imitate the style of Plato; and you, of Xenophon; and you, of Antisthenes.” And thus, having related your dreams to each other, you return again to the same state. Your desires and aversions, your pursuits, your intentions, your resolutions, your wishes and endeavors, are just what they were. You do not so much as seek for one to advise you, but are offended when you hear such things as these; and cry, “An ill-natured old man! He never wept over me, when I was setting out, nor said, To what a danger are you going to be exposed? If you come off safe, child, I will illuminate my house. This would have been the part of a man of feeling.” Truly, it will be a mighty happiness, if you do come off safe: it will be worth while to make an illumination. For you ought to be immortal, and exempt from sickness, to be sure.
Throwing away then, I say, this self-conceit, by which we fancy we have gained some knowledge of what is useful, we should come to philosophic reasoning as we do to mathematics and music; otherwise we shall be far from making any improvement, even if we have read over all the compends and commentaries, not only of Chrysippus, but of Antipater, and Archedemus too.
CHAPTER XVIII.
HOW THE SEMBLANCES OF THINGS ARE TO BE COMBATED.
EVERY habit and faculty is preserved and increased by correspondent actions; as the habit of walking, by walking; of running, by running. If you would be a reader, read; if a writer, write. But if you do not read for a month together, but do something else; you will see what will be the consequence. So, after sitting still for ten days, get up and attempt to take a long walk; and you will find how your legs are weakened. Upon the whole then, whatever you would make habitual, practise it; and, if you would not make a thing habitual, do not practise it, but habituate yourself to something else.
It is the same with regard to the operations of the soul. Whenever you are angry, be assured, that it is not only a present evil, but that you have increased a habit, and added fuel to a fire. When you are overcome by the seductions of a woman, do not consider it as a single defeat alone, but that you have fed, that you have increased, your dissoluteness. For it is impossible, but that habits and faculties must either be first produced, or strengthened and increased, by corresponding actions. Hence the philosophers derive the growth of all maladies. When you once desire money, for example, if reason be applied to produce a sense of the evil, the desire ceases, and the governing faculty of the mind regains its authority; whereas, if you apply no remedy, it returns no more to its former state, but, being again similarly excited, it kindles at the desire more quickly than before; and by frequent repetitions, at last becomes callous, and by this malady is the love of money fixed. For he who has had a fever, even after it has left him, is not in the same state of health as before, unless he was perfectly cured; and the same thing happens in distempers of the soul likewise. There are certain traces and blisters left in it; which, unless they are well effaced, whenever a new hurt is received in the same part, instead of blisters will become sores.
If you would not be of an angry temper, then, do not feed the habit. Give it nothing to help its increase. Be quiet at first, and reckon the days in which you have not been angry. I used to be angry every day; now every other day; then every third and fourth day; and if you miss it so long as thirty days, offer a sacrifice of thanksgiving to God. For habit is first weakened, and then entirely destroyed. “I was not vexed to-day; nor the next day; nor for three or four months after; but restrained myself under provocation.” Be assured, that you are in an excellent way. “To-day, when I saw a handsome person, I did not say to myself, O that I could possess her! and how happy is her husband” (for he who says this, says too, how happy is her gallant); “nor did I go on to fancy her in my arms.” On this I stroke my head, and say, Well done, Epictetus; thou hast solved a hard problem, harder than the chief syllogism. But, if even the lady should happen to be willing and give me intimations of it, and send for me, and press my hand, and place herself next to me; and I should then forbear, and get the victory; that would be a triumph beyond all the forms of logic. This is the proper subject for exultation, and not one’s power in handling the syllogism.
How then is this to be effected? Be willing to approve yourself to yourself. Be willing to appear beautiful in the sight of God; be desirous to converse in purity with your own pure mind, and with God; and then, if any such semblance bewilders you, Plato directs you: “Have recourse to expiations; go a suppliant to the temples of the averting deities.” It is sufficient, however, if you propose to yourself the example of wise and good men, whether alive or dead; and compare your conduct with theirs. Go to Socrates, and see him placed beside his beloved, yet not seduced by youth and beauty. Consider what a victory he was conscious of obtaining! What an Olympic triumph! How near does he rank to Hercules!* So that, by Heaven, one might justly salute him; hail! wondrous victor!† instead of those sorry boxers and wrestlers, and the gladiators who resemble them.
By placing such an example before you, you will conquer any alluring semblance, and not be drawn away by it. But in the first place, be not hurried away by excitement; but say, Semblance, wait for me a little. Let me see what you are, and what you represent. Let me try you. Then, afterwards, do not suffer it to go on drawing gay pictures of what will follow; if you do, it will lead you wherever it pleases. But rather oppose to it some good and noble semblance, and banish this base one. If you are habituated to this kind of exercise, you will see what shoulders, what nerves, what sinews, you will have. But now it is mere trifling talk, and nothing more. He is the true athlete, who trains himself against such semblances as these. Stay, wretch, do not be hurried away. The combat is great, the achievement divine; for empire, for freedom, for prosperity, for tranquillity. Remember God. Invoke him for your aid and protector; as sailors do Castor and Pollux, in a storm. For what storm is greater than that which arises from these perilous semblances, contending to overset our reason? Indeed what is the storm itself, but a semblance? For, do but take away the fear of death, and let there be as many thunders and lightnings as you please, you will find, that to the reason all is serenity and calm; but if you are once defeated, and say, you will get the victory another time, and then the same thing over again; assure yourself that you will at last be reduced to so weak and wretched a condition, you will not so much as know when you do amiss; but you will even begin to make defences for your behavior, and thus verify the saying of Hesiod: —
With constant ills, the dilatory strive.*
CHAPTER XIX.
CONCERNING THOSE WHO EMBRACE PHILOSOPHY ONLY IN WORDS.
THE science of “the ruling argument”* appears to have its rise from hence. Of the following propositions, any two imply a contradiction to the third. They are these. “That everything past is necessarily true”; “That an impossibility is not the consequence of a possibility”; and, “That something is a possibility, which neither is nor will be true.” Diodorus, perceiving this contradiction, combined the first two, to prove, that nothing is possible, which neither is nor will be true. Some again hold the second and third; “that something is possible, which neither is nor will be true”; and, “that an impossibility is not the consequence of a possibility”; and consequently assert, “That not everything past is necessarily true.” This way Cleanthes and his followers took; whom Antipater copiously defends. Others, lastly, maintain the first and third; “that something is possible, which neither is nor will be true”; and “that everything past is necessarily true”; but then, “that an impossibility may be the consequence of a possibility.” But all these three propositions cannot be at once maintained, because of their mutual contradiction.
If any one should ask me then, which of them I maintain; I answer him, that really I cannot tell. But I have heard it related, that Diodorus held one opinion about them; the followers of Panthædes, I think, and Cleanthes, another; and Chrysippus a third.
“What then is your opinion?”
I express none. I was born to examine things as they appear to my own mind; to compare what is said by others, and thence to form some conviction of my own on any topic. Of these things I have merely technical knowledge. Who was the father of Hector? Priam. Who were his brothers? Paris and Deiphobus. Who was his mother? Hecuba. This I have heard related. From whom? Homer. But I believe Hellanicus, and other authors, have written on the same subject. And what better account have I of “the ruling argument”? But, if I were vain enough, I might, especially at some entertainment, astonish all the company by an enumeration of authors relating to it. Chrysippus has written wonderfully, in his first Book of Possibilities. Cleanthes and Archedemus have each written separately on this subject. Antipater too has written, not only in his Treatise of Possibilities, but especially in a discourse on “the ruling argument.” Have you not read the work? “No.” Read it then. And what good will it do him? He will be more trifling and impertinent than he is already. For what else have you gained by reading it? What conviction have you formed upon this subject? But you tell us of Helen, and Priam, and the isle of Calypso, something which never was, nor ever will be. And in these matters, indeed, it is of no great consequence if you retain the story, without forming any principle of your own. But it is our misfortune to do so, much more, in morality, than upon such subjects as these.
“Talk to me concerning good and evil.”
Hear:
“Winds blew from Ilium to Ciconian shores.”*
Of things, some are good, some evil, and some indifferent. Now the good are the virtues, and whatever partakes of them; and the evil, vices, and what partakes of vice; the indifferent lie between these, as riches, health, life, death, pleasure, pain.
“Whence do you know this?”
[Suppose I say,] Hellanicus says it, in his Egyptian History. For what does it signify, whether one quotes the history of Hellanicus, or the ethics of Diogenes, or Chrysippus, or Cleanthes? Have you then examined any of these things, and formed convictions of your own? But show me, how you are used to exercise yourself on shipboard. Remember these distinctions, when the mast rattles, and some idle fellow stands by you, while you are screaming, and says: “For heaven’s sake, talk as you did a little while ago. Is it vice to suffer shipwreck? Or does it partake of vice?” Would you not take up a log, and throw it at his head? “What have we to do with you, sir? We are perishing, and you come and jest.” Again; if Cæsar should summon you, to answer an accusation, remember these distinctions. If, when you are going in, pale and trembling, any one should meet you and say, “Why do you tremble, sir? What is this affair you are engaged in? Doth Cæsar, within there, give virtue and vice to those who approach him?”—“What, do you too insult me, and add to my evils?” — “Nay, but tell me, philosopher, why you tremble? Is there any other danger, but death, or a prison, or bodily pain, or exile, or slander?” — “Why, what else should there be?” — “Are any of these vice? Or do they partake of vice? What, then, did you yourself use to say of these things?” — “What have you to do with me, sir? My own evils are enough for me.” — “You say rightly. Your own evils are indeed enough for you; your baseness, your cowardice, and that arrogance by which you were elated, as you sat in the schools. Why did you assume plumage not your own? Why did you call yourself a Stoic?”
Observe yourselves thus in your actions, and you will find of what sect you are. You will find, that most of you are Epicureans; a few Peripatetics, and those but loose ones. For by what action will you prove that you think virtue equal, and even superior, to all other things? Show me a Stoic, if you have one. Where? Or how should you? You can show, indeed, a thousand who repeat the Stoic reasonings. But do they repeat the Epicurean less well? Are they not just as perfect in the Peripatetic? Who then is a Stoic? As we call that a Phidian statue, which is formed according to the art of Phidias; so show me some one person formed according to the principles which he professes. Show me one who is sick, and happy; in danger, and happy; dying, and happy; exiled, and happy; disgraced, and happy. Show him to me; for, by Heaven, I long to see a Stoic. But you have not one fully developed? Show me then one who is developing; one who is approaching towards this character. Do me this favor. Do not refuse an old man a sight which he has never yet seen. Do you suppose that you are to show the Jupiter or Minerva of Phidias, a work of ivory or gold? Let any of you show me a human soul, desiring to be in unity with God; not to accuse either God or man; not to be disappointed of its desire, nor incur its aversion; not to be angry; not to be envious; not to be jealous; in a word, desiring from a man to become a god; and, in this poor mortal body, aiming to have fellowship with Zeus. Show him to me. But you cannot. Why then do you impose upon yourselves, and play tricks with others? Why do you put on a dress not your own; and walk about in it, mere thieves and pilferers of names and things which do not belong to you? I am now your preceptor, and you come to be instructed by me. And indeed my aim is to secure you from being restrained, compelled, hindered; to make you free, prosperous, happy; looking to God upon every occasion, great or small. And you come to learn and study these things. Why then do you not finish your work, if you have the proper aims, and I, besides the aim, the proper qualifications? What is wanting? When I see an artificer, and the materials lying ready, I await the work. Now here is the artificer; here are the materials; what is it we want? Is not the thing capable of being taught? It is. Is it not in our own power then? The only thing of all others that is so. Neither riches, nor health, nor fame, nor, in short, anything else is in our power, except a right use of the semblances of things. This alone is, by nature, not subject to restraint, not subject to hindrance. Why then do not you finish it? Tell me the cause. It must be my fault, or yours, or from the nature of the thing. The thing itself is practicable, and the only thing in our power. The fault then must be either in me, or in you, or, more truly, in both. Well then, shall we at length begin to carry such an aim with us? Let us lay aside all that is past. Let us begin. Only believe me, and you shall see.
CHAPTER XX.
CONCERNING THE EPICUREANS AND ACADEMICS.
THINGS true and evident must, of necessity, be recognized even by those who would contradict them. And perhaps one of the strongest proofs that there is such a thing as evidence, is the necessity which compels even those who contradict it to make use of it. If a person, for instance, should deny that anything is universally true, he will be obliged to assert the contrary, that nothing is universally true. Foolish man, not so. For what is this, but an universal statement?* Again; suppose any one should come and say, “Know that there is nothing to be known; but all things are uncertain”; or another, “Believe me, for your good, that no man ought to be believed in anything”; or a third, “Learn from me that nothing is to be learned; I tell you this, and will teach the proof of it, if you please.” Now what difference is there between such as these, and those who call themselves Academics, — who say to us, “Be convinced, that no one ever is convinced; believe us, that nobody believes anybody”?
Thus also, when Epicurus would destroy the natural tie between mankind, he makes use of the very thing he is destroying. For what says he? “Be not deceived; be not seduced and mistaken. There is no natural tie between reasonable beings. Believe me. Those who say otherwise mislead and impose upon you.” — Why are you concerned for us then? Let us be deceived. You will fare never the worse, if all the rest of us are persuaded, that there is a natural tie between mankind; and that it is by all means to be preserved. Nay, it will be much safer and better. Why do you give yourself any trouble about us, sir? Why do you break your rest for us? Why do you light your lamp? Why do you rise early? Why do you compose so many volumes? Is it that none of us should be deceived concerning the gods, as if they took any care of men? Or that we may not suppose the essence of good consists in anything but in pleasure? For if these things be so, lie down and sleep, and lead the life of which you judge yourself worthy; that of a mere worm. Eat, drink, debauch, snore. What is it to you, whether others think rightly or wrongly about these things? For what have you to do with us? You take care of sheep, because they afford their milk, their wool, and at last their flesh. And would it not be a desirable thing that men might be so lulled and enchanted by the Stoics as to give themselves up to be milked and fleeced by you, and such as you? Should not these doctrines be taught to your brother Epicureans only, and concealed from the rest of the world; who should by all means, above all things, be persuaded, that we have a natural tie with each other, and that self-command is a good thing, in order that all may be kept safe for you? Or is this tie to be preserved towards some and not towards others? Towards whom, then, is it to be preserved? Towards such as mutually preserve, or such as violate it? And who violate it more than you, who teach such doctrines?
What was it, then, that waked Epicurus from his sleep, and compelled him to write what he did; what else, but that which is of all influences the most powerful among mankind, Nature; which draws every one, however unwilling and reluctant, to its own purposes. For since, she says, you think that there is no tie between mankind, write out this doctrine, and leave it for the use of others; and break your sleep upon that account; and by your own practice confute your own principles. Do we say, that Orestes was roused from sleep because driven by the furies; and was not Epicurus waked by sterner furies and avengers, which would not suffer him to rest, but compelled him to utter his own ills, as wine and madness do the priests of Cybele? So strong and unconquerable a thing is human nature! For how can a vine have the properties not of a vine, but of an olive-tree? Or an olive-tree, not those of an olive-tree, but of a vine? It is impossible. It is inconceivable. Neither, therefore, is it possible for a human creature entirely to lose human affections. But even those who have undergone a mutilation, cannot have their inclinations also mutilated; and so Epicurus, when he had mutilated all the offices of a man, of a master of a family, of a citizen, and of a friend, did not mutilate the inclinations of humanity; for this he could not do; any more than the idle Academics can throw away or blind their own senses, though this be the point they chiefly labor. What a misfortune is it, when any one, after having received from Nature standards and rules for the knowledge of truth, does not strive to add to these, and make up their deficiencies; but, on the contrary, endeavors to take away and destroy whatever truth may be known even by them.
What say you, philosopher? What do you think of piety and sanctity? — “If you please, I will prove that they are good.” — Pray do prove it; that our citizens may be converted, and honor the Deity, and may no longer neglect what is of the highest importance. “Do you accept these demonstrations, then?” I have, and I thank you. “Since you are so well pleased with this, then, learn these contrary propositions; that there are no gods, or, if there are, that they take no care of mankind, neither have we any concern with them; that this piety and sanctity, so much talked of by many, are only an imposition of boasting and sophistical men; or, perhaps, of legislators, for a terror and restraint to injustice.” — Well done, philosopher. Our citizens are much the better for you. You have already brought back all the youth to a contempt of the Deity. “What! does not this please you, then? Learn next, that justice is nothing; that shame is folly; that the paternal relation is nothing; the filial, nothing.” Well said, philosopher; persist, convince the youth; that we may have many more, to think and talk like you. By such doctrines as these, no doubt, have our well-governed states flourished! Upon these was Sparta founded! Lycurgus, by his laws, and method of education, introduced such persuasions as these; that it is not base to be slaves, rather than honorable; nor honorable to be free, rather than base! They who died at Thermopylæ, died from such principles as these! And from what other doctrines did the Athenians leave their city?*
And yet, they who talk thus marry, and produce children, and engage in public affairs, and get themselves made priests and prophets. Of whom? Of gods that have no existence. And they consult the Pythian priestess, only to hear falsehoods, and interpret the oracles to others. O! monstrous impudence and imposture!
What are you doing, man?* You contradict yourself every day; and you will not give up these paltry cavils. When you eat, where do you put your hand? To your mouth, or to your eye? When you bathe, where do you go? Do you ever call a kettle a dish, or a spoon a spit? If I were a servant to one of these gentlemen, were it at the hazard of being flayed every day, I would plague him. “Throw some oil into the bath, boy.” I would take pickle, and pour upon his head. “What is this?” Really, sir, I was impressed by a certain semblance so like oil as not to be distinguished from it. “Give me the soup.” I would carry him a dish full of vinegar. “Did I not ask for the soup?” Yes, sir, this is the soup. “Is not this vinegar?” Why so, more than soup? “Take it and smell it, take it and taste it.” How do you know, then, but our senses deceive us? If I had three or four fellow-servants to join with me, I would make him either choke with passion and burst, or change his opinions. But now they insult us, by making use of the gifts of nature, while in words they destroy them. Those must be grateful and modest men, at least, who, while eating their daily bread, dare to say, “We do not know whether there be any such beings as Demeter, or Core, or Pluto.” Not to mention, that while they possess the blessings of night and day, of the annual seasons, of the stars, the earth and the sea, they are not the least affected by any of these things; but only study to throw out some idle problem, and when they have thus relieved themselves, go and bathe; but take not the least care what they say, nor on what subjects, nor to whom, nor what may be the consequence of their talk; whether any well-disposed young man, on hearing such doctrines, may not be affected by them, and so affected as entirely to lose the seeds of his good disposition; whether they may not furnish an adulterer with occasions of growing shameless in his guilt; whether a public plunderer may not find excuses from these doctrines; whether he, who neglects his parents, may not gain an additional confidence from them.
“What things, then, in your opinion, are good and evil, fair and base; such things, or such things?” But why should one argue any more with such as these, or interchange opinions, or endeavor to convince them? By Zeus, one might sooner hope to convince the most unnatural debauchees, than those, who are thus deaf and blind to their own ills.
CHAPTER XXI.
OF INCONSISTENCY.
THERE are some things which men confess with ease; and others with difficulty. No one, for instance, will confess himself a fool, or a blockhead; but, on the contrary, you will hear every one say, “I wish my fortune were in proportion to my abilities.” But they easily confess themselves fearful, and say, “I am somewhat timorous, I confess; but in other respects you will not find me a fool.” No one will easily confess himself intemperate in his desires; upon no account dishonest, nor indeed very envious, or meddling; but many confess themselves to have the weakness of being compassionate. What is the reason of all this? The principal reason is, an inconsistency and confusion in what relates to good and evil. But different people have different motives, and in general, whatever they imagine to be base, they do not absolutely confess. Fear and compassion they imagine to belong to a well-meaning disposition; but stupidity, to a slave. Offences against society they do not own; but, in most faults, they are brought to a confession, chiefly from imagining that there is something involuntary in them; as in fear and compassion. And, though a person should in some measure confess himself intemperate in his desires, he accuses his passion, and expects forgiveness, as for an involuntary fault. But dishonesty is not imagined to be, by any means, involuntary. In jealousy too, there is something they suppose involuntary; and this, likewise, in some degree, they confess.
Conversing therefore with such men, thus confused, thus ignorant what they say, and what are or are not their ills, whence they have them, and how they may be delivered from them; it is worth while, I think, to ask one’s self continually, “Am I too one of these? What do I imagine myself to be? How do I conduct myself? As a prudent, as a temperate man? Do I, too, ever talk at this rate; that I am sufficiently instructed for what may happen? Have I that persuasion, that I know nothing, which becomes one who knows nothing? Do I go to a master, as to an oracle, prepared to obey; or do I also, like a mere driveller, enter the school, only to learn and understand books which I did not understand before; or, perhaps, to explain them to others?”
You have been fighting at home, with your man-servant; you have turned the house upside-down, and alarmed the neighborhood; and do you come to me with a pompous show of wisdom, and sit and criticise how I explain a sentence, how I prate whatever comes into my head? Do you come, envious and dejected, that nothing has come from home for you; and in the midst of the disputations, sit thinking on nothing, but how your father or your brother may treat you? “What are they saying about me at home? Now they think I am improving, and say, he will come back with universal knowledge. I wish I could learn everything before my return; but this requires much labor, and nobody sends me anything. The baths are very bad at Nicopolis; and things go very ill both at home, and here.”
After all this, it is said, nobody is the better for the philosophic school. Why, who comes to the school? I mean, who comes to be reformed? Who, to submit his principles to correction; who, with a sense of his wants? Why do you wonder, then, that you bring back from the school the very thing you carried there? For you do not come to lay aside, or correct, or change, your principles. How should you? Far from it. Rather consider this, therefore, whether you have not what you have come for. You have come to talk about theorems. Well; and are you not more impertinently talkative than you were? Do not these paltry theorems furnish you with matter for ostentation? Do you not solve convertible and hypothetical syllogisms? Why, then, are you still displeased, if you have the very thing for which you came?
“Very true; but, if my child, or my brother should die; or if I must die or be tortured myself, what good will these things do me?” Why, did you come for this? Did you attend upon me for this? Was it upon any such account, that you ever lighted your lamp, or sat up at night? Or did you, when you went into the walk, propose any delusive semblance to your own mind to be discussed, instead of a syllogism? Did any of you ever go through such a subject jointly? And, after all, you say, theorems are useless. To whom? To such as apply them ill. For medicines for the eyes are not useless to those who apply them when and as they ought. Fomentations are not useless, dumb-bells are not useless; but they are useless to some, and, on the contrary, useful to others. If you should ask me, now, are syllogisms useful? I should answer, that they are useful; and, if you please, I will show you how. “Will they be of service to me, then?” Why, did you ask, man, whether they would be useful to you, or in general? If any one in a dysentery should ask me, whether acids be useful; I should answer, they are. “Are they useful for me, then?” I say, no. First try to get the flux stopped, and the ulceration healed. Do you too first get your ulcers healed, your fluxes stopped. Quiet your mind, and bring it free from distraction to the school; and then you will know what force there is in reasoning.
CHAPTER XXII.
OF FRIENDSHIP.
TO whatever objects a person devotes his attention, these objects he probably loves. Do men ever devote their attention then, to [what they think] evils? By no means. Or even to things indifferent? No, nor this. It remains then, that good must be the sole object of their attention; and, if of their attention, of their love too. Whoever, therefore, understands good, is capable likewise of love; and he who cannot distinguish good from evil, and things indifferent from both, how is it possible that he can love? The wise person alone, then, is capable of loving.
“How so? I am not this wise person, yet I love my child.”
I protest it surprises me, that you should, in the first place, confess yourself unwise. For in what are you deficient? Have not you the use of your senses? Do you not distinguish the semblances of things? Do you not provide such food and clothing and habitation as are suitable to you? Why then do you confess that you want wisdom? In truth, because you are often struck and disconcerted by semblances, and their speciousness gets the better of you; and hence you sometimes suppose the very same things to be good, then evil, and lastly, neither; and, in a word, you grieve, you fear, you envy, you are disconcerted, you change. Is it from this that you confess yourself unwise? And are you not changeable too in love? Riches, pleasure, in short, the very same things, you sometimes esteem good, and at other times evil. And do you not esteem the same persons too, alternately as good and bad, at one time treating them with kindness, at another with enmity, at one time commending, and at another censuring them?
“Yes. This too is the case with me.”
Well then, can he who is deceived in another, be his friend, think you?
“No, surely.”
Or does he, who loves him with a changeable affection, bear him genuine good will?
“Nor he, neither.”
Or he, who now vilifies, then admires him?
“Nor he.”
Do you not often see little dogs caressing, and playing with each other, so that you would say, nothing could be more friendly; but, to learn what this friendship is, throw a bit of meat between them, and you will see. Do you too throw a bit of an estate betwixt you and your son, and you will see, that he will quickly wish you under ground, and you him; and then you, no doubt, on the other hand will exclaim, What a son have I brought up! He would bury me alive! — Throw in a pretty girl, and the old fellow and the young one will both fall in love with her; or let fame or danger intervene, the words of the father of Admetus will be yours:
- “You love to see the light. Doth not your father?
- You fain would still behold it. Would not he?”*
Do you suppose that he did not love his own child when it was little? That he was not in agonies when it had a fever, and often wished to undergo that fever in its stead? But, after all, when the trial comes home, you see what expressions he uses. Were not Eteocles and Polynices born of the same mother, and of the same father? Were they not brought up, and did they not live, and eat, and sleep, together? Did not they kiss and fondle each other? So that any one, who saw them, would have laughed at all the paradoxes which philosophers utter about love. And yet, when a kingdom, like a bit of meat, was thrown betwixt them, see what they say.
Polynices. “Where wilt thou stand before the towers?”
Eteocles. “Why askest thou this of me?”
Pol. “I will oppose myself to thee, to slay thee.”
Et. “Me too the desire of this seizes.”†
Such are the prayers they offer. Be not therefore deceived. No living being is held by anything so strongly as by its own needs. Whatever therefore appears a hindrance to these, be it brother, or father, or child, or mistress, or friend, is hated, abhorred, execrated; for by nature it loves nothing like its own needs. This motive is father, and brother, and family, and country, and God. Whenever, therefore, the Gods seem to hinder this, we vilify even them, and throw down their statues, and burn their temples; as Alexander ordered the temple of Æsculapius to be burnt, because he had lost the man he loved.
When therefore any one identifies his interest with those of sanctity, virtue, country, parents, and friends, all these are secured; but whenever he places his interest in anything else than friends, country, family, and justice, then these all give way, borne down by the weight of self-interest. For wherever I and mine are placed, thither must every living being gravitate. If in body, that will sway us; if in our own will, that; if in externals, these. If, therefore, I rest my personality in the will, then only shall I be a friend, a son, or a father, such as I ought. For, in that case, it will be for my interest to preserve the faithful, the modest, the patient, the abstinent, the beneficent character; to keep the relations of life inviolate. But, if I place my personality in one thing, and virtue in another, the doctrine of Epicurus will stand its ground, that virtue is nothing, or mere opinion.
From this ignorance it was, that the Athenians and Lacedemonians quarrelled with each other, and the Thebans with both; the Persian king with Greece, and the Macedonians with both; and now the Romans with the Getes. And, in still remoter times the Trojan war arose from the same cause. Alexander [Paris] was the guest of Menelaus; and whoever had seen the mutual proofs of good will, that passed between them, would never have believed that they were not friends. But a tempting bait, a pretty woman, was thrown in between them; and thence came war. At present, therefore, when you see that dear brothers have, in appearance, but one soul, do not immediately pronounce upon their love; not though they should swear it, and affirm it was impossible to live asunder. For the governing faculty of a bad man is faithless, unsettled, undiscriminating, successively vanquished by different semblances. But inquire, not as others do, whether they were born of the same parents, and brought up together, and under the same preceptor; but this thing only, in what they place their interest; in externals, or in their own wills. If in externals, you can no more pronounce them friends, than you can call them faithful, or constant, or brave, or free; nay, nor even truly men, if you are wise. For it is no principle of humanity, that makes them bite and vilify each other, and take possession of public assemblies, as wild beasts do of solitudes and mountains; and convert courts of justice into dens of robbers; that prompts them to be intemperate, adulterers, seducers; or leads them into other offences, that men commit against each other, — all from that one single error, by which they risk themselves, and their own concerns, on things uncontrollable by will.
But if you hear, that these men in reality suppose good to be placed only in the will, and in a right use of things as they appear; no longer take the trouble of inquiring if they are father and son, or old companions and acquaintances; but boldly pronounce that they are friends, and also that they are faithful and just. For where else can friendship be met, but joined with fidelity and modesty, and the intercommunication of virtue alone?
“Well; but such a one paid me the utmost regard, for so long a time, and did he not love me?”
How can you tell, foolish man, if that regard be any other than he pays to his shoes, or his horse, when he cleans them? And, how do you know but that when you cease to be a necessary utensil, he may throw you away, like a broken stool?
“Well; but it is my wife, and we have lived together many years.”
And how many did Eriphyle live with Amphiaraus; and was the mother of children, not a few? But a bauble came between them. What was this bauble? A false conviction concerning certain things. This turned her into a savage anima; this cut asunder all love, and suffered neither the wife nor the mother to continue such.*
Whoever therefore, among you, studies either to be or to gain a friend, let him cut up all false convictions by the root, hate them, drive them utterly out of his soul. Thus, in the first place, he will be secure from inward reproaches and contests; from vacillation and self-torment. Then with respect to others; to every like-minded person, he will be without disguise; to such as are unlike, he will be patient, mild, gentle, and ready to forgive them, as failing in points of the greatest importance; but severe to none, being fully convinced of Plato’s doctrine, that the soul is never willingly deprived of truth. Without all this, you may, in many respects, live as friends do; and drink, and lodge, and travel together, and even be born of the same parents; and so may serpents too; but neither they nor you can ever be really friends, while your accustomed principles remain brutal and execrable.
CHAPTER XXIII.
OF ELOQUENCE.
A BOOK will always be read with more pleasure and ease, if it be written in fair characters; and so every one will the more easily attend to discourses likewise, if ornamented with proper and beautiful expressions. It ought not then to be said, that there is no such thing as the faculty of eloquence; for this would be at once the part of an impious and timid person. Impious, because he dishonors the gifts of God; just as if he should deny any use in the faculties of sight, hearing, and speech itself. Hath God then given you eyes in vain? Is it in vain, that he hath infused into them such a strong and active spirit, as to be able to represent the forms of distant objects? What messenger is so quick and diligent? Is it in vain, that he hath made the intermediate air so yielding and elastic, that sight penetrates through it? And is it in vain, that he hath made the light, without which all the rest would be useless? Man, be not ungrateful, nor, on the other hand, unmindful of your superior advantages; but for sight, and hearing, and indeed for life itself, and the supports of it, as fruits, and wine, and oil, be thankful to God; but remember that He hath given you another thing, superior to them all, which uses them, proves them, estimates the value of each. For what is it that pronounces upon the value of each of these faculties? Is it the faculty itself? Did you ever perceive the faculty of sight or hearing, to say anything concerning itself? Or wheat, or barley, or horses, or dogs? No. These things are appointed as instruments and servants, to obey that which is capable of using things as they appear. If you inquire the value of anything; of what do you inquire? What is the faculty that answers you? How then can any faculty be superior to this, which uses all the rest as instruments, and tries and pronounces concerning each of them? For which of them knows what itself is; and what is its own value? Which of them knows, when it is to be used, and when not? Which is it, that opens and shuts the eyes, and turns them away from improper objects? Is it the faculty of sight? No; but that of Will. Which is it, that opens and shuts the ears? Which is it, by which they are made curious and inquisitive; or on the contrary deaf, and unaffected by what is said? Is it the faculty of hearing? No; but that of Will. This, then, recognizing itself to exist amidst other faculties, all blind and deaf, and unable to discern anything but those offices, in which they are appointed to minister and serve; itself alone sees clearly, and distinguishes the value of each of the rest. Will this, I say, inform us, that anything is supreme, but itself? What can the eye, when it is opened, do more than see? But whether we ought to look upon the wife of any one, and in what manner, what is it that decides us? The faculty of Will. Whether we ought to believe, or disbelieve what is said; or whether, if we do believe, we ought to be moved by it, or not, what is it that decides us? Is it not the faculty of Will? Again; the very faculty of eloquence, and that which ornaments discourse, if any such peculiar faculty there be, what does it more than merely ornament and arrange expressions, as curlers do the hair? But whether it be better to speak, or to be silent; or better to speak in this, or in that manner; whether this be decent, or indecent; and the season and use of each; what is it that decides for us, but the faculty of Will? What then, would you have it appear, and bear testimony against itself? What means this? If the case be thus, then that which serves may be superior to that to which it is subservient; the horse to the rider; the dog to the hunter; the instrument to the musician; or servants to the king. What is it that makes use of all the rest? The Will. What takes care of all? The Will. What destroys the whole man, at one time, by hunger; at another, by a rope, or a precipice? The Will. Has man, then, anything stronger than this? And how is it possible, that what is liable to restraint should be stronger than what is not? What has a natural power to restrain the faculty of sight? The Will and its workings. And it is the same with the faculties of hearing and of speech. And what has a natural power of restraining the Will? Nothing beyond itself, only its own perversion. Therefore in the Will alone is vice: in the Will alone is virtue.
Since, then, the Will is such a faculty, and placed in authority over all the rest, suppose it to come forth and say to us, that the body is, of all things, the most excellent! If even the body itself pronounced itself to be the most excellent, it could not be borne. But now, what is it, Epicurus, that pronounces all this? What was it, that composed volumes concerning “the End,” “the Nature of things,” “the Rule”; that assumed a philosophic beard; that, as it was dying, wrote, that it was “then spending its last and happiest day”?* Was this the body, or was it the faculty of Will? And can you, then, without madness, admit anything to be superior to this? Are you in reality so deaf and blind? What, then, does any one dishonor the other faculties? Heaven forbid! Does any one assert that there is no use or excellence in the faculty of sight? Heaven forbid! It would be stupid, impious, and ungrateful to God. But we render to each its due. There is some use in an ass, though not so much as in an ox; and in a dog, though not so much as in a servant: and in a servant, though not so much as in the citizens; and in the citizens, though not so much as in the magistrates. And though some are more excellent than others, those uses, which the last afford, are not to be despised. The faculty of eloquence has thus its value, though not equal to that of the Will. When therefore I talk thus, let not any one suppose, that I would have you neglect eloquence, any more than your eyes, or ears, or hands, or feet, or clothes, or shoes. But if you ask me what is the most excellent of things, what shall I say? I cannot say, eloquence, but a right Will; for it is this which makes use of that, and of all the other faculties, whether great or small. If this be set right, a bad man becomes good; if it be wrong, a good man becomes wicked. By this we are unfortunate or fortunate; we disapprove or approve each other. In a word, it is this which, neglected, forms unhappiness; and, well cultivated, happiness.
But to take away the faculty of eloquence, and to say, that it is in reality nothing, is not only ungrateful to those who gave it, but cowardly too. For such a person seems to me to be afraid, that, if there be any such faculty, we may, on occasion, be compelled to respect it. Such are they too, who deny any difference between beauty and deformity. Was it possible, then, to be affected in the same manner by seeing Thersites, as by Achilles; by Helen, as by any other woman? These, also, are the foolish and clownish notions of those who are ignorant of the nature of things; and afraid that whoever perceives such a difference must presently be carried away, and overcome. But the great point is to leave to each thing its own proper faculty; and then to see what the value of that faculty is, to learn what is the principal thing, and, upon every occasion, to follow that, and to make it the chief object of our attention; to consider other things as trifling in comparison with this, and yet, so far as we are able, not to neglect even these. We ought, for instance, to take care of our eyes; yet not as of the principal thing, but only on account of that which is principal; because that can no otherwise preserve its own nature, than by making a due estimate of the rest, and preferring some to others. What is the usual practice then? That of a traveller, who, returning into his own country, and meeting on the way with a good inn, being pleased with the inn, should remain there. Have you forgotten your intention, man? You were not travelling to this place, but only through it. “But this is a fine place.” And how many other fine inns are there, and how many pleasant fields, yet they are simply as a means of passage. What is the real business? To return to your country; to relieve the anxieties of your family; to perform the duties of a citizen; to marry, have children, and go through the public offices. For you did not travel in order to choose the finest places; but to return, to live in that where you were born, and of which you are appointed a citizen.
Such is the present case. Because by speech and such instruction, we are to perfect our education, and purify our own will, and rectify that faculty which deals with things as they appear; and, because, for the statement of theorems, a certain diction, and some variety and subtility of discourse are needful; many, captivated by these very things, one by diction, another by syllogisms, a third by convertible propositions, just as our traveller was by the good inn, go no further; but sit down and waste their lives shamefully there, as if amongst the sirens. Your business, man, was to prepare yourself for such use of the semblances of things as nature demands; not to fail in what you seek, or incur what you shun; never to be disappointed or unfortunate, but free, unrestrained, uncompelled; conformed to the Divine Administration, obedient to that; finding fault with nothing; but able to say, from your whole soul, the verses which begin,
“Conduct me, Jove; and thou, O Destiny.”*
While you have such a business before you, will you be so pleased with a pretty form of expression, or a few theorems, as to choose to stay and live with them, forgetful of your home; and say, “They are fine things!” Why, who says they are not fine things? But only as a means; as an inn. For what hinders one speaking like Demosthenes from being miserable? What hinders a logician equal to Chrysippus from being wretched, sorrowful, envious, vexed, unhappy? Nothing. You see, then, that these are merely unimportant inns, and what concerns you is quite another thing. When I talk thus to some, they suppose that I am setting aside all care about eloquence, and about theorems; but I do not object to that; only the dwelling on these things incessantly, and placing our hopes there. If any one, by maintaining this, hurts his hearers, place me amongst those hurtful people; for I cannot, when I see one thing to be the principal and most excellent, call another so, to please you.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CONCERNING A PERSON WHOM HE TREATED WITH DISREGARD.
WHEN a certain person said to him, “I have often come to you, with a desire of hearing you, and you have never given me any answer; but now, if possible, I entreat you to say something to me”; — do you think, replied Epictetus, that, as in other things, so in speaking, there is an art, by which he, who understands it, speaks skilfully, and he, who does not, unskilfully?
“I do think so.”
He, then, who by speaking both benefits himself, and is able to benefit others, must speak skilfully; but he who injures and is injured, must be unskilful in this art. For you may find some speakers injured, and others benefited. And are all hearers benefited by what they hear? Or will you find some benefited, and some hurt?
“Both.”
Then those who hear skilfully are benefited, and those who hear unskilfully, hurt.
“Granted.”
Is there any art of hearing, then, as well as of speaking?
“It seems so.”
If you please, consider it thus too. To whom think you that the practice of music belongs?
“To a musician.”
To whom the proper formation of a statue?
“To a sculptor.”
And do you not imagine some art necessary even to view a statue skilfully?
“I do.”
If, therefore, to speak properly belongs to one who is skilful, do you not see, that to hear profitably belongs likewise to one who is skilful? For the present, however, if you please, let us say no more of doing things perfectly and profitably, since we are both far enough from anything of that kind; but this seems to be universally confessed, that he, who would hear philosophers, needs some kind of exercise in hearing. Is it not so? Tell me, then, on what I shall speak to you? On what subject are you able to hear me?
“On good and evil.”
The good and evil of what? Of a horse?
“No.”
Of an ox?
“No.”
What then, of a man?
“Yes.”
Do we know, then, what man is? What is his nature, what our idea of him, and how far our ears are open in this respect to him? Nay, do you understand what Nature is; or are you able, in any degree, to comprehend me, when I come to say, “But I must use demonstration to you?” How should you? Do you comprehend what demonstration is, or how a thing is demonstrated, or by what methods; or what resembles a demonstration, and yet is not a demonstration? Do you know what true or false is? What is consequent upon anything, and what contradictory; suitable, or dissonant? But I must excite you to study philosophy. How shall I show you that contradiction, among the generality of mankind, by which they differ concerning good and evil, profitable and unprofitable, when you know not what contradiction means? Show me, then, what I shall gain, by discoursing with you? Excite an inclination in me, as a proper pasture excites an inclination to eating, in a sheep: for if you offer him a stone, or a piece of bread, he will not be excited. Thus we too have certain natural inclinations to speaking, when the hearer appears to be somebody, when he gives us encouragement; but if he sits by, like a stone, or a tuft of grass, how can he excite any desire in a man? Does a vine say to an husbandman, “Take care of me?” No; but invites him to take care of it, by showing him, that, if he does, it will reward him for his care. Who is there, whom bright and agreeable children do not attract to play, and creep, and prattle with them? But who was ever taken with an inclination to divert himself, or bray with an ass; for, be the creature ever so little, it is still a little ass.
“Why then do you say nothing to me?”
I have only this to say to you; that whoever is utterly ignorant what he is, and wherefore he was born, and in what kind of a universe, and in what society; what things are good, and what evil, what fair, and what base; who understands neither discourse, nor demonstration, nor what is true, nor what is false, nor is able to distinguish between them; such a one will neither exert his desires, nor aversions, nor pursuits, conformably to Nature; he will neither aim, nor assent, nor deny, nor suspend his judgment, conformably to Nature; but will wander up and down, entirely deaf and blind, supposing himself to be somebody, while he is nobody. Is there anything new in all this? Is not this ignorance the cause of all the errors that have happened, from the very origin of mankind? Why did Agamemnon and Achilles differ? Was it not for want of knowing what is advantageous, what disadvantageous? Does not one of them say, it is advantageous to restore Chryseis to her father; the other, that it is not? Does not one say, that he ought to take away the prize of the other; the other, that he ought not? Did they not, by these means, forget who they were, and for what purpose they had come there? Why, what did you come for, man; to win mistresses, or to fight? — “To fight.” — With whom; Trojans or Greeks? — “With the Trojans.” — Leaving Hector, then, do you draw your sword upon your own king? And do you, good sir, forgetting the duties of a king,
“Intrusted with a nation and its cares,”*
go to squabbling, about a girl, with the bravest of your allies; whom you ought, by every method, to conciliate and preserve? And will you be inferior to a subtle priest, who pays his court anxiously to you fine gladiators? — You see the effects produced by ignorance of what is truly advantageous.
“But I am rich, as well as other people.” — What, richer than Agamemnon? — “But I am handsome too.” — What, handsomer than Achilles? — “But I have fine hair too.” — Had not Achilles finer and brighter? Yet he never combed it exquisitely, nor curled it. — “But I am strong too.” — Can you lift such a stone, then, as Hector or Ajax? — “But I am of a noble family too.” — Is your mother a goddess, or your father descended from Zeus? And what good did all this do Achilles, when he sat crying for a girl? — “But I am an orator.” — And was not he? Do you not see how he treated the most eloquent of the Greeks, Odysseus and Phœnix? How he struck them dumb? This is all I have to say to you; and even this against my inclination.
“Why so?”
Because you have not excited me to it. For what can I see in you, to excite me, as spirited horses their riders? Your person? That you disfigure. Your dress? That is effeminate. Your behavior? Your look? Absolutely nothing. When you would hear a philosopher, do not say to him, “You tell me nothing”; but only show yourself fit and worthy to hear; and you will find how you will move him to speak.
CHAPTER XXV.
THAT LOGIC IS NECESSARY.
WHEN one of the company said to him, “Convince me that logic is necessary,” — Would you have me, he said, demonstrate it to you? “Yes.” Then I must use a demonstrative form of argument. “Granted.” And how will you know, then, whether I argue sophistically? On this, the man being silent, You see, says he, that, even by your own confession, logic is necessary; since without it, you cannot even learn whether it be necessary or not.
CHAPTER XXVI.
WHAT IS THE TEST OF ERROR.
EVERY error implies a contradiction; for, since he who errs does not wish to err, but to be in the right, it is evident, that he acts contrary to his wish. What does a thief desire to attain? His own interest. If, then, thieving be really against his interest he acts contrary to his own desire. Now every rational soul is naturally averse to self-contradiction; but so long as any one is ignorant that it is a contradiction, nothing restrains him from acting contradictorily; but, whenever he discovers it, he must as necessarily renounce and avoid it, as any one must dissent from a falsehood whenever he perceives it to be a falsehood; only while this does not appear, he assents to it as to a truth.
He, then, is gifted in speech, and excels at once in exhortation and conviction, who can disclose to each man the contradiction by which he errs, and prove clearly to him, that what he would he doth not; and what he would not, that he doth. For, if that be shown, he will depart from it of his own accord; but, till you have shown it, be not surprised that he remains where he is; for he proceeds on the semblance of acting rightly. Hence Socrates, relying on this faculty, used to say, “It is not my custom to cite any other witness for my assertions; but I am always contented with my opponent. I call and summon him for my witness; and his single evidence serves instead of all others.” For he knew that, if a rational soul be moved by anything, the scale must turn, whether it will or no. Show the governing faculty of Reason a contradiction, and it will renounce it; but till you have shown it, rather blame yourself than him who remains unconvinced.
BOOK III.
CHAPTER I.
OF PERSONAL ADORNMENT.
A CERTAIN young rhetorician coming to him with his hair too elaborately ornamented, and his dress very fine; tell me, said Epictetus, whether you do not think some horses and dogs beautiful; and so of all other animals?
“I do.”
Are some men, then, likewise beautiful, and others deformed?
“Certainly.”
Do we pronounce all these beautiful the same way then, or each in some way peculiar to itself? You will judge of it by this; since we see a dog naturally formed for one thing, a horse for another, and a nightingale, for instance, for another, therefore in general, it will be correct to pronounce each of them beautiful, so far as it is developed suitably to its own nature; but, since the nature of each is different, I think each of them must be beautiful in a different way. Is it not so?
“Agreed.”
Then what makes a dog beautiful makes a horse deformed; and what makes a horse beautiful makes a dog deformed; if their natures are different.
“So it seems.”
For, I suppose, what makes a good Pancratiast* makes no good wrestler, and a very ridiculous racer; and the very same person who appears well as a Pentathlete, might make a very ill figure in wrestling.
“Very true.”
What, then, makes a man beautiful? Is it on the same principle that a dog or a horse is beautiful?
“The same.”
What is it then, that makes a dog beautiful?
“That excellence which belongs to a dog.”
What a horse?
“The excellence of a horse.”
What a man? Must it not be the excellence belonging to a man? If then you would appear beautiful, young man, strive for human excellence.
“What is that?”
Consider whom you praise, when unbiassed by partiality; is it the honest or dishonest?
“The honest.”
The sober, or the dissolute?
“The sober.”
The temperate, or the intemperate?
“The temperate.”
Then, if you make yourself such a character, you know that you will make yourself beautiful; but, while you neglect these things, though you use every contrivance to appear beautiful, you must necessarily be deformed.
I know not how to say anything further to you; for if I speak what I think, you will be vexed, and perhaps go away and return no more. And if I do not speak, consider what I am doing. You come to me to be improved, and I do not improve you; and you come to me as to a philosopher, and I do not speak like a philosopher. Besides, how could it be consistent with my duty towards yourself, to pass you by as incorrigible? If, hereafter, you should come to have sense, you will accuse me with reason: “What did Epictetus observe in me, that, when he saw me come to him in such a shameful condition, he overlooked it, and never said so much as a word about it? Did he so absolutely despair of me? Was I not young? Was I not able to hear reason? How many young men, at that age, are guilty of many such errors? I am told of one Polemo, who, from a most dissolute youth, became totally changed.* Suppose he did not think I should become a Polemo, he might nevertheless have set my locks to rights, he might have stripped off my bracelets and rings, he might have prevented my depilating my person. But when he saw me dressed like a — what shall I say? — he was silent.” I do not say like what; when you come to your senses, you will say it yourself, and will know what it is, and who they are who adopt such a dress.
If you should hereafter lay this to my charge, what excuse could I make? “Ay; but if I do speak, he will not regard me.” Why, did Laius regard Apollo? Did not he go and get intoxicated, and bid farewell to the oracle? What then? Did this hinder Apollo from telling him the truth? Now, I am uncertain, whether you will regard me, or not; but Apollo positively knew, that Laius would not regard him, and yet he spoke.† And why did he speak? You may as well ask, why is he Apollo; why doth he deliver oracles; why hath he placed himself in such a post as a prophet, and the fountain of truth, to whom the inhabitants of the world should resort? Why is know thyself inscribed on the front of his temple, when no one heeds it?
Did Socrates prevail upon all who came to him, to take care of themselves? Not upon the thousandth part; but being, as he himself declares, divinely appointed to such a post, he never deserted it. What said he even to his judges? “If you would acquit me, on condition that I should no longer act as I do now, I would not accept it, nor desist; but I will accost all I meet, whether young or old, and interrogate them in just the same manner; but particularly you, my fellow-citizens, since you are more nearly related to me.” — “Are you so curious and officious, Socrates? What is it to you, how we act?” — “What say you? While you are of the same community and the same kindred with me, will you be careless of yourself, and show yourself a bad citizen to the city, a bad kinsman to your kindred, and a bad neighbor to your neighborhood?” — “Why, who are you?” Here one ought nobly to say, “I am he who ought to take care of mankind.” For it is not every little paltry heifer that dares resist the lion; but if the bull should come up, and resist him, would you say to him, “Who are you? What business is it of yours?” In every species, man, there is some one quality which by nature excels; in oxen, in dogs, in bees, in horses. Do not say to whatever excels, “Who are you?” If you do, it will, somehow or other, find a voice to tell you; “I am like the purple thread in a garment. Do not expect me to be like the rest; nor find fault with my nature, which has distinguished me from others.”
“What then, am I such a one? How should I be?” Indeed, are you such a one as to be able to hear the truth? I wish you were. But however, since I am condemned to wear a gray beard and a cloak, and you come to me as a philosopher, I will not treat you cruelly, nor as if I despaired of you; but will ask you, Who is it, young man, whom you would render beautiful? Know, first, who you are; and then adorn yourself accordingly.
You are a human being; that is, a mortal animal, capable of a rational use of things as they appear. And what is this rational use? A perfect conformity to Nature. What have you, then, particularly excellent? Is it the animal part? No. The mortal? No. That which is capable of the mere use of these things? No. The excellence lies in the rational part. Adorn and beautify this; but leave your hair to Him who formed it as he thought good.
Well; what other appellations have you? Are you a man, or a woman? A man. Then adorn yourself as a man, not as a woman. A woman is naturally smooth and delicate; and, if hairy, is a monster, and shown among the monsters at Rome. It is the same thing in a man, not to be hairy; and, if he is by nature not so, he is a monster. But if he depilates himself, what shall we do with him? Where shall we show him; and how shall we advertise him? “A man to be seen, who would rather be a woman.” What a scandalous show! Who would not wonder at such an advertisement? I believe, indeed, that these very persons themselves would; not apprehending, that it is the very thing of which they are guilty.
Of what have you to accuse your nature, sir, that it has made you a man? Why, were all to be born women then? In that case what would have been the use of your finery? For whom would you have made yourself fine, if all were women? But the whole affair displeases you. Go to work upon the whole then. Remove your manhood itself, and make yourself a woman entirely, that we may be no longer deceived, nor you be half man, half woman. To whom would you be agreeable? To the women? Be agreeable to them as a man.
“Ay; but they are pleased with fops.”
Go hang yourself. Suppose they were pleased with every debauchery, would you consent? Is this your business in life? Were you born to please dissolute women? Shall we make such a one as you, in the Corinthian republic for instance, governor of the city, master of the youth, commander of the army, or director of the public games? Will you pursue the same practices when you are married? For whom, and for what? Will you be the father of children, and introduce them into the state, such as yourself? O what a fine citizen, and senator, and orator! Surely, young man, we ought to pray for a succession of young men disposed and bred like you!
Now, when you have once heard this discourse, go home, and say to yourself, It is not Epictetus who has told me all these things, — for how should he? — but some propitious God through him; for it would never have entered the head of Epictetus, who is not used to dispute with any one. Well; let us obey God then, that we may not incur the Divine displeasure. If a crow has signified anything to you by his croaking, it is not the crow that signifies it, but God, through him. And, if you have anything signified to you through the human voice, doth He not cause that man to tell it to you, that you may know the Divine power which acts thus variously, and signifies the greatest and principal things through the noblest messenger? What else does the poet mean, when he says,
- “Since we forewarned him,
- Sending forth Hermes, watchful Argicide,
- Neither to slay, — nor woo another’s wife.”*
Hermes, descending from heaven, was to warn him; and the Gods now, likewise, send a Hermes the Argicide as messenger to warn you, not to invert the well-appointed order of things, nor be absorbed in fopperies; but suffer a man to be a man, and a woman to be a woman; a beautiful man, to be beautiful, as a man; a deformed man, to be deformed, as a man; for your personality lies not in flesh and hair, but in the Will. If you take care to have this beautiful, you will be beautiful. But all this while, I dare not tell you, that you are deformed; for I fancy you would rather hear anything than this. But consider what Socrates says to the most beautiful and blooming of all men, Alcibiades. “Endeavor to make yourself beautiful.” What does he mean to say to him? “Curl your locks, and depilate your legs?” Heaven forbid! But rather, “Regulate your Will; throw away your wrong principles.”
“What is to be done with the poor body then?”
Leave it to nature. Another hath taken care of such things. Give them up to Him.
“What, then, must one be a sloven?”
By no means; but act in conformity to your nature. A man should care for his body, as a man; a woman, as a woman; a child, as a child. If not, let us pick out the mane of a lion, that he may not be slovenly; and the comb of a cock, for he too should be tidy. Yes, but let it be as a cock; and a lion, as a lion; and a hound, as a hound.
CHAPTER II.
IN WHAT A WELL-TRAINED MAN SHOULD EXERCISE HIMSELF; AND THAT WE NEGLECT THE PRINCIPAL THINGS.
THERE are three topics in philosophy, in which he who would be wise and good must be exercised. That of the desires and aversions, that he may not be disappointed of the one, nor incur the other. That of the pursuits and avoidances, and, in general, the duties of life; that he may act with order and consideration, and not carelessly. The third includes integrity of mind and prudence, and, in general, whatever belongs to the judgment.
Of these points, the principal and most urgent is that which reaches the passions; for passion is produced no otherwise than by a disappointment of one’s desires and an incurring of one’s aversions. It is this which introduces perturbations, tumults, misfortunes, and calamities; this is the spring of sorrow, lamentation, and envy; this renders us envious and emulous, and incapable of hearing reason.
The next topic regards the duties of life. For I am not to be undisturbed by passions, in the same sense as a statue is; but as one who preserves the natural and acquired relations; as a pious person, as a son, as a brother, as a father, as a citizen.
The third topic belongs to those scholars who are now somewhat advanced; and is a security to the other two, that no bewildering semblance may surprise us, either in sleep, or wine, or in depression. This, say you, is beyond us. Yet our present philosophers, leaving the first and second topics, employ themselves wholly about the third; dealing in the logical subtilties. For they say that we must, by engaging in these subjects, take care to guard against deception. Who must? A wise and good man. Is this really, then, the thing you need? Have you mastered the other points? Are you not liable to be deceived by money? When you see a fine girl, do you oppose the seductive influence? If your neighbor inherits an estate, do you feel no vexation? Is it not steadfastness which you chiefly need? You learn even these very things, slave, with trembling, and a solicitous dread of contempt; and are inquisitive to know what is said of you. And if any one comes and tells you that, in a dispute as to which was the best of the philosophers, one of the company named a certain person as the only philosopher, that little soul of yours grows to the size of two cubits instead of an inch. But if another comes and says, “You are mistaken, he is not worth hearing; for what does he know? He has the first rudiments, but nothing more”; you are thunderstruck; you presently turn pale, and cry out, “I will show what I am; that I am a great philosopher.” You exhibit by these very things what you are aiming to show in other ways. Do not you know that Diogenes exhibited some sophist in this manner, by pointing with his middle finger;* and when the man was mad with rage, “This,” said Diogenes, “is the very man; I have exhibited him to you.” For a man is not shown by the finger in the same sense as a stone, or a piece of wood, but whoever points out his principles, shows him as a man.
Let us see your principles too. For is it not evident that you consider your own Will as nothing: but are always aiming at something beyond its reach? As, what such a one will say of you, and what you shall be thought; whether a man of letters; whether to have read Chrysippus, or Antipater; and if Archedemus too, you have everything you wish. Why are you still solicitous, lest you should not show us what you are? Shall I tell you, what you have shown yourself? A mean, discontented, passionate, cowardly person; complaining of everything; accusing everybody; perpetually restless; good for nothing. This you have shown us. Go now and read Archedemus; and then, if you hear but the noise of a mouse, you are a dead man; for you will die some such kind of death as — Who was it? Crinis;† who valued himself extremely too, that he understood Archedemus.
Wretch, why do you not let alone things that do not belong to you? These things belong to such as are able to learn them without perturbation; who can say, “I am not subject to anger, or grief, or envy. I am not restrained; I am not compelled. What remains for me to do? I am at leisure; I am at ease. Let us now see how logical inversions are to be treated; let us consider, when an hypothesis is laid down, how we may avoid a contradiction.” To such persons do these things belong. They who are safe may light a fire, go to dinner, if they please, and sing and dance; but you are for spreading sail just when your ship is going down.
CHAPTER III.
WHAT IS THE CHIEF CONCERN OF A GOOD MAN; AND IN WHAT WE CHIEFLY OUGHT TO TRAIN OURSELVES.
THE chief concern of a wise and good man is his own Reason. The body is the concern of a physician, and of a gymnastic trainer; and the fields, of the husbandman. The business of a wise and good man is, to use the phenomena of existence, conformably to Nature. Now, every soul, as it is naturally formed for an assent to truth, a dissent from falsehood, and a suspense of judgment with regard to things uncertain; so it is moved by a desire of good, an aversion from evil, and an indifference to what is neither good nor evil. For, as a money-changer, or a gardener, is not at liberty to reject Cæsar’s coin; but when once it is shown, is obliged, whether he will or not, to deliver his wares in exchange for it; so is it with the soul. Apparent good at first sight attracts, and evil repels. Nor will the soul any more reject an evident appearance of good, than Cæsar’s coin.
Hence depends every movement, both of God and man; and hence good is preferred to every obligation, however near. My connection is not with my father; but with good. — Are you so hard-hearted? — Such is my nature, and such is the coin which God hath given me. If therefore good is interpreted to be anything but what is fair and just, away go father, and brother, and country, and everything. What! Shall I overlook my own good, and give it up to you? For what? “I am your father.” But not my good. “I am your brother.” But not my good. But, if we place it in a rightly trained Will, good must then consist in an observance of the several relations of life; and then, he who gives up mere externals, acquires good. Your father deprives you of your money; but he does not hurt you. He will possess more land than you, as much more as he pleases; but will he possess more honor? More fidelity? More affection? Who can deprive you of this possession? Not even Zeus; for he did not will it so, since he has put this good into my own power, and given it me, like his own, uncompelled, unrestrained, and unhindered. But when any one deals in coin different from this, then whoever shows it to him, may have whatever is sold for it, in return. A thievish proconsul comes into the province. What coin does he use? Silver. Show it him, and carry off what you please. An adulterer comes. What coin does he use? Women. Take the coin, says one, and give me this trifle. “Give it me, and it is yours.” Another is addicted to other debauchery; give him but his coin, and take what you please. Another is fond of hunting; give him a fine pony or puppy, and he will sell you for it what you will, though it be with sighs and groans. For there is that within which controls him, and assumes this to be current coin.
In this manner ought every one chiefly to train himself. When you go out in the morning, examine whomsoever you see, or hear; and answer as if to a question. What have you seen? A handsome person? Apply the rule. Is this a thing controllable by Will, or uncontrollable? Uncontrollable. Then discard it. What have you seen? One in agony for the death of a child. Apply the rule. Death is inevitable. Banish this despair then. Has a consul met you? Apply the rule. What kind of thing is the consular office? Controllable by Will, or uncontrollable? Uncontrollable. Throw aside this too. It will not pass. Cast it away. It is nothing to you.
If we acted thus, and practised in this manner from morning till night, by Heaven, something would be done. Whereas now, on the contrary, we are allured by every semblance, half asleep; and, if we ever awake, it is only a little in the school; but as soon as we go out, if we meet any one grieving, we say, “He is undone.” If a consul, “How happy is he!” If an exile, “How miserable.” If a poor man, “How wretched; he has nothing to eat!”
These miserable prejudices then are to be lopped off; and here is our whole strength to be applied. For what is weeping and groaning? Prejudice. What is misfortune? Prejudice. What is sedition, discord, complaint, accusation, impiety, levity? All these are prejudices, and nothing more; and prejudices concerning things uncontrollable by Will, as if they could be either good or evil. Let any one transfer these convictions to things controllable by Will, and I will engage that he will preserve his constancy, whatever be the state of things about him.
The soul is like a vase filled with water; while the semblances of things fall like rays upon its surface. If the water is moved, the ray will seem to be moved likewise, though it is in reality without motion. When, therefore, any one is seized with a giddiness in his head, it is not the arts and virtues that are bewildered, but the mind in which they lie; when this recovers its composure, so will they likewise.
CHAPTER IV.
CONCERNING ONE WHO MADE HIMSELF IMPROPERLY CONSPICUOUS IN THE THEATRE.
WHEN the Governor of Epirus had exerted himself with improper eagerness in favor of a comedian, and was upon that account publicly railed at; and, when he came to hear it, was highly displeased with those who railed at him; Why, what harm, said Epictetus, have these people done? They have shown favoritism; which is just what you did.
“Is this a proper manner then, of expressing their favor?”
Seeing you, their governor, and the friend and vicegerent of Cæsar, express it thus, was it not to be expected that they would express it thus too? For, if this zealous favoritism is not right, do not show it yourself; and if it is, why are you angry at them for imitating you? For whom have the many to imitate, but you, their superiors? From whom are they to take example, when they come into the theatre, but from you? “Do but look how Cæsar’s vicegerent sees the play? Has he cried out? I will cry out too. Has he leaped up from his seat? I too will leap up from mine. Do his slaves sit in different parts of the house, making an uproar? I indeed have no slaves; but I will make as much uproar as I can unaided.”
You ought to consider, then, that when you appear in the theatre, you appear as a rule and example to others, how they ought to see the play. Why is it that they have railed at you? Because every man hates what hinders him. They would have one actor crowned; you, another. They hindered you; and you them. You proved the stronger. They have done what they could; they have railed at the person who hindered them. What would you have, then? Would you do as you please, and not have them even talk as they please? Where is the wonder of all this? Does not the husbandman rail at Zeus when he is hindered by him? Does not the sailor? Do men ever cease railing at Cæsar? What then, is Zeus ignorant of this? Are not the things that are said reported to Cæsar? How then does he act? He knows that, if he were to punish all railers, he would have nobody left to command.
When you enter the theatre, then, ought you to say, “Come, let Sophron be crowned?” No. But rather, “Come, let me at this time regulate my Will in a manner conformable to Nature. No one is dearer to me than myself. It is ridiculous, then, that because another man gains the victory as a player, I should be hurt. Whom do I wish to gain the victory? Him who does gain it; and thus he will always be victorious whom I wish to be so.” — “But I would have Sophron crowned.” — Why, celebrate as many games as you will at your own house, Nemean, Pythian, Isthmian, Olympic, and proclaim him victor in all; but in public do not arrogate more than your due, nor seek to monopolize what belongs to all; or if otherwise, bear to be railed at, for if you act like the mob, you reduce yourself to an equality with them.
CHAPTER V.
CONCERNING THOSE WHO PLEAD SICKNESS.
“I AM sick here,” said one of the scholars. “I will return home.”
Were you never sick at home then? Consider whether you are doing anything here conducive to the regulation of your Will; for if you make no improvement, it was to no purpose that you came. Go home then, and take care of your domestic affairs. For if your Reason cannot be brought into conformity to nature, your land may. You may increase your money, support the old age of your father, mix in the public assemblies, and rule as badly as you have lived, and do other such things. But if you are conscious to yourself that you are casting off some of your wrong principles, and taking up different ones in their room, and that you have transferred your scheme of life from things not controllable by will to those controllable; and that if you do sometimes cry alas, it is not for what concerns your father, or your brother, but yourself; why do you any longer plead sickness? Do not you know that both sickness and death must overtake us? At what employment? The husbandman at his plough; the sailor on his voyage. At what employment would you be taken? For, indeed, at what employment ought you to be taken? If there is any better employment at which you can be taken, follow that. For my own part, I would be found engaged in nothing but in the regulation of my own Will; how to render it undisturbed, unrestrained, uncompelled, free. I would be found studying this, that I may be able to say to God, “Have I transgressed Thy commands? Have I perverted the powers, the senses, the instincts, which Thou hast given me? Have I ever accused Thee, or censured Thy dispensations? I have been sick, because it was Thy pleasure, like others; but I willingly. I have been poor, it being Thy will; but with joy. I have not been in power, because it was not Thy will; and power I have never desired. Hast Thou ever seen me saddened because of this? Have I not always approached Thee with a cheerful countenance; prepared to execute Thy commands and the indications of Thy will? Is it Thy pleasure that I should depart from this assembly? I depart. I give Thee all thanks that Thou hast thought me worthy to have a share in it with Thee; to behold Thy works, and to join with Thee in comprehending Thy administration.” Let death overtake me while I am thinking, while I am writing, while I am reading such things as these.
“But I shall not have my mother to hold my head when I am sick.”
Get home then to your mother; for you are most fit to have your head held when you are sick.
“But I used at home to lie on a fine couch.”
Get to this couch of yours; for you are fit to lie upon such a one, even in health; so do not miss doing that for which you are qualified. But what says Socrates? “As one man rejoices in the improvement of his estate, another of his horse, so do I daily rejoice in perceiving myself to grow better.”*
“In what? In pretty speeches?”
Use courteous words, man.
“In trifling theorems? What do they signify? Yet, indeed, I do not see that the philosophers are employed in anything else.”
Do you think it nothing, to accuse and censure no one, God nor man? Always to carry abroad and bring home the same countenance? These were the things which Socrates knew; and yet he never professed to know, or to teach anything; but if any one wanted pretty speeches, or little theorems, he brought him to Protagoras, to Hippias; just as, if any one had come for potherbs, he would have taken him to a gardener. Which of you, then, earnestly sets his heart on this? If you had, you would bear sickness and hunger and death with cheerfulness. If any one of you has truly loved, he knows that I speak truth.
CHAPTER VI.
MISCELLANEOUS.
WHEN he was asked, how it came to pass, that though the art of reasoning might be now more studied, yet the improvements made were formerly greater? In what instance, answered he, is it now more studied; and in what were the improvements greater? For in what now is most studied, in that will be found likewise the improvements. The present study is the solution of syllogisms, and in this improvements are made. But formerly the study was to harmonize the Reason with Nature; and improvement was made in that. Therefore do not confound things, nor, when you study one thing, expect improvement in another; but see whether any one of us, who applies himself to think and act conformably to Nature, ever fails of improvement. Depend upon it, you will not find one.
A good man is invincible; for he does not contend where he is not superior. If you would have his land, take it; take his servants, take his office, take his body. But you will never frustrate his desire, nor make him incur his aversion. He engages in no combat but what concerns objects within his own control. How then can he fail to be invincible?
Being asked, what common sense was, he answered: As that may be called a common ear which distinguishes only sounds, but that which distinguishes notes, an artistic one; so there are some things which men, not totally perverted, discern by their common natural powers; and such a disposition is called common sense.
It is not easy to gain the attention of effeminate young men, — for you cannot take up custard by a hook, — but the ingenuous, even if you discourage them, are the more eager for learning. Hence Rufus, for the most part, did discourage them; and made use of that as a criterion of the ingenuous and disingenuous. For, he used to say, as a stone, even if you throw it up, will, by its own propensity be carried downward, so an ingenuous mind, the more it is forced from its natural bent, will incline towards it the more strongly.
CHAPTER VII.
CONCERNING A CERTAIN GOVERNOR WHO WAS AN EPICUREAN.
WHEN the Governor, who was an Epicurean, came to him; “It is fit,” said he, “that we ignorant people should inquire of you philosophers what is the most valuable thing in the world; as those who come into a strange city do of the citizens, and such as are acquainted with it; that, after this inquiry, we may go and take a view of it, as they do in cities. Now, almost every one admits that there are three things belonging to man, — soul, body, and externals. It belongs to such as you to answer which is the best. What shall we tell mankind? Is it the flesh?”
And was it for this that Maximus took a voyage in winter as far as Cassiope to accompany his son? Was it to gratify the flesh?
“No, surely.”
Is it not fit, then, to study what is best?
“Yes, beyond all other things.”
What have we, then, better than flesh?
“The soul.”
Are we to prefer the good of the better, or of the worse?
“Of the better.”
Does the good of the soul consist in things controllable by Will, or uncontrollable?
“In things controllable.”
Does the pleasure of the soul then depend on the Will?
“It does.”
And whence does this pleasure arise? From itself? This is unintelligible. For there must exist some principal essence of good, in the attainment of which, we shall enjoy this pleasure of the soul.
“This too is granted.”
In what then consists this pleasure of the soul? If it be in mental objects, the essence of good is found. For it is impossible that good should lie in one thing, and rational enjoyment in another; or that, if the cause is not good, the effect should be good. For, to make the effect reasonable, the cause must be good. But this you cannot reasonably allow; for it would be to contradict both Epicurus and the rest of your principles. It remains then, that the pleasures of the soul must consist in bodily objects; and that there must be the cause and the essence of good. Maximus, therefore, did foolishly, if he took a voyage for the sake of anything but his body; that is, for the sake of what is best. A man does foolishly, too, if he refrains from what is another’s, when he is a judge and able to take it. We should consider only this, if you please, how it may be done secretly and safely, and so that no one may know it. For Epicurus himself does not pronounce stealing to be evil, only the being found out in it; and prohibits it for no other reason, but because it is impossible to insure ourselves against discovery. But I say to you that, if it be done dexterously and cautiously, we shall not be discovered. Besides we have powerful friends of both sexes at Rome; and the Greeks are weak; and nobody will dare to go up to Rome on such an affair. Why do you refrain from your own proper good? It is madness; it is folly. But if you were to tell me that you do refrain, I would not believe you. For, as it is impossible to assent to an apparent falsehood, or to deny an apparent truth, so it is impossible to abstain from an apparent good. Now, riches are a good; and, indeed, the chief instrument of pleasures. Why do not you acquire them? And why do not we corrupt the wife of our neighbor, if it can be done secretly? And if the husband should happen to be impertinent, why not cut his throat too, if you have a mind to be such a philosopher as you ought to be, a complete one, — to be consistent with your own principles. Otherwise you will not differ from us who are called Stoics. For we, too, say one thing and do another; we talk well and act ill; but you will be perverse in a contrary way, teaching bad principles, and acting well.
For Heaven’s sake represent to yourself a city of Epicureans. “I do not marry.” “Nor I. For we are not to marry nor have children; nor to engage in public affairs.” What will be the consequence of this? Whence are the citizens to come? Who will educate them? Who will be the governor of the youth? Who the master of their exercises? What then will he teach them? Will it be what used to be taught at Athens, or Lacedemon? Take a young man; bring him up according to your principles. These principles are wicked, subversive of a state, pernicious to families, nor becoming even to women. Give them up, sir. You live in a capital city. You are to govern and judge uprightly, and to refrain from what belongs to others. No one’s wife or child, or silver or gold plate, is to have any charms for you, except your own. Provide yourself with principles consonant to these truths; and, setting out thence, you will with pleasure refrain from things so persuasive to mislead and conquer. But, if to their own persuasive force, we can add such a philosophy as hurries us upon them, and confirms us in them, what will be the consequence?
In a sculptured vase, which is the best; the silver, or the workmanship? In the hand the substance is flesh; but its operations are the principal thing. Accordingly, its functions are threefold; relating to its existence, to the manner of its existence, and to its principal operations. Thus, likewise, do not set a value on the mere materials of man, the flesh; but on the principal operations which belong to him.
“What are these?”
Engaging in public business, marrying, the production of children, the worship of God, the care of parents, and, in general, the regulation of our desires and aversions, our pursuits and avoidances, in accordance with our nature.
“What is our nature?”
To be free, noble spirited, modest. For what other animal blushes? What other has the idea of shame? But pleasure must be subjected to these, as an attendant and handmaid, to call forth our activity, and to keep us constant in natural operations.
“But I am rich and want nothing.”
Then why do you pretend to philosophize? Your gold and silver plate is enough for you. What need have you of principles?
“Besides, I am Judge of the Greeks.”
Do you know how to judge? Who has imparted this knowledge to you?
“Cæsar has given me a commission.”
Let him give you a commission to judge of music; what good will it do you? But how were you made a Judge? Whose hand have you kissed? That of Symphorus, or Numenius? Before whose door have you slept? To whom have you sent presents? After all, do you not perceive that the office of Judge puts you in the same rank with Numenius?
“But I can throw whom I please into a prison.”
So you may a stone.
“But I can beat whom I will too.”
So you may an ass. This is not a government over men. Govern us like reasonable creatures. Show us what is best for us, and we will pursue it; show us what is otherwise, and we will avoid it. Like Socrates, make us imitators of yourself. He was properly a governor of men, who controlled their desires and aversions, their pursuits, their avoidances. “Do this; do not that, or I will throw you into prison.” This is not a government for reasonable creatures. But “Do as Zeus hath commanded, or you will be punished, and be a loser.”
“What shall I lose?”
Simply your own right action, your fidelity, honor, decency. You can find no losses greater than these.
CHAPTER VIII.
HOW WE ARE TO EXERCISE OURSELVES AGAINST THE SEMBLANCES OF THINGS.
IN the same manner as we exercise ourselves against sophistical questions, we should exercise ourselves likewise in relation to such semblances as every day occur; for these, too, offer questions to us. Such a one’s son is dead. What think you of it? Answer; it is a thing inevitable, and therefore not an evil. Such a one is disinherited by his father. What think you of it? It is inevitable, and so not an evil. Cæsar has condemned him. This is inevitable, and so not an evil. He has been afflicted by it. This is controllable by Will; it is an evil. He has supported it bravely. This is within the control of Will; it is a good.
If we train ourselves in this manner we shall make improvement; for we shall never assent to anything but what the semblance itself includes. A son is dead. What then? A son is dead. Nothing more? Nothing. A ship is lost. What then? A ship is lost. He is carried to prison. What then? He is carried to prison. That he is unhappy is an addition that every one must make for himself. “But Zeus does not order these things rightly.” Why so. Because he has made you to be patient? Because he has made you to be brave? Because he has made them to be no evils? Because it is permitted you, while you suffer them, to be happy? Because he has opened you the door whenever they do not suit you? Go out, man, and do not complain!
If you would know how the Romans treat philosophers, hear. Italicus, esteemed one of the greatest philosophers among them, being in a passion with his own people, when I was by, said, as if he had suffered some intolerable evil, “I cannot bear it; you are the ruin of me; you will make me just like him”; pointing to me.
CHAPTER IX.
CONCERNING A CERTAIN ORATOR, WHO WAS GOING TO ROME ON A LAWSUIT.
A PERSON came to him who was going to Rome on a lawsuit in which his dignity was concerned; and, after telling him the occasion of his journey, asked him what he thought of the affair? If you ask me, says Epictetus, what will happen to you at Rome, and whether you shall gain or lose your cause, I have no suggestion as to that. But if you ask me, how you shall fare; I can answer, If you have right principles, well; if wrong ones, ill. For every action turns upon its principle. What was the reason that you so earnestly desired to be chosen Governor of the Gnossians? Principle. What is the reason that you are now going to Rome? Principle. And in winter too; and with danger, and expense? Why, because it is necessary. What tells you so? Your principle. If, then, principles are the source of all our actions, wherever any one has bad principles the effect will correspond to the cause. Well then; are all our principles sound? Are both yours and your antagonist’s? How then do you differ? Or are yours better than his? Why? You think so; and so thinks he of his; and so do madmen. This is a bad criterion. But show me that you have given some attention and care to your principles. As you now take a voyage to Rome for the government of the Gnossians, and are not contented to stay at home with the honors you before enjoyed, but desire something greater and more illustrious; did you ever take such a voyage in order to examine your own principles, and to throw away the bad ones, if you happened to have any? Did you ever apply to any one upon this account? What time did you ever appoint to yourself for it? What age? Run over your years. If you are ashamed of me, do it for yourself. Did you examine your principles when you were a child? Did not you act then as now? When you were a youth, and frequented the schools of the orators, and yourself made declamations, did you ever imagine that you were deficient in anything? And when you became a man, and entered upon public business, pleaded causes, and acquired credit, whom did you then recognize as your equal? How would you have borne that any one should examine whether your principles were bad? What, then, would you have me say to you?
“Assist me in this affair.”
I have no suggestion to offer for that. Neither are you come to me, if it be upon that account you came, as to a philosopher; but as you would come to an herb-seller or a shoemaker.
“For what purposes, then, can the philosophers give suggestions?”
For preserving and conducting the Reason conformably to Nature, whatever happens. Do you think this a small thing?
“No; but the greatest.”
Well; and does it require but a short time? and may it be taken as you pass by? If you can, take it then; and so you will say, “I have visited Epictetus.” Ay; just as you would visit a stone or a statue. For you have seen me, and nothing more. But he visits a man, as a man, who learns his principles; and, in return, shows his own. Learn my principles. Show me yours. Then say you have visited me. Let us confute each other. If I have any bad principle, take it away. If you have any, bring it forth. This is visiting a philosopher. No; but “It lies in our way; and, while we are about hiring a ship, we may call on Epictetus. Let us see what he says.” And then when you are gone, you say “Epictetus is nothing. His language was inaccurate, was barbarous.” For what else did you come to criticise? “Well; but if I employ myself in these things, I shall be without an estate, like you; without plate, without equipage, like you.” Nothing, perhaps, is necessary to be said to this, but that I do not want them. But, if you possess many things, you still want others; so that whether you will or not, you are poorer than I.
“What then do I need?”
What you have not; constancy; a mind conformable to Nature; and a freedom from perturbation. Patron, or no patron, what care I? But you do. I am richer than you. I am not anxious what Cæsar will think of me. I flatter no one on that account. This I have, instead of silver and gold plate. You have your vessels of gold; but your discourse, your principles, your opinions, your pursuits, your desires, are of mere earthen ware. When I have all these conformable to Nature, why should not I bestow some study upon my reasoning too? I am at leisure. My mind is under no distraction. In this freedom from distraction, what shall I do? Have I anything more becoming a man than this? You, when you have nothing to do, are restless; you go to the theatre, or perhaps to bathe. Why should not the philosopher polish his reasoning? You have fine crystal and myrrhine vases;* I have acute forms of arguing. To you, all you have appears little; to me all I have seems great. Your appetite is insatiable; mine is satisfied. When children thrust their hand into a narrow jar of nuts and figs, if they fill it, they cannot get it out again; then they begin crying. Drop a few of them, and you will get out the rest. And do you too drop your desire; do not demand much, and you will attain.
CHAPTER X.
IN WHAT MANNER WE OUGHT TO BEAR SICKNESS.
WE should have all our principles ready for use on every occasion. At dinner, such as relate to dinner; in the bath, such as relate to the bath; in the bed, such as relate to the bed.
- “Let not the stealing god of sleep surprise,
- Nor creep in slumbers on thy weary eyes,
- Ere every action of the former day
- Strictly thou dost, and righteously survey.
- What have I done? In what have I transgressed?
- What good, or ill, has this day’s life expressed?
- Where have I failed, in what I ought to do?
- If evil were thy deeds, repent and mourn,
- If good, rejoice.”*
We should retain these verses so as to apply them to our use; not merely to say them by rote, as we do with verses in honor of Apollo.
Again; in a fever, we should have such principles ready as relate to a fever; and not, as soon as we are taken ill, forget all. Provided I do but act like a philosopher, let what will happen. Some way or other depart I must from this frail body, whether a fever comes or not. What is it to be a philosopher? Is it not to be prepared against events? Do you not comprehend that you then say, in effect, “If I am but prepared to bear all events with calmness, let what will happen”; otherwise, you are like an athlete, who, after receiving a blow, should quit the combat. In that case, indeed, you might leave off without a penalty. But what shall we get by leaving off philosophy?
What, then, ought each of us to say upon every difficult occasion? “It was for this that I exercised; it was for this that I trained myself.” God says to you, give me a proof if you have gone through the preparatory combats according to rule; if you have followed a proper diet and proper exercise; if you have obeyed your master; — and, after this, do you faint at the very time of action?
Now is your time for a fever. Bear it well. For thirst; bear it well. For hunger; bear it well. Is it not in your power? Who shall restrain you? A physician may restrain you from drinking; but he cannot restrain you from bearing your thirst well. He may restrain you from eating; but he cannot restrain you from bearing hunger well. “But I cannot follow my studies.” And for what end do you follow them, slave? Is it not that you may be prosperous? That you may be constant? that you may think and act conformably to Nature? What restrains you, but that, in a fever, you may keep your Reason in harmony with Nature? Here is the test of the matter. Here is the trial of the philosopher; for a fever is a part of life, as is a walk, a voyage, or a journey. Do you read when you are walking? No; nor in a fever. But when you walk well, you attend to what belongs to a walker; so, if you bear a fever well, you have everything belonging to one in a fever. What is it to bear a fever well? Not to blame either God or man; not to be afflicted at what happens; to await death in a right and becoming manner; and to do what is to be done. When the physician enters, not to dread what he may say; nor, if he should tell you that you are doing well, to be too much rejoiced; for what good has he told you? When you were in health, what good did it do you? Not to be dejected when he tells you that you are very ill; for what is it to be very ill? To be near the separation of soul and body. What harm is there in this, then? If you are not near it now, will you not be near it hereafter? What, will the world be quite overturned when you die? Why, then, do you flatter your physician? Why do you say, “If you please, sir, I shall do well”? Why do you furnish an occasion to his pride? Why do not you treat a physician, with regard to an insignificant body, — which is not yours, but by nature mortal, — as you do a shoemaker about your foot, or a carpenter about a house? It is the season for these things, to one in a fever. If he fulfils these, he has what belongs to him. For it is not the business of a philosopher to take care of these mere externals, of his wine, his oil, or his body; but of his Reason. And how with regard to externals? Not to behave inconsiderately about them.
What occasion is there, then, for fear? What occasion for anger, for desire, about things that belong to others, or are of no value? For two rules we should always have ready, — that there is nothing good or evil save in the Will; and that we are not to lead events, but to follow them. “My brother ought not to have treated me so.” Very true; but he must see to that. However he treats me, I am to act rightly with regard to him; for the one is my own concern, the other is not; the one cannot be restrained, the other may.
CHAPTER XI.
MISCELLANEOUS.
THERE are some punishments appointed, as by a law, for such as disobey the Divine administration. Whoever shall esteem anything good, except what depends on the Will, let him envy, let him covet, let him flatter, let him be full of perturbation. Whoever esteems anything else to be evil, let him grieve, let him mourn, let him lament, let him be wretched. And yet, though thus severely punished, we cannot desist.
Remember what the poet says, of a guest.
- “It were not lawful to affront a guest,
- Even did the worst draw nigh.”*
This, too, you should be prepared to say with regard to a father, It is not lawful for me to affront you, father, even if a worse than you had come; for all are from paternal Zeus. And so of a brother; for all are from kindred Zeus. And thus we shall find Zeus to be the superintendent of all the other relations.
CHAPTER XII.
OF TRAINING.
WE are not to carry our training beyond Nature and Reason; for thus we, who call ourselves philosophers, shall not differ from jugglers. For it is no doubt difficult to walk upon a rope; and not only difficult, but dangerous. Ought we too, for that reason, to make it our study to walk upon a rope, or balance a pole,† or grasp a statue?‡ By no means. It is not everything difficult or dangerous that is a proper training; but such things as are conducive to what lies before us to do.
“And what is it that lies before us to do?”
To have our desires and aversions free from restraint.
“How is that?”
Not to be disappointed of our desire, nor incur our aversion. To this ought our training to be directed. For, without vigorous and steady training, it is not possible to preserve our desire undisappointed and our aversion unincurred; and, therefore, if we suffer it to be externally employed on things uncontrollable by Will, be assured that your desire will neither gain its object, nor your aversion avoid it.
And because habit has a powerful influence, and we are habituated to apply our desire and aversion to externals only, we must oppose one habit to another; and where the semblances are most treacherous, there oppose the force of training. I am inclined to pleasure. I will bend myself, even unduly, to the other side, as a matter of training. I am averse to pain. I will strive and wrestle with these semblances, that I may cease to shrink from any such object. For who is truly in training? He who endeavors totally to control desire, and to apply aversion only to things controllable by Will, and strives for it most in the most difficult cases. Hence different persons are to be trained in different ways. What signifies it, to this purpose, to balance a pole, or to go about with tent and implements [of exhibition]? If you are hasty, man, let it be your training to bear ill language patiently; and, when you are affronted, not to be angry. Thus, at length, you may arrive at such a proficiency as, when any one strikes you, to say to yourself, “Let me suppose this to be like grasping a statue.” Next, train yourself to make but a moderate use of wine, — not to drink a great deal, to which some are so foolish as to train themselves, — but to abstain from this first; and then to abstain from women and from gluttony. Afterwards you will venture into the lists at some proper season, by way of trial, if at all, to see whether these semblances get the better of you, as much as they used to do. But, at first, fly from what is stronger than you. The contest between a fascinating woman and a young man just initiated into philosophy is unequal. The brass pot and the earthen pitcher, as the fable says, are an unfair match.
Next to the desires and aversions, is the second class, of the pursuits and avoidances; that they may be obedient to reason; that nothing may be done improperly, in point of time and place, or in any other respect.
The third class relates to the faculty of assent and to what is plausible and persuasive. As Socrates said, that we are not to lead a life, which is not tested, so neither are we to admit an untested semblance; but to say, “Stop; let me see what you are, and whence you come,” just as the police say, “Show me your pass.” “Have you that indorsement from Nature which is necessary to the acceptance of every semblance?”
In short, whatever things are applied to the body by those who train it, so may these be used in our training if they any way affect desire or aversion. But if this be done for mere ostentation, it belongs to one who looks and seeks for something external, and strives for spectators to exclaim, “What a great man!” Hence Apollonius said well, “If you have a mind to train yourself for your own benefit, when you are choking with heat, take a little cold water in your mouth, and spit it out again, and hold your tongue.”
CHAPTER XIII.
WHAT SOLITUDE IS; AND WHAT A SOLITARY PERSON.
IT is solitude to be in the condition of a helpless person. For he who is alone is not therefore solitary, any more than one in a crowd is the contrary. When, therefore, we lose a son, or a brother, or a friend, on whom we have been used to repose, we often say we are left solitary, even in the midst of Rome, where such a crowd is continually meeting us; where we live among so many, and where we have, perhaps, a numerous train of servants. For he is understood to be solitary who is helpless, and exposed to such as would injure him. Hence, in a journey especially, we call ourselves solitary when we fall among thieves; for it is not the sight of a man that removes our solitude, but of an honest man, a man of honor, and a helpful companion. If merely being alone is sufficient for solitude, Zeus may be said to be solitary at the great conflagration,* and bewail himself that he hath neither Here, nor Athene, nor Apollo, nor brother, nor son, nor descendant, nor relation. This, some indeed say, he doth when he is alone at the conflagration. Such as these, moved by some natural principle, some natural desire of society, and mutual love, and by the pleasure of conversation, do not rightly consider the state of a person who is alone. But none the less should we be prepared for this also, to suffice unto ourselves, and to bear our own company. For as Zeus converses with himself, acquiesces in himself, and contemplates his own administration, and is employed in thoughts worthy of himself; so should we too be able to talk with ourselves, and not to need the conversation of others, nor suffer ennui; to attend to the divine administration; to consider our relation to other beings; how we have formerly been affected by events, how we are affected now; what are the things that still press upon us; how these too may be cured, how removed; if anything wants completing, to complete it according to reason. You perceive that Cæsar has procured us a profound peace; there are neither wars nor battles, nor great robberies nor piracies; but we may travel at all hours, and sail from east to west. But can Cæsar procure us peace from a fever too? From a shipwreck? From a fire? From an earthquake? From a thunder storm? Nay, even from love? He cannot. From grief? From envy? No; not from any one of these. But the doctrine of philosophers promises to procure us peace from these too. And what doth it say? “If you will attend to me, O mortals! wherever you are, and whatever you are doing, you shall neither grieve, nor be angry, nor be compelled, nor restrained; but you shall live serene, and free from all.” Shall not he who enjoys this peace proclaimed, not by Cæsar (for how should he have it to proclaim?) but by God, through Reason, — be contented when he is alone, reflecting and considering: “To me there can now no ill happen; there is no thief, no earthquake. All is full of peace, all full of tranquillity; every road, every city, every assembly, neighbor, companion, is powerless to hurt me.” Another whose care it is, provides you with food, with clothes, with senses, with ideas. Whenever He doth not provide what is necessary, He sounds a retreat; He opens the door, and says to you, “Come.” Whither? To nothing dreadful; but to that whence you were made; to what is friendly and congenial, to the elements. What in you was fire goes away to fire; what was earth, to earth; what air, to air; what water, to water. There is no Hades, nor Aclieron, nor Cocytus, nor Pyriphlegethon; but all is full of gods and divine beings. He who can have such thoughts, and can look upon the sun, moon, and stars, and enjoy the earth and sea, is no more solitary than he is helpless. “Well; but suppose any one should come and murder me when I am alone.” Foolish man; not you; but that insignificant body of yours.
What solitude is there then left? What destitution? Why do we make ourselves worse than children? What do they do when they are left alone? They take up shells and dust; they build houses, then pull them down; then build something else; and thus never want amusement. Suppose you were all to sail away; am I to sit and cry because I am left alone and solitary? Am I so unprovided with shells and dust? But children do this from folly; and shall we be wretched through wisdom?
Every great gift is dangerous to a beginner. Study first how to live like a person in sickness; that in time you may know how to live like one in health. Abstain from food. Drink water. Totally repress your desire, for some time, that you may at length use it according to reason; and, if so, when you are stronger in virtue, you will use it well. No; but we would live immediately as men already wise; and be of service to mankind. Of what service? What are you doing? Why; have you been of so much service to yourself that you would exhort them? You exhort! Would you be of service to them, show them by your own example what kind of men philosophy makes; and do not trifle. When you eat, be of service to those who eat with you; when you drink, to those who drink with you. Be of service to them by giving way to all, yielding to them, bearing with them; and not by venting upon them your own ill humor.
CHAPTER XIV.
MISCELLANEOUS.
AS bad performers cannot sing alone, but in a chorus; so some persons cannot walk alone. If you are anything, walk alone; talk by yourself; and do not skulk in the chorus. Think a little at last; look about you; sift yourself that you may know what you are.
If a person drinks water, or does anything else for the sake of training, upon every occasion he tells all he meets, “I drink water.” Why, do you drink water merely for the sake of drinking it? If it does you any good to drink it, do so; if not, you act ridiculously. But, if it is for your advantage that you drink it, say nothing about it before those who would criticise. Yet can it be possible that these are the very people you wish to please?
Of actions, some are performed on their own account; others from circumstances, others from complaisance, others upon system.
Two things must be rooted out of men, conceit and diffidence. Conceit lies in thinking that you want nothing; and diffidence in supposing it impossible that under such adverse circumstances, you should ever succeed. Now conceit is removed by confutation; and of this Socrates set the example. And consider and ascertain that the undertaking is not impracticable. The inquiry itself will do you no harm; and it is almost being a philosopher to inquire how it is possible to employ our desire and aversion without hindrance.
“I am better than you; for my father has been consul.” — “I have been a tribune,” says another, “and you not.” If we were horses, would you say, “My father was swifter than yours? I have abundance of oats and hay and fine trappings?” What now, if, while you were saying this, I should answer: “Be it so. Let us run a race then.” Is there nothing in man analogous to a race in horses, by which it may be decided which is better or worse? Is there not honor, fidelity, justice? Show yourself the better in these, that you may be the better as a man. But if you only tell me that you can kick violently, I will tell you again that you value yourself on what is the property of an ass.
CHAPTER XV.*
THAT EVERYTHING IS TO BE UNDERTAKEN WITH CIRCUMSPECTION.
IN every affair consider what precedes and follows, and then undertake it. Otherwise you will begin with spirit indeed, careless of the consequences, and when these are developed, you will shamefully desist. “I would conquer at the Olympic Games.” But consider what precedes and follows, and, then, if it be for your advantage, engage in the affair. You must conform to rules, submit to a diet, refrain from dainties; exercise your body, whether you choose it or not, at a stated hour, in heat and cold; you must drink no cold water, and sometimes no wine. In a word, you must give yourself up to your trainer as to a physician. Then, in the combat, you may be thrown into a ditch, dislocate your arm, turn your ankle, swallow abundance of dust, receive stripes [for negligence]; and after all, lose the victory. When you have reckoned up all this, if your inclination still holds, set about the combat. Otherwise, take notice, you will behave like children who sometimes play wrestlers, sometimes gladiators; sometimes blow a trumpet, and sometimes act a tragedy, when they happen to have seen and admired these shows. Thus you too will be at one time a wrestler, at another a gladiator; now a philosopher, now an orator; but nothing in earnest. Like an ape you mimic all you see, and one thing after another is sure to please you; but is out of favor as soon as it becomes familiar. For you have never entered upon anything considerately, nor after having surveyed and tested the whole matter; but carelessly, and with a half-way zeal. Thus some, when they have seen a philosopher, and heard a man speaking like Euphrates,* — though indeed who can speak like him? — have a mind to be philosophers too. Consider first, man, what the matter is, and what your own nature is able to bear. If you would be a wrestler, consider your shoulders, your back, your thighs; for different persons are made for different things. Do you think that you can act as you do and be a philosopher? That you can eat, drink, be angry, be discontented, as you are now? You must watch, you must labor, you must get the better of certain appetites; must quit your acquaintances, be despised by your servant, be laughed at by those you meet; come off worse than others in everything, in offices, in honors, before tribunals. When you have fully considered all these things, approach, if you please; if, by parting with them, you have a mind to purchase serenity, freedom, and tranquillity. If not, do not come hither; do not, like children, be now a philosopher, then a publican, then an orator, and then one of Cæsar’s officers. These things are not consistent. You must be one man either good or bad. You must cultivate either your own Reason or else externals; apply yourself either to things within or without you; that is, be either a philosopher, or one of the mob.
CHAPTER XVI.
THAT CAUTION SHOULD BE USED, AS TO PERSONAL FAMILIARITY.
HE who frequently mingles with others, either in conversation or at entertainments, or in any familiar way of living, must necessarily either become like his companions, or bring them over to his own way. For, if a dead coal be applied to a live one, either the first will quench the last, or the last kindle the first. Since, then, the danger is so great, caution must be used in entering into these familiarities with the crowd; remembering that it is impossible to touch a chimney-sweeper without being partaker of his soot. For what will you do, if you have to discuss gladiators, horses, wrestlers, and, what is worse, men? “Such a one is good, another bad; this was well, that ill done.” Besides, what if any one should sneer, or ridicule, or be ill-natured? Are any of you prepared, like a harper, who, when he takes his harp, and tries the strings, finds out which notes are discordant, and knows how to put the instrument in tune? Have any of you such a faculty as Socrates had; who in every conversation, could bring his companions to his own purpose? Whence should you have it? You must therefore be carried along by the crowd. And why are they more powerful than you? Because they utter their corrupt discourses from sincere opinion, and you your good ones only from your lips. Hence they are without strength or life; and it is disgusting to hear your exhortations and your poor miserable virtue proclaimed up hill and down. Thus it is that the crowd gets the better of you; for sincere opinion is always strong, always invincible. Therefore before wise sentiments are fixed in you, and you have acquired some power of self-defence, I advise you to be cautious in popular intercourse, otherwise, if you have any impressions made on you in the schools, they will melt away daily like wax before the sun. Get away then, far from the sun, while you have these waxen opinions.
It is for this reason that the philosophers advise us to leave our country; because habitual practices draw the mind aside, and prevent the formation of new habits. We cannot bear that those who meet us should say, “Hey-day! such a one is turned philosopher, who was formerly thus and so.” Thus physicians send patients with lingering distempers to another place and another air; and they do right. Do you too import other manners instead of those you carry out. Fix your opinions, and exercise yourself in them. No; but you go hence to the theatre, to the gladiators, to the walks, to the circus; then hither again, then back again; — just the same persons all the while! No good habit, no criticism, no animadversion upon ourselves. No observation what use we make of the appearances presented to our minds; whether it be conformable, or contrary to Nature; whether we interpret them rightly or wrongly. Can I say to the inevitable that it is nothing to me? If this be not yet your case, fly from your former habits: fly from the crowd if you would ever begin to be anything.
CHAPTER XVII.
OF PROVIDENCE.
WHENEVER you lay anything to the charge of Providence, do but reflect, and you will find that it has happened agreeably to Reason.
“Well; but a dishonest man has the advantage.”
In what?
“In money.”
Here he ought to surpass you; because he flatters, he is shameless, he keeps awake. Where is the wonder? But look whether he has the advantage of you in fidelity or in honor. You will find he has not; but that wherever it is best for you to have the advantage of him, there you have it. I once said to one who was full of indignation at the good fortune of Philostrogus, “Why, would you be willing to sleep with Sura?”* Heaven forbid, said he, that day should ever come! Why then are you angry that he is paid for what he sells; or how can you call him happy in possessions acquired by means which you detest? Or what harm does Providence do in giving the best things to the best men? Is it not better to have a sense of honor than to be rich? “Granted.” Why then are you angry, man, if you have what is best? Always remember, then, and have it in mind that a better man has the advantage of a worse in that direction in which he is better; and you will never have any indignation.
“But my wife treats me ill.”
Well; if you are asked what is the matter, answer, “My wife treats me ill.”
“Nothing more?”
Nothing.
“My father gives me nothing.” But to denominate this an evil, some external and false addition must be made. We are not therefore to get rid of poverty, but of our impressions concerning it; and we shall do well.
When Galba was killed, somebody said to Rufus, “Now, indeed, the world is governed by Providence.” I had never thought, answered Rufus, of extracting through Galba the slightest proof that the world was governed by Providence.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THAT WE OUGHT NOT TO BE ALARMED, BY ANY NEWS THAT IS BROUGHT US.
WHEN any alarming news is brought you, always have it ready in mind that no news can be brought you concerning what is within the power of your own Will. Can any one bring you news that your opinions or desires are ill conducted? By no means; only that such a person is dead. What is that to you then? — That somebody speaks ill of you. And what is that to you then? — That your father is perhaps forming some contrivance or other. Against what? Against your Will? How can he? No; but against your body, against your estate? You are very safe; this is not against you. — But the Judge has pronounced you guilty of impiety. And did not the Judges pronounce the same of Socrates? Is his pronouncing a sentence any business of yours? No. Then why do you any longer trouble yourself about it? There is a duty incumbent on your father, which unless he performs, he loses the character of a father, of natural affection, of tenderness. Do not desire him to lose anything else, by this; for every man suffers precisely where he errs. Your duty, on the other hand, is to meet the case with firmness, modesty, and mildness; otherwise you forfeit piety, modesty, and nobleness. Well; and is your Judge free from danger? No. He runs an equal hazard. Why, then, are you still afraid of his decision? What have you to do with the ills of another? Meeting the case wrongly would be your own ill. Let it be your only care to avoid that; but whether sentence is passed on you, or not, as it is the business of another, so the ill belongs to him. “Such a one threatens you.” Me? No. “He censures you.” Let him look to it, how he does his own duty. “He will give an unjust sentence against you.” Poor wretch!
CHAPTER XIX.
WHAT IS THE COMPARATIVE CONDITION OF THE PHILOSOPHER, AND OF THE CROWD.
THE first difference between one of the crowd and a philosopher is this; the one says, “I am undone on the account of my child, my brother, my father”; but the other, if ever he be obliged to say, “I am undone!” reflects, and adds, “on account of myself.” For the Will cannot be restrained or hurt by anything to which the Will does not extend, but only by itself. If, therefore, we always would incline this way, and, whenever we are unsuccessful, would lay the fault on ourselves, and remember that there is no cause of perturbation and inconstancy, but wrong principles, I pledge myself to you that we should make some proficiency. But we set out in a very different way from the very beginning. In infancy, for example, if we happen to stumble, our nurse does not chide us, but beats the stone. Why; what harm has the stone done? Was it to move out of its place for the folly of your child? Again; if we do not find something to eat when we come out of the bath, our tutor does not try to moderate our appetite, but beats the cook. Why; did we appoint you tutor of the cook, man? No; but of our child. It is he whom you are to correct and improve. By these means, even when we are grown up, we appear children. For an unmusical person is a child in music; an illiterate person, a child in learning; and an untaught one, a child in life.
CHAPTER XX.
THAT SOME ADVANTAGE MAY BE GAINED FROM EVERY OUTWARD CIRCUMSTANCE.
IN considering sensible phenomena, almost all persons admit good and evil to lie in ourselves and not in externals. No one says it is good to be day; evil to be night; and the greatest evil that three should be four; but what? That knowledge is good and error evil. Even in connection with falsehood itself there may be one good thing; the knowledge that it is falsehood. Thus, then, should it be in life also. “Health is a good; sickness an evil.” No, sir. But what? A right use of health is a good; a wrong one, an evil. So that, in truth, it is possible to be a gainer even by sickness. And is it not possible by death too? By mutilation? Do you think Menæceus* an inconsiderable gainer by death? “May whoever talks thus be such a gainer as he was!” Why, pray, sir, did not he preserve his patriotism, his magnanimity, his fidelity, his gallant spirit? And, if he had lived on, would he not have lost all these? Would not cowardice, baseness, and hatred of his country, and a wretched love of life, have been his portion? Well now; do not you think him a considerable gainer by dying? No; but I warrant you the father of Admetus was a great gainer by living on in so mean-spirited and wretched a way as he did! For did not he die at last? For Heaven’s sake cease to be thus deluded by externals. Cease to make yourselves slaves; first, of things, and, then, upon their account, of the men who have the power either to bestow, or to take them away. Is there any advantage, then, to be gained from these men? From all; even from a reviler. What advantage does a wrestler gain from him with whom he exercises himself before the combat? The greatest. And just in the same manner I exercise myself with this man. He exercises me in patience, in gentleness, in meekness. I am to suppose, then, that I gain an advantage from him who exercises my neck, and puts my back and shoulders in order; so that the trainer may well bid me grapple him, with both hands, and the heavier he is the better for me; and yet it is no advantage to me when I am exercised in gentleness of temper! This is not to know how to gain an advantage from men. Is my neighbor a bad one? He is so to himself; but a good one to me. He exercises my good-temper, my moderation. Is my father bad? To himself; but not to me. “This is the rod of Hermes. Touch with it whatever you please, and it will become gold.” No; but bring whatever you please, and I will turn it into good. Bring sickness, death, want, reproach, trial for life. All these, by the rod of Hermes, shall turn to advantage. “What will you make of death?” Why, what but an ornament to you? what but a means of your showing, by action, what that man is who knows and follows the will of Nature. “What will you make of sickness?” I will show its nature. I will make a good figure in it; I will be composed and happy; I will not beseech my physician, nor yet will I pray to die. What need you ask further? Whatever you give me, I will make it happy, fortunate, respectable, and eligible.
No, but, “take care not to be sick; — it is an evil.” Just as if one should say, “Take care that the semblance of three being four does not present itself to you. It is an evil.” How an evil, man? If I think as I ought about it, what hurt will it any longer do me? Will it not rather be even an advantage to me? If then I think as I ought of poverty, of sickness, of political disorder, is not that enough for me? Why then must I any longer seek good or evil in externals?
But how is it? These truths are admitted here; but nobody carries them home, for immediately every one is in a state of war with his servant, his neighbors, with those who sneer and ridicule him. Many thanks to Lespius for proving every day that I know nothing.
CHAPTER XXI.
CONCERNING THOSE WHO READILY SET UP FOR SOPHISTS.
THEY who have merely received bare maxims are presently inclined to throw them up, as a sick stomach does its food. Digest it, and then you will not throw it up; otherwise it will be crude and impure, and unfit for nourishment. But show us, from what you have digested, some change in your ruling faculty; as wrestlers do in their shoulders, from their exercise and their diet; as artificers, in their skill, from what they have learnt. A carpenter does not come and say, “Hear me discourse on the art of building”; but he hires a building, and fits it up, and shows himself master of his trade. Let it be your business likewise to do something like this; be manly in your ways of eating, drinking, dressing; marry, have children, perform the duty of a citizen; bear reproach; bear with an unreasonable brother; bear with a father; bear with a son, a neighbor, a companion, as becomes a man. Show us these things, that we may see that you have really learned something from the philosophers. No; but “come and hear me repeat commentaries.” Get you gone, and seek somebody else upon whom to bestow them. “Nay, but I will explain the doctrines of Chrysippus to you as no other person can; I will elucidate his style in the clearest manner.” And is it for this, then, that young men leave their country, and their own parents, that they may come and hear you explain words? Ought they not to return patient, active, free from passion, free from perturbation; furnished with such a provision for life, that, setting out with it, they will be able to bear all events well, and derive ornament from them? But how should you impart what you have not? For have you yourself done anything else, from the beginning, but spend your time in solving syllogisms and convertible propositions and interrogatory arguments. “But such a one has a school, and why should not I have one?” Foolish man, these things are not brought about carelessly and at haphazard. But there must be a fit age, and a method of life, and a guiding God. Is it not so? No one quits the port, or sets sail, till he hath sacrified to the gods, and implored their assistance; nor do men sow without first invoking Ceres. And shall any one who has undertaken so great a work attempt it safely without the gods? And shall they who apply to such a one, apply to him with success? What are you doing else, man, but divulging the mysteries? As if you said, “There is a temple at Eleusis, and here is one too. There is a priest, and I will make a priest here; there is a herald, and I will appoint a herald too; there is a torch-bearer, and I will have a torch-bearer; there are torches, and so shall there be here. The words said, the things done, are the same. Where is the difference betwixt one and the other?” Most impious man! is there no difference? Are these things of use, out of place, and out of time? A man should come with sacrifices and prayers, previously purified, and his mind affected by the knowledge that he is approaching sacred and ancient rites. Thus the mysteries become useful; thus we come to have an idea that all these things were appointed by the ancients for the instruction and correction of life. But you divulge and publish them without regard to time and place, without sacrifices, without purity; you have not the garment that is necessary for a priest, nor the fitting hair nor girdle; nor the voice, nor the age, nor have you purified yourself like him. But, when you have got the words by heart, you say, “The mere words are sacred of themselves.” These things are to be approached in another manner. It is a great, it is a mystical affair; not given by chance, or to every one indifferently. Nay, mere wisdom, perhaps, is not a sufficient qualification for the care of youth. There ought to be likewise a certain readiness and aptitude for this, and indeed a particular physical temperament: and, above all, a counsel from God to undertake this office, as he counselled Socrates to undertake the office of confutation; Diogenes, that of authoritative reproof; Zeno, that of dogmatical instruction. But you set up for a physician, provided with nothing but medicines, and without knowing, or having studied, where or how they are to be applied. “Why, such a one had medicines for the eyes, and I have the same.” Have you also, then, a faculty of making use of them? Do you at all know when, and how, and to whom, they will be of service? Why then do you act at hazard? Why are you careless in things of the greatest importance? Why do you attempt a matter unsuitable to you? Leave it to those who can perform it and do it honor. Do not you too bring a scandal upon philosophy by your means; nor be one of those who cause the thing itself to be calumniated. But if mere theorems delight you, sit quietly and turn them over by yourself; but never call yourself a philosopher, nor suffer another to call you so; but say: he is mistaken; for my desires are not different from what they were; nor my pursuits directed to other objects; nor my assents otherwise given; nor have I at all made any change from my former condition in the use of things as they appear. Think and speak thus of yourself, if you would think as you ought; if not, act at random, and do as you do; for it is appropriate to you.
CHAPTER XXII.
OF THE CYNIC PHILOSOPHY.
WHEN one of his scholars, who seemed inclined to the Cynic philosophy, asked him what a Cynic must be, and what was the general plan of that sect? Let us examine it, he said, at our leisure. But thus much I can tell you now, that he who attempts so great an affair without divine guidance is an object of divine wrath, and would only bring public dishonor upon himself. For in a well-regulated house no one comes and says to himself, “I ought to be the manager here.” If he does, and the master returns and sees him insolently giving orders, he drags him out, and has him punished. Such is the case likewise in this great city. For here, too, is a master of the family who orders everything. “You are the sun; you can, by making a circuit, form the year and the seasons, and increase and nourish the fruits; you can raise and calm the winds, and give an equable warmth to the bodies of men. Go; make your circuit, and thus move everything from the greatest to the least. You are a calf; when the lion appears act accordingly, or you will suffer for it. You are a bull; come and fight; for that is incumbent on you, and becomes you, and you can do it. You can lead an army to Troy; be you Agamemnon. You can engage in single combat with Hector; be you Achilles.” But if Thersites had come and claimed the command, either he would not have obtained it; or, if he had, he would have disgraced himself before so many more witnesses.
Do you, too, carefully deliberate upon this underdertaking; it is not what you think it. “I wear an old cloak now, and I shall have one then. I sleep upon the hard ground now, and I shall sleep so then. I will moreover take a wallet and a staff, and go about, and beg of those I meet, and begin by rebuking them; and, if I see any one using effeminate practices, or arranging his curls, or walking in purple, I will rebuke him.” If you imagine this to be the whole thing, avaunt; come not near it: it belongs not to you. But, if you imagine it to be what it really is, and do not think yourself unworthy of it, consider how great a thing you undertake.
First, with regard to yourself; you must no longer, in any instance, appear as now. You must accuse neither God nor man. You must altogether control desire; and must transfer aversion to such things only as are controllable by Will. You must have neither anger, nor resentment, nor envy, nor pity. Neither boy, nor girl, nor fame, nor dainties, must have charms for you. For you must know that other men indeed fence themselves with walls, and houses, and darkness, when they indulge in anything of this kind, and have many concealments; a man shuts the door, places somebody before the apartment: “Say that he is out; say that he is engaged.” But the Cynic, instead of all this, must fence himself with virtuous shame; otherwise he will be improperly exposed in the open air. This is his house, this his door, this his porter, this his darkness. He must not wish to conceal anything relating to himself; for, if he does, he is gone; he has lost the Cynic character, the openness, the freedom; he has begun to fear something external; he has begun to need concealment; nor can he get it when he will. For where shall he conceal himself, or how? For if this tutor, this pedagogue of the public, should happen to slip, what must he suffer? Can he then, who dreads these things, be thoroughly bold within, and prescribe to other men? Impracticable, impossible.
In the first place, then, you must purify your own ruling faculty, to match this method of life. Now the material for me to work upon is my own mind; as wood is for a carpenter, or leather for a shoemaker; and my business is, a right use of things as they appear. But body is nothing to me: its parts nothing to me. Let death come when it will; either of the whole body or of part. “Go into exile.” And whither? Can any one turn me out of the universe? He cannot. But wherever I go, there is the sun, the moon, the stars, dreams, auguries, communication with God. And even this preparation is by no means sufficient for a true Cynic. But it must further be known that he is a messenger sent from Zeus to men, concerning good and evil; to show them that they are mistaken, and seek the essence of good and evil where it is not, but do not observe it where it is; that he is a spy, like Diogenes, when he was brought to Philip, after the battle of Chæronea. For, in effect, a Cynic is a spy to discover what things are friendly, what hostile, to man; and he must, after making an accurate observation, come and tell them the truth; not be struck with terror, so as to point out to them enemies where there are none; nor, in any other instance, be disconcerted or confounded by appearances.
He must, then, if it should so happen, be able to lift up his voice, to come upon the stage, and say, like Socrates: “O mortals, whither are you hurrying? What are you about? Why do you tumble up and down, O miserable wretches! like blind men? You are going the wrong way, and have forsaken the right. You seek prosperity and happiness in a wrong place, where they are not; nor do you give credit to another, who shows you where they are. Why do you seek this possession without? It lies not in the body; if you do not believe me, look at Myro, look at Ofellius. It is not in wealth; if you do not believe me, look upon Crœsus; look upon the rich of the present age, how full of lamentation their life is. It is not in power; for otherwise, they who have been twice and thrice consuls must be happy; but they are not. To whom shall we give heed in these things? To you who look only upon the externals of their condition, and are dazzled by appearances, — or to themselves? What do they say? Hear them when they groan, when they sigh, when they pronounce themselves the more wretched and in more danger from these very consulships, this glory and splendor. It is not in empire; otherwise Nero and Sardanapalus had been happy. But not even Agamemnon was happy, though a better man than Sardanapalus or Nero. But, when others sleep soundly what is he doing?
“Forth by the roots he rends his hairs.”*
And what does he himself say?
“I wander bewildered; my heart leaps forth from my bosom.”
Why; which of your affairs goes ill, poor wretch? Your possessions? No. Your body? No. But you have gold and brass in abundance. What then goes ill? That part of you is neglected and corrupted, whatever it be called, by which we desire, and shrink; by which we pursue, and avoid. How neglected? It is ignorant of that for which it was naturally formed, of the essence of good, and of the essence of evil. It is ignorant what is its own, and what another’s. And, when anything belonging to others goes ill, it says, “I am undone; the Greeks are in danger!” (Poor ruling faculty! which alone is neglected, and has no care taken of it.) “They will die by the sword of the Trojans!” And, if the Trojans should not kill them, will they not die? “Yes, but not all at once.” Why, where is the difference? For if it be an evil to die, then whether it be all at once or singly, it is equally an evil. Will anything more happen than the separation of soul and body? “Nothing.” And, when the Greeks perish, is the door shut against you? Is it not in your power to die? “It is.” Why then do you lament, while you are a king and hold the sceptre of Zeus? A king is no more to be made unfortunate than a god. What are you, then? You are a mere shepherd, truly so called; for you weep, just as shepherds do when the wolf seizes any of their sheep; and they who are governed by you are mere sheep. But why do you come hither? Was your desire in any danger? Your aversion? Your pursuits? Your avoidances? “No,” he says, “but my brother’s wife has been stolen.” Is it not great good luck, then, to be rid of an adulterous wife? “But must we be held in contempt by the Trojans?” What are they? Wise men, or fools? If wise, why do you go to war with them? If fools, why do you heed them?
Where, then, does our good lie, since it does not lie in these things? Tell us, sir, you who are our messenger and spy. Where you do not think, nor are willing to seek it. For, if you were willing, you would find it in yourselves; nor would you wander abroad, nor seek what belongs to others, as your own. Turn your thoughts upon yourselves. Consider the impressions which you have. What do you imagine good to be? What is prosperous, happy, unhindered. Well; and do you not naturally imagine it great? Do you not imagine it valuable? Do you not imagine it incapable of being hurt? Where then, must you seek prosperity and exemption from hindrance? In that which is enslaved, or free? “In the free.” Is your body, then, enslaved, or free? We do not know. Do you not know that it is the slave of fever, gout, defluxion, dysentery; of a tyrant; of fire, steel; of everything stronger than itself? “Yes, it is a slave.” How, then, can anything belonging to the body be unhindered? And how can that be great or valuable, which is by nature lifeless, earth, clay? What, then, have you nothing free? “Possibly nothing.” Why, who can compel you to assent to what appears false? No one. Or who, not to assent to what appears true? No one. Here, then, you see that there is something in you naturally free. But which of you can desire or shun, or use his active powers of pursuit or avoidance, or prepare or plan anything, unless he has been impressed by an appearance of its being for his advantage or his duty? No one. You have then, in these too, something unrestrained and free. Cultivate this, unfortunates; take care of this; seek for good here. “But how is it possible that a man destitute, naked, without house or home, squalid, unattended, an outcast, can lead a prosperous life?” See; God hath sent us one, to show in practice that it is possible. “Take notice of me that I am without a country, without a house, without an estate, without a servant; I lie on the ground; have no wife, no children, no coat; but have only earth and heaven and one poor cloak. And what need I? Am not I without sorrow, without fear? Am not I free? Did any of you ever see me disappointed of my desire, or incurring my aversion? Did I ever blame God or man? Did I ever accuse any one? Have any of you seen me look discontented? How do I treat those whom you fear and of whom you are struck with awe? Is it not like poor slaves? Who that sees me does not think that he sees his own king and master?” This is the language, this the character, this the undertaking, of a Cynic. No, [but you think only of] the wallet and the staff and a large capacity of swallowing and appropriating whatever is given you; abusing unseasonably those you meet, or showing your bare arm. Do you consider how you shall attempt so important an undertaking? First take a mirror. View your shoulders, examine your back, your loins. It is the Olympic Games, man, for which you are to be entered; not a poor slight contest. In the Olympic Games a champion is not allowed merely to be conquered and depart; but must first be disgraced in the view of the whole world, not of the Athenians alone, or Spartans, or Nicopolitans; and, then, he who has prematurely departed must be whipped too; and, before that, must have suffered thirst, and heat, and have swallowed an abundance of dust.
Consider carefully, know yourself, consult the Divinity; attempt nothing without God; for, if he counsels you, be assured that it is his will, whether that you should become eminent, or that you should suffer many a blow. For there is this fine circumstance connected with the character of a Cynic, that he must be beaten like an ass, and yet, when beaten, must love those who beat him as the father, as the brother of all.
“No, to be sure; but, if anybody beats you, stand publicly and roar out ‘O! Cæsar, am I to suffer such things in breach of your peace? Let us go before the Proconsul.’ ”
But what is Cæsar to a Cynic, or what is the Proconsul, or any one else, but Zeus, who hath deputed him, and whom he serves. Does he invoke any other but him? And is he not persuaded that, whatever he suffers of this sort, it is Zeus who doth it to exercise him? Now Hercules, when he was exercised by Eurystheus, did not think himself miserable; but executed with alacrity all that was to be done. And shall he who is appointed to the combat, and exercised by Zeus, cry out and take offence at things? A worthy person, truly, to bear the sceptre of Diogenes! Hear what he in a fever, said to those who were passing by.* “Foolish men, why do you not stay? Do you take such a journey to Olympia to see the destruction or combat of the champions; and have you no inclination to see the combat between a man and a fever?” Such a one, who took a pride in difficult circumstances, and thought himself worthy to be a spectacle to those who passed by, was a likely person indeed to accuse God, who had deputed him, as treating him unworthily! For what subject of accusation shall he find? That he preserves a decency of behavior? With what does he find fault? That he sets his own virtue in a clearer light? Well; and what does he say of poverty? Of death? Of pain? How did he compare his happiness with that of the Persian king; or rather, thought it beyond comparison! For amidst perturbations, and griefs, and fears, and disappointed desires, and incurred aversions, how can there be any entrance for happiness? And where there are corrupt principles, there must all these things necessarily be.
— The same young man inquiring, whether, if a friend should desire to come to him and take care of him when he was sick, he should comply? And where, says Epictetus, will you find me the friend of a Cynic? For to be worthy of being numbered among his friends, a person ought to be such another as himself; he ought to be a partner of the sceptre and the kingdom, and a worthy minister, if he would be honored with his friendship; as Diogenes was the friend of Antisthenes; as Crates, of Diogenes. Do you think that he who only comes to him, and salutes him, is his friend; and that he will think him worthy of being entertained as such? If such a thought comes into your head, rather look round you for some desirable dunghill to shelter you in your fever from the north wind, that you may not perish by taking cold. But you seem to me to prefer to get into somebody’s house, and to be well fed there awhile. What business have you then, even to attempt so important an undertaking as this?
“But,” said the young man, “will marriage and parentage be recognized as important duties by a Cynic?”
Grant me a community of sages, and no one there, perhaps, will readily apply himself to the Cynic philosophy. For on whose account should he there embrace that method of life? However, supposing he does, there will be nothing to restrain him from marrying and having children. For his wife will be such another as himself; his father-in-law such another as himself; and his children will be brought up in the same manner. But as the state of things now is, like that of an army prepared for battle, is it not necessary that a Cynic should be without distraction;* entirely attentive to the service of God; at liberty to walk among mankind, not tied down to common duties, nor entangled in relations, which if he transgresses, he will no longer keep the character of a wise and good man; and which if he observes, there is an end of him, as the messenger, and spy, and herald of the gods? For consider, there are some offices due to his father-in-law; some to the other relations of his wife; some to his wife herself: besides, after this, he is confined to the care of his family when sick, and to providing for their support. At the very least, he must have a vessel to warm water in, to bathe his child; there must be wool, oil, a bed, a cup, for his wife, after her delivery; and thus the furniture increases; more business, more distraction. Where, for the future, is this king whose time is devoted to the public good?
“To whom the people are trusted, and many a care.”*
Who ought to superintend others, married men, fathers of children; — whether one treats his wife well or ill; who quarrels; which family is well regulated; which not; — like a physician who goes about and feels the pulse of his patients: “You have a fever; you the headache; you the gout. Do you abstain from food; do you eat; do you omit bathing; you must have an incision made: you be cauterized.” Where shall he have leisure for this who is tied down to common duties? Must he not provide clothes for his children; and send them with pens, and ink, and paper, to a schoolmaster? Must he not provide a bed for them, — for they cannot be Cynics from their very birth? — Otherwise, it would have been better to expose them, as soon as they were born, than to kill them thus. Do you see to what we bring down our Cynic? How we deprive him of his kingdom? “Well, but Crates* was married.” The case of which you speak was a particular one, arising from love; and the woman was another Crates. But we are inquiring about ordinary and common marriages; and in this inquiry we do not find the affair much suited to the condition of a Cynic.
“How then shall he keep up society?”
For Heaven’s sake, do they confer a greater benefit upon the world, who leave two or three brats in their stead, than those who, so far as possible, oversee all mankind; what they do, how they live; what they attend to, what they neglect, in spite of their duty. Did all those who left children to the Thebans do them more good than Epaminondas, who died childless? And did Priam who was the father of fifty profligates, or Danaus, or Æolus, conduce more to the advantage of society than Homer? Shall a military command, or any other post, then, exempt a man from marrying and becoming a father, so that he shall be thought to have made sufficient amends for the want of children; and shall not the kingdom of a Cynic be a proper compensation for it? Perhaps we do not understand his grandeur, nor duly represent to ourselves the character of Diogenes; but we think of Cynics as they are now, who stand like dogs watching at tables, and who have only the lowest things in common with the others; else things like these would not move us, nor should we be astonished that a Cynic will not marry nor have children. Consider, sir, that he is the father of mankind; that all men are his sons, and all women his daughters. Thus he attends to all; thus takes care of all. What! do you think it is from impertinence that he rebukes those he meets? He does it as a father, as a brother, as a minister of the common parent, Zeus.
Ask me, if you please, too, whether a Cynic will engage in the administration of the commonwealth. What commonwealth do you inquire after, foolish man, greater than what he administers? Why should he harangue among the Athenians about revenues and taxes, whose business it is to debate with all mankind; with the Athenians, Corinthians, and Romans, equally; not about taxes and revenues, or peace and war, but about happiness and misery, prosperity and adversity, slavery and freedom. Do you ask me whether a man engages in the administration of the commonwealth who administers such a commonwealth as this? Ask me, too, whether he will accept any command? I will answer you again, What command, foolish one, is greater than that which he now exercises?
But he has need of a constitution duly qualified; for, if he should appear consumptive, thin, and pale, his testimony has no longer the same authority. For he must not only give a proof to the vulgar, by the constancy of his mind, that it is possible to be a man of weight and merit without those things that strike them with admiration; but he must show, too, by his body, that a simple and frugal diet, under the open air, does no injury to the constitution. “See, I and my body bear witness to this.” As Diogenes did; for he went about in hale condition, and gained the attention of the many by his mere physical aspect. But a Cynic in poor condition seems a mere beggar; all avoid him, all are offended at him; for he ought not to appear slovenly, so as to drive people from him; but even his indigence should be clean and attractive.
Much natural tact and acuteness are likewise necessary in a Cynic (otherwise he is almost worthless); that he may be able to give an answer, readily and pertinently, upon every occasion. So Diogenes, to one who asked him, “are you that Diogenes who does not believe there are any gods?” — How so, replied he, when I think you odious to them? Again; when Alexander surprised him sleeping, and repeated,
“To sleep all the night becomes not a man who gives counsel”;*
before he was quite awake, he responded,
“To whom the people are trusted, and many a care.”
But, above all, the reason of the man must be clearer than the sun; otherwise he must necessarily be a common cheat and a rascal, if, while himself guilty of some vice, he reproves others. For consider how the case stands. Arms and guards give a power to common kings and tyrants of reproving and of punishing delinquents, though they be wicked themselves; but to a Cynic, instead of arms and guards, conscience gives this power; when he knows that he has watched and labored for mankind; that he has slept pure, and waked still purer; and that he hath regulated all his thoughts as the friend, as the minister of the gods, as a partner of the empire of Zeus; that he is ready to say, upon all occasions,
“Conduct me, Zeus, and thou, O Destiny.”*
And, “if it thus pleases the gods, thus let it be.” Why should he not dare to speak boldly to his own brethren, to his children; in a word, to his kindred? Hence he, who is thus qualified, is neither impertinent nor a busybody: for he is not busied about the affairs of others, but his own, when he oversees the transactions of men. Otherwise call a general a busybody, when he oversees, inspects, and watches his soldiers and punishes the disorderly. But, if you reprove others, at the very time that you have booty under your own arm, I will ask you, if you had not better go into a corner, and eat up what you have stolen? But what have you to do with the concerns of others? For what are you? Are you the bull in the herd, or the queen of the bees? Show me such ensigns of empire, as she has from nature. But, if you are a drone, and arrogate to yourself the kingdom of the bees, do you not think that your fellow-citizens will drive you out, just as the bees do the drones?
A Cynic must, besides, have so much patience as to seem insensible and like a stone to the vulgar. No one reviles, no one beats, no one affronts him; but he has surrendered his body to be treated at pleasure by any one who will. For he remembers that the inferior, in whatever respect it is the inferior, must be conquered by the superior; and the body is inferior to the multitude, the weaker to the stronger. He never, therefore, enters into a combat where he can be conquered; but immediately gives up what belongs to others; he does not claim what is slavish and dependent; but in what concerns Will and the use of things as they appear, you will see that he has so many eyes, you would say Argus was blind to him. Is his assent ever precipitate? His pursuits ever rash? His desire ever disappointed? His aversion ever incurred? His aim ever fruitless? Is he ever querulous, ever dejected, ever envious? Here lies all his attention and application. With regard to other things, he enjoys profound quiet. All is peace. There is no robber, no tyrant for the Will. But there is for the body? Yes. The estate? Yes. Magistracies and honors? Yes. And what cares he for these? When any one, therefore, would frighten him with them, he says; “Go look for children; masks are frightful to them; but I know they are only shells, and have nothing within.”
Such is the affair about which you are deliberating; therefore, if you please, for Heaven’s sake, defer it, and first consider how you are prepared for it. Observe what Hector says to Andromache:
“War is the sphere for all men, and for me.”*
Thus conscious was he of his own qualifications and of her weakness.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CONCERNING SUCH AS READ AND DISPUTE OSTENTATIOUSLY.
FIRST, say to yourself what you would be; and then do what you have to do. For in almost everything we see this to be the practice. Olympic champions first determine what they would be, and then act accordingly. To a racer, in a longer course, there must be one kind of diet, walking, anointing, and training; to one in a shorter, all these must be different; and to a Pentathlete, still more different. You will find the case the same in the manual arts. If a carpenter, you must have such and such things; if a smith, such other. For if we do not refer each of our actions to some end, we shall act at random; if to an improper one, we shall miss our aim. Further; there is a general and a particular end. The first is, to act as a man. What is comprehended in this? To be gentle, yet not sheepish; not to be mischievous, like a wild beast. But the particular end relates to the study and choice of each individual. A harper is to act as a harper; a carpenter, as a carpenter; a philosopher, as a philosopher; an orator, as an orator. When, therefore, you say, “Come, and hear me read,” observe, first, not to do this at random; and, in the next place, after you have found to what end you refer it, consider whether it be a proper one. Would you be useful, — or be praised? You presently hear him say, “What do I value the praise of the multitude?” And he says well; for this is nothing to a musician, or a geometrician, as such. You would be useful then. In what? Tell us, that we too may run to make part of your audience. Now, is it possible for any one to benefit others, who has received no benefit himself? No; for neither can he who is not a carpenter, or a shoemaker, benefit any one in respect to those arts. Would you know, then, whether you have received benefit? Produce your principles, philosopher. What is the aim and promise of desire? Not to be disappointed. What of aversion? Not to be incurred. Come, do we fulfil this promise? Tell me the truth; but, if you falsify, I will tell it to you. The other day, when your audience came but coldly together, and did not receive what you said with acclamations of applause, you went away dejected. Again; the other day when you were praised, you went about asking everybody, “What did you think of me?” — “Upon my life, sir, it was prodigious.” — “But how did I express myself upon that subject?” — “Which?” — “Where I gave a description of Pan and the Nymphs.”* — “Most excellently.” And do you tell me, after this, that you regulate your desires and aversions conformably to Nature? Get you gone! Persuade somebody else.
Did not you, the other day, praise a man contrary to your own opinion? Did not you flatter a certain senator? Yet would you wish your own children to be like him? “Heaven forbid!” Why then did you praise and cajole him? “He is an ingenuous young man, and attentive to discourses.” How so? “He admires me.” Now indeed you have produced your proof.
After all, what do you think? Do not these very people secretly despise you? When a man conscious of no good action or intention finds some philosopher saying, “You are a great genius, and of a frank and candid disposition”; what do you think he says, but, “This man has some need of me.” Pray tell me what mark of a great genius he has shown. You see he has long conversed with you, has heard your discourses, has attended your lectures. Has he turned his attention to himself? Has he perceived his own faults? Has he thrown off his conceit? Does he seek an instructor? “Yes, he does.” An instructor how to live? No, fool, but how to talk; for it is upon this account that he admires you. Hear what he says: “This man writes with very great art, and much more finely than Dion.” That is quite another thing. Does he say, This is a modest, faithful, calm person? But if he said this too, I would ask him, if he is faithful, what it is to be faithful? And if he could not tell, I would add, “First learn the meaning of what you say, and then speak.”
While you are in this bad disposition, then, and gaping after applauders, and counting your hearers, can you be of benefit to others? “To-day I had many more hearers.” — “Yes, many; we think there were five hundred.” — “You say nothing; estimate them at a thousand.” — “Dion never had so great an audience.” — “How should he?” — “And they have a fine taste for discourses.” — “What is excellent, sir, will move even a stone.” — Here is the language of a philosopher! Here is the disposition of one who is to be beneficial to mankind! Here is the man, attentive to discourses! Who has read the works of the Socratic philosophers, as such; not as if they were the writings of orators, like Lysias and Isocrates. “I have often wondered by what arguments — ”* No; “By what argument”; that is the more perfectly accurate expression. Is this to have read them any otherwise than as you read little pieces of poetry? If you read them as you ought, you would not dwell on such trifles, but would rather consider such a passage as this: “Anytus and Melitus may kill, but they cannot hurt me.” And “I am always so disposed as to defer to none of my friends, but to that reason which, after examination, appears to me to be the best.”† Hence, who ever heard Socrates say, “I know, or teach anything”? But he sent different people to different instructors; they came to him, desiring to be introduced to the philosophers; and he took them and introduced them. No; but [you think] as he accompanied them he used to give them such advice as this: “Hear me discourse to-day at the house of Quadratus.” Why should I hear you? Have you a mind to show me how finely you put words together, sir? And what good does that do you? “But praise me.” What do you mean by praising you? “Say, Incomparable! prodigious!” Well; I do say it. But if praise be that which the philosophers call by the appellation of good, what have I to praise you for? If it be good to speak well, teach me, and I will praise you. “What, then, ought these things to be heard without pleasure?” By no means. I do not hear even a harper without pleasure; but am I therefore to devote myself to playing upon the harp? Hear what Socrates says to his judges. “It would not be decent for me to appear before you, at this age, composing speeches like a boy.”* Like a boy, he says. For it is, without doubt, a pretty accomplishment to select words and place them together, and then to read or speak them gracefully in public; and in the midst of the discourse to observe that “he vows by all that is good, there are but few capable of these things.” But does a philosopher apply to people to hear him? Does he not attract those who are fitted to receive benefit from him, in the same manner as the sun or their necessary food does? What physician applies to anybody to be cured by him? (Though now indeed I hear that the physicians at Rome apply for patients; but in my time they were applied to.) “I apply to you to come and hear that you are in a bad way, and that you take care of everything but what you ought; that you knew not what is good or evil, and are unfortunate and unhappy.” A fine application! And yet, unless the discourse of a philosopher has this effect, both that and the speaker are lifeless.
Rufus used to say, “If you are at leisure to praise me, I speak to no purpose.” And indeed he used to speak in such a manner, that each of us who heard him supposed that some person had accused us to him; he so precisely hit upon what was done by us, and placed the faults of every one before his eyes.
The school of a philosopher is a surgery. You are not to go out of it with pleasure, but with pain; for you do not come there in health; but one of you has a dislocated shoulder; another, an abscess; a third, a fistula; a fourth, the headache. And am I, then, to sit uttering pretty, trifling thoughts and little exclamations, that, when you have praised me, you may each of you go away with the same dislocated shoulder, the same aching head, the same fistula, and the same abscess that you brought? And is it for this that young men are to travel? And do they leave their parents, their friends, their relations, and their estates, that they may praise you while you are uttering little exclamations? Was this the practice of Socrates? Of Zeno? Of Cleanthes?
What then! is there not in speaking a style and manner of exhortation? Who denies it? Just as there is a manner of confutation and of instruction. But who ever, therefore, added that of ostentation for a fourth? For in what doth the hortatory manner consist? In being able to show, to one and all, the contradictions in which they are involved; and that they care for everything rather than what they mean to care for: for they mean the things conducive to happiness, but they seek them where they are not to be found. To effect this, must a thousand seats be placed, and an audience invited; and you, in a fine robe or cloak, ascend the rostrum, and describe the death of Achilles? Forbear, for Heaven’s sake, to bring, so far as you are able, good works and practices into disgrace. Nothing, to be sure, gives more force to exhortation, than when the speaker shows that he has need of the hearers; but tell me who, when he hears you reading or speaking, is solicitous about himself? Or turns his attention upon himself? Or says, when he is gone away, “The philosopher hit me well.” Instead of this, even though you are in high vogue, one hearer merely remarks to another, “He spoke finely about Xerxes!” — “No,” says the other; “but on the battle of Thermopylæ!” Is this the audience for a philosopher?
CHAPTER XXIV.
THAT WE OUGHT NOT TO BE AFFECTED BY THINGS NOT IN OUR OWN POWER.
LET not another’s disobedience to Nature become an ill to you; for you were not born to be depressed and unhappy with others, but to be happy with them. And if any is unhappy, remember that he is so for himself; for God made all men to enjoy felicity and peace. He hath furnished all with means for this purpose; having given them some things for their own; others, not for their own. Whatever is subject to restraint, compulsion, or deprivation is not their own; whatever is not subject to restraint is their own. And the essence of good and evil He has placed in things which are our own; as it became Him who provides for, and protects us, with paternal care.
“But I have parted with such a one, and he is therefore in grief.”
And why did he esteem what belonged to another his own? Why did he not consider, while he was happy in seeing you, that you are mortal, that you are liable to change your abode? Therefore he bears the punishment of his own folly. But to what purpose, or for what cause, do you too suffer depression of spirits? Have you not studied these things? Like trifling, silly women, have you regarded the things you took delight in, the places, the persons, the conversations, as if they were to last for ever; and do you now sit crying, because you do not see the same people, nor live in the same place? Indeed, you deserve to be so overcome, and thus to become more wretched than ravens or crows, which, without groaning or longing for their former state, can fly where they will, build their nests in another place, and cross the seas.
“Ay, but this happens from their want of reason.”
Was reason then given to us by the gods, for the purpose of unhappiness and misery, to make us live wretched and lamenting? O, by all means, let every one be deathless! Let nobody go from home! Let us never go from home ourselves, but remain rooted to a spot, like plants! And if any of our acquaintance should quit his abode, let us sit and cry; and when he comes back, let us dance and clap our hands like children. Shall we never wean ourselves, and remember what we have heard from the philosophers, — unless we have heard them only as juggling enchanters; — that the universe is one great city, and the substance one of which it is formed; that there must necessarily be a certain rotation of things; that some must give way to others, some be dissolved, and others rise in their stead; some remain in the same situation, and others be moved; but that all is full of beloved ones, first of the gods, and then of men, by nature endeared to each other; that some must be separated, others live together, rejoicing in the present, and not grieving for the absent: and that man, besides a natural greatness of mind and contempt of things independent on his own will, is likewise formed not to be rooted to the earth, but to go at different times to different places; sometimes on urgent occasions, and sometimes merely for the sake of observation. Such was the case of Ulysses, who
“Saw the cities and watched the habits of various men.”*
And, even before him, of Hercules, to travel over the habitable world,
“Observing manners, good or ill, of men.”
To expel and clear away the one, and, in its stead, to introduce the other. Yet how many friends do you not think he must have at Thebes? How many at Argos? How many at Athens? And how many did he acquire in his travels? He married, too, when he thought it a proper time, and became a father, and then quitted his children; not lamenting and longing for them, nor as if he had left them orphans; for he knew that no human creature is an orphan, but that there is a father, who always, and without intermission, takes care of all. For he had not merely heard it as matter of talk, that Zeus was the Father of Mankind; but he esteemed and called him his own Father, and performed all that he did with a view to Him. Hence he was, in every place, able to live happy. But it is never possible to make happiness consistent with a longing after what is not present. For true happiness implies the possession of all which is desired, as in case of satiety with food; there must be no thirst, no hunger.
“But Ulysses longed for his wife, and sat weeping on a rock.”
Why do you regard Homer and his fables in everything? Or, if Ulysses really did weep, what was he but a wretched man? But what wise and good man is wretched? The universe is surely but ill governed, if Zeus does not take care that his subjects may be happy like himself. But these are unlawful and profane thoughts; and Ulysses, if he did indeed cry and bewail himself, was not a good man. For who can be a good man who does not know what he is? And who knows this, and yet forgets that all things made are perishable; and that it is not possible for man and man always to live together? What then? To desire impossibilities is base and foolish: it is the behavior of a stranger [to the world]; of one who fights against God in the only way he can, by holding false principles.
“But my mother grieves when she does not see me.”
And why has not she learned these doctrines? I do not say that care ought not to be taken that she may not lament; but that we are not to insist absolutely upon what is not in our own power. Now the grief of another is not in my power; but my own grief is. I will therefore absolutely suppress my own, for that is in my power; and I will endeavor to suppress another’s grief so far as I am able; but I will not insist upon it absolutely, otherwise I shall fight against God; I shall resist Zeus, and oppose him in the administration of the universe. And not only my children’s children will bear the punishment of this disobedience and fighting against God, but I myself too; starting, and full of perturbation, both in the day-time and in my nightly dreams; trembling at every message, and having my peace dependent on intelligence from others. “Somebody is come from Rome.” “I trust no harm has happened.” Why, what harm can happen to you where you are not? “From Greece.” — “No harm, I hope.” Why, at this rate, every place may be the cause of misfortune to you. Is it not enough for you to be unfortunate where you are, but it must happen beyond sea, too, and by letters? Such is the security of your condition!
“But what if my friends there should be dead?”
What, indeed, but that those are dead who were born to die? Do you at once wish to grow old, and yet not to see the death of any one you love? Do you not know that, in a long course of time, many and various events must necessarily happen? That a fever must get the better of one; a highwayman, of another; a tyrant, of a third? For such is the world we live in; such they who live in it with us. Heats and colds, improper diet, journeys, voyages, winds, and various accidents destroy some, banish others; destine one to an embassy, another to a camp. And now, pray, will you sit in consternation about all these things; lamenting, disappointed, wretched, dependent on another; and not on one or two only, but ten thousand times ten thousand!
Is this what you have heard from the philosophers? This what you have learned? Do you not know what sort of a thing warfare is? One must keep guard, another go out for a spy, another even to battle. It is neither possible, nor indeed desirable, that all should be in the same place; but you, neglecting to perform the orders of your General, complain whenever anything a little hard is commanded; and do not consider what influence you have on the army, so far as lies in your power. For, if all should imitate you, nobody will dig a trench, or throw up a rampart, or stand guard, or expose himself to danger, but every one will appear useless to the expedition. Again; if you were a sailor in a voyage, suppose you were to fix upon one place, and there remain? If it should be necessary to climb the mast, refuse to do it; if to run to the bow of the ship, refuse to do it! And what captain would tolerate you? Would he not throw you overboard as a useless piece of goods and mere luggage, and a bad example to the other sailors? Thus, also, in the present case; every one’s life is a warfare, and that long and various. You must observe the duty of a soldier, and perform everything at the nod of your General, and even, if possible, divine what he would have done. For there is no comparison between the above-mentioned General and this whom you now obey, either in power or excellence of character. You are placed in an extensive command, and not in a mean post; your life is a perpetual magistracy? Do you not know that such a one must spend but little time on his affairs at home; but be much abroad, either commanding or obeying; attending on the duties either of a magistrate, a soldier, or a judge? And now, pray, would you be fixed and rooted on the same spot, like a plant?
“Why; it is pleasant.”
Who denies it? And so is a ragout pleasant, and a fine woman is pleasant. Is not this just what they say who make pleasure their end? Do you not perceive whose language you have spoken? That of Epicureans and debauchees. And while you follow their practices and hold their principles, do you talk to us of the doctrines of Zeno and Socrates? Why do you not throw away as far as possible those assumed traits which belong to others, and with which you have nothing to do? What else do the Epicureans desire than to sleep without hindrance, and rise without compulsion; and when they have risen, to yawn at their leisure and wash their faces; then write and read what they please; then prate about some trifle or other, and be applauded by their friends, whatever they say; then go out for a walk, and, after they have taken a turn, bathe, and then eat, and then to bed; in what manner they spend their time there, why should one say? For it is easily guessed. Come now; do you also tell me what course of life you desire to lead, who are a zealot for truth, and Diogenes, and Socrates? What would you do at Athens? These very same things? Why then do you call yourself a Stoic? They who falsely pretend to the Roman citizenship are punished severely; and must those be dismissed with impunity who falsely claim so great a thing, and so venerable a title, as you? Or is not this impossible; and is there not a divine, and powerful, and inevitable law, which exacts the greatest punishments from those who are guilty of the greatest offences? For what says this law? — Let him who claims what belongs not to him be arrogant, be vainglorious, be base, be a slave; let him grieve, let him envy, let him pity; and in a word, let him lament and be miserable.
“What then! would you have me pay my court to such a one? Would you have me frequent his door?”
If reason requires it for your country, for your relations, for mankind, why should you not go? You are not ashamed to go to the door of a shoemaker when you want shoes; nor of a gardener when you want lettuce. Why then in regard to the rich, when you have some similar want?
“Ay; but I need not be awed before a shoemaker.”
Nor before a rich man.
“I need not flatter a gardener.”
Nor a rich man.
“How, then, shall I get what I want?”
Why, do I bid you go in expectation of getting it? No; only that you may do your duty.
“Why, then, after all, should I go?”
That you may have gone; that you may have discharged the duties of a citizen, of a brother, of a friend. And, after all, remember, that you are going as if to a shoemaker, to a gardener, who has no monopoly of anything great or respectable, though he should sell it ever so dear. You are going as if to buy lettuces, worth an obolus, but by no means worth a talent. So here too, if the matter is worth going to his door about, I will go; if it is worth talking with him about, I will talk with him. But if one must kiss his hand, too, and cajole him with praise; that is paying too dear. It is not expedient for myself, nor my country, nor my fellow-citizens, nor my friends, to destroy what constitutes the good citizen and the friend.
“But one will appear not to have set heartily about the business, if one thus fails.”
What, have you again forgotten why you went? Do you not know that a wise and good man does nothing for appearance; but everything for the sake of having acted well?
“What advantage is it, then, to him, to have acted well?”
What advantage is it to one who writes down the name of Dion without a blunder? The having written it.
“Is there no reward, then?”
Why; do you seek any greater reward for a good man than the doing what is fair and just? And yet, at Olympia, you desire nothing else; but think it enough to be crowned victor. Does it appear to you so small and worthless a thing to be just, good, and happy? Besides; being introduced by God into this Great City [the world] and bound to discharge at this time the duties of a man, do you still want nurses and a mamma; and are you conquered and effeminated by the tears of poor weak women? Are you thus determined never to cease being an infant? Do not you know that, if one acts like a child, the older he is, so much the more he is ridiculous?
Did you never visit any one at Athens at his own house?
“Yes; whomsoever I pleased.”
Why; now you are here, be willing to visit this person, and you will still see whom you please; only let it be without meanness, without undue desire or aversion, and your affairs will go well; but their going well, or not, does not consist in going to the house and standing at the door, or the contrary; but lies within, in your own principles; when you have acquired a contempt for things uncontrollable by Will, and esteem none of them your own, but hold that what belongs to you is only to judge and think, to exert rightly your aims, your desires, and aversions. What further room is there after this for flattery, for meanness? Why do you still long for the quiet you elsewhere enjoyed; for places familiar to you? Stay a little, and these will become familiar to you in their turn; and, then, if you are so meanspirited, you may weep and lament again on leaving these.
“How, then, am I to preserve an affectionate disposition?”
As becomes a noble-spirited and happy person. For reason will never tell you to be dejected and broken-hearted; or to depend on another; or to reproach either God or man. Be affectionate in such a manner as to observe all this. But if, from affection, as you call it, you are to be a slave and miserable, it is not worth your while to be affectionate. And what restrains you from loving any one as a mortal, — as a person who may be obliged to quit you? Pray did not Socrates love his own children? But it was as became one who was free, and mindful that his first duty was, to gain the love of the gods. Hence he violated no part of the character of a good man, either in his defence or in fixing a penalty on himself.* Nor yet before, when he was a senator, or a soldier. But we make use of every pretence to be mean-spirited; some, on account of a child; some, of a mother; and some, of a brother. But it is not fit to be unhappy on account of any one; but happy on account of all; and chiefly of God, who has constituted us for this purpose. What! did Diogenes love nobody; who was so gentle and benevolent as cheerfully to undergo so many pains and miseries of body for the common good of mankind? Yes, he did love them; but how? As became a minister of Zeus; at once caring for men, and obedient to God. Hence the whole earth, not any particular place, was his country. And when he was taken captive he did not long for Athens and his friends and acquaintance there; but made himself acquainted with the pirates, and endeavored to reform them; and when he was at last sold into captivity, he lived at Corinth just as before at Athens; and, if he had gone to the Perrhœbeans,* he would have been exactly the same. Thus is freedom acquired. Hence he used to say, “Ever since Antisthenes made me free† I have ceased to be a slave.” How did he make him free? Hear what he says. “He taught me what was my own and what not. An estate is not my own. Kindred, domestics, friends, reputation, familiar places, manner of life, all belong to another.” — “What is your own then?” — “The right use of the phenomena of existence. He showed me that I have this, not subject to restraint or compulsion; no one can hinder or force me in this, any otherwise than as I please. Who, then, after this, has any power over me? Philip, or Alexander, or Perdiccas, or the Persian king? Whence should they have it? For he that is to be subdued by man must first be subdued by things. He, therefore, of whom neither pleasure, nor pain, nor fame, nor riches, can get the better; and he who is able, whenever he thinks fit, to abandon his whole body with contempt and depart, whose slave can he ever be? To whom is he subject?” But if Diogenes had taken pleasure in living at Athens, and had been subdued by that manner of life, his affairs would have been at every one’s disposal; and whoever was stronger would have had the power of grieving him. How would he have flattered the pirates, think you, to make them sell him to some Athenian, that he might see again the fine Piræus, the Long Walls, and the Citadel? How would you see them? As a slave and a miserable wretch? And what good would that do you? “No; but as free.” How free? See, somebody lays hold on you, takes you away from your usual manner of life, and says: “You are my slave; for it is in my power to restrain you from living as you like. It is in my power to afflict and humble you. Whenever I please you may be cheerful once more; and set out elated for Athens.” What do you say to him who thus enslaves you? What rescuer can you find? Or dare you not so much as look up at him; but, without making many words, do you supplicate to be dismissed? Why, you ought even to go to prison, man, with alacrity, with speed, outstripping your conductors. Instead of this do you regret living at Rome and long for Greece? And, when you must die, will you then, too, come crying to us, that you shall no more see Athens, nor walk in the Lyceum? Is it for this that you have travelled? Is it for this that you have been seeking for somebody to do you good? What good? That you may the more easily solve syllogisms and manage hypothetical arguments? And is it for this reason you left your brother, your country, your friends, your family, that you might carry back such acquirements as these? So that you did not travel to learn constancy nor tranquillity; nor that, secured from harm, you might complain of no one, accuse no one; that no one might injure you; and that thus you might preserve your human relations, without impediment. You have made a fine traffic of it, to carry home hypothetical arguments and convertible propositions! If you please, too, sit in the market, and cry them for sale, as mountebanks do their medicines. Why will you not rather deny that you know even what you have learned; for fear of bringing a scandal upon such theorems as useless? What harm has philosophy done you, — in what has Chrysippus injured you, — that you should demonstrate by your actions that such studies are of no value? Had you not evils enough at home? How many causes for grief and lamentation had you there, even if you had not travelled? But you have added more; and, if you ever get any new acquaintance and friends, you will find fresh causes for groaning; and, in like manner, if you attach yourself to any other country. To what purpose, therefore, do you live? To heap sorrow upon sorrow, to make you wretched? And then you tell me this is affection. What affection, man? If it be good, it cannot be the cause of any ill; if ill, I will have nothing to do with it. I was born for my own good, not ill.
“What, then, is the proper training for these cases?”
First, the highest and principal means, and as obvious as if at your very door, is this, — that when you attach yourself to anything, it may not be as to a secure possession.
“How then?”
As to something brittle as glass or earthenware; that, when it happens to be broken, you may not lose your self-command. So here, too; when you embrace your child, or your brother, or your friend, never yield yourself wholly to the fair semblance, nor let the passion pass into excess; but curb it, restrain it, — like those who stand behind triumphant victors, and remind them that they are men. Do you likewise remind yourself that you love what is mortal; that you love what is not your own. It is allowed you for the present, not irrevocably, nor forever; but as a fig, or a bunch of grapes, in the appointed season. If you long for these in winter you are foolish. So, if you long for your son, or your friend, when you cannot have him, remember that you are wishing for figs in winter. For as winter is to a fig, so is every accident in the universe to those things with which it interferes. In the next place, whatever objects give you pleasure, call before yourself the opposite images. What harm is there, while you kiss your child, in saying softly, “To-morrow you may die”; and so to your friend, “To-morrow either you or I may go away, and we may see each other no more.”
“But these sayings are ominous.”
And so are some incantations; but, because they are useful, I do not mind it; only let them be useful. But do you call anything ominous except what implies some ill? Cowardice is ominous; baseness is ominous; lamentation, grief, shamelessness. These are words of bad omen; and yet we ought not to shrink from using them, as a guard against the things they mean. But do you tell me that a word is ominous which is significant of anything natural? Say, too, that it is ominous for ears of corn to be reaped; for this signifies the destruction of the corn; but not of the world. Say, too, that the fall of the leaf is ominous; and that confectionery should be produced from figs, and raisins from grapes. For all these are changes from a former state into another; not a destruction, but a certain appointed economy and administration. Such is absence, a slight change; such is death, a greater change; not from what now is nothing, but to what now is not.
“What, then, shall I be no more?”
True; but you will be something else, of which at present the world has no need; for even you were not produced when you pleased, but when the world had need of you. Hence a wise and good man, mindful who he is and whence he came, and by whom he was produced, is attentive only how he may fill his post regularly and dutifully before God. “Dost Thou wish me still to live? Let me live free and noble, as Thou desirest; for Thou hast made me incapable of restraint in what is my own. But hast Thou no farther use for me? Farewell! I have staid thus long through Thee alone, and no other; and now I depart in obedience to Thee.” — “How do you depart?” — “Still as Thou wilt; as one free, as thy servant, as one sensible of thy commands and thy prohibitions. But, while I am employed in thy service, what wouldst Thou have me to be? A prince, or a private man; a senator, or a plebeian; a soldier, or a general; a preceptor, or a master of a family? Whatever post or rank Thou shalt assign me, — like Socrates, I will die a thousand times rather than desert it. Where wouldst thou have me to be? At Rome, or at Athens; at Thebes, or at Gyaros? Only remember me there. If Thou shalt send me where men cannot live conformably to nature, I will not depart unbidden, but upon a recall as it were sounded by Thee. Even then I do not desert Thee; Heaven forbid! but I perceive that Thou hast no use for me. If a life conformable to nature be granted, I will seek no other place but that in which I am; nor any other company but those with whom I dwell.”
Let these things be ready at hand, night and day. These things write; these things read; of these things talk both to yourself and others. [Ask them,] “Have you any assistance to give me for this purpose?” And, again, go and ask another and another. Then, if any of those things should happen that are called disagreeable, this will surely be a relief to you; in the first place, that it was not unexpected. For it is much to be able always to say, “I knew that I begot one born to die.”* Thus do you say too, “I knew that I was liable to die, to travel, to be exiled, to be imprisoned.” If afterwards you turn to yourself, and seek from what quarter the event proceeds, you will presently recollect: “It is from things uncontrollable by will, not from what is my own. What then is it to me?” Then, farther, which is the chief point: “Who sent this? The commander, the general, the city, the public law? Give it to me, then, for I must always obey the law in all things.”
Farther yet; when any delusive appearance molests you (for this may not depend on you,) strive against it, and conquer it through reason. Do not suffer it to gain strength, nor to lead you indefinitely on, beguiling you at its own will. If you are at Gyaros, do not represent to yourself the manner of living at Rome; how many pleasures you used to find there, and how many would attend your return; but dwell rather on this point; how he, who must live at Gyaros, may live there nobly. And if you are at Rome, do not represent to yourself the manner of living at Athens; but consider only how you ought to live where you are.
Lastly, for all other pleasures substitute the conciousness that you are obeying God, and performing not in word, but in deed, the duty of a wise and good man. How great a thing is it to be able to say to yourself: “What others are now solemnly arguing in the schools, and can state in paradoxes, this I put in practice. Those qualities which are there discoursed, disputed, celebrated, I have made mine own. Zeus hath been pleased to let me recognize this within myself, and himself to discern whether he hath in me one fit for a soldier and a citizen, and to employ me as a witness to other men, concerning things uncontrollable by will. See that your fears were vain, your appetites vain. Seek not good from without: seek it within yourselves, or you will never find it. For this reason he now brings me hither, now sends me thither; sets me before mankind, poor, powerless, sick; banishes me to Gyaros; leads me to prison; not that he hates me, — Heaven forbid! For who hates the most faithful of his servants? Nor that he neglects me, for he neglects not one of the smallest things; but to exercise me, and make use of me as a witness to others. Appointed to such a service, do I still care where I am, or with whom, or what is said of me, — instead of being wholly attentive to God and to his orders and commands?”
Having these principles always at hand, and practising them by yourself, and making them ready for use, you will never want any one to comfort and strengthen you. For shame does not consist in having nothing to eat, but in not having wisdom enough to exempt you from fear and sorrow. But if you once acquire that exemption, will a tyrant, or his guards, or courtiers, be anything to you? Will offices or office-seekers disturb you, who have received so great a command from Zeus? Only do not make a parade over it, nor grow insolent upon it. But show it by your actions; and though no one else should notice it, be content that you are well and blessed.
CHAPTER XXV.
CONCERNING THOSE WHO WAVER IN THEIR PURPOSE.
CONSIDER which of your undertakings you have fulfilled, which not, and wherefore; which give you pleasure, which pain, in the reflection; and, if possible, recover yourself where you have failed. For the champions in this greatest of combats must not grow weary; but should even contentedly bear chastisement. For this is no combat of wrestling or boxing, where both he who succeeds and he who fails may possibly be of very great worth or of little; indeed may be very fortunate or very miserable; but this combat is for good fortune and happiness itself. What is the case, then? Here even if we have renounced the contest, no one restrains us from renewing it; nor need we wait for another four years for the return of another Olympiad; but recollecting and recovering yourself, and returning with the same zeal, you may renew it immediately; and even if you should again yield, you may again begin; and if you once get the victory, you become like one who has never yielded. Only do not begin, by forming the habit of this, to do it with pleasure, and then, like quails that have fled the fighting-pit, go about as if you were a brave champion, although you have been conquered throughout all the games. “I am conquered in presence of a girl. But what of it? I have been thus conquered before.” — “I am excited to wrath against some one. But I have been in anger before.” You talk to us just as if you had come off unhurt. As if one should say to his physician, who had forbidden him to bathe, “Why, did not I bathe before?” Suppose the physician should answer him, “Well, and what was the consequence of your bathing? Were you not feverish? Had you not the headache?” So, when you before railed at somebody, did you not act like an ill-natured person; like an impertinent one? Have not you fed this habit of yours by corresponding actions? When you were conquered by a pretty girl, did you come off with impunity? Why, then, do you talk of what you have done before? You ought to remember it, I think, as slaves do whipping, so as to refrain from the same faults. “But the case is unlike; for there it is pain that causes the remembrance: but what is the pain, what the punishment, of my committing these faults? For when was I ever thus trained to the avoidance of bad actions?” Yet the pains of experience, whether we will or not, have their beneficial influence.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CONCERNING THOSE WHO ARE IN DREAD OF WANT.
ARE not you ashamed to be more fearful and mean-spirited than fugitive slaves? To what estates, to what servants, do they trust, when they run away and leave their masters? Do they not, after carrying off a little with them for the first days, travel over land and sea, contriving first one, then another method of getting food? And what fugitive ever died of hunger? But you tremble, and lie awake at night, for fear you should want necessaries. Foolish man! are you so blind? Do not you see the way whither the want of necessaries leads?
“Why, whither does it lead?”
Whither a fever, or a falling stone may lead, — to death. Have you not, then, often said this to your companions? Have you not read, have you not written, many things on this point? And how often have you arrogantly boasted that you are undisturbed by fears of death.
“Ay; but my family, too, will perish with hunger.”
What then? Does their hunger lead any other way than yours? Is there not the same descent? The same state below? Will you not then, in every want and necessity, look with confidence there, where even the most rich and powerful, and kings and tyrants themselves, must descend? You indeed may descend hungry, perhaps; and they, full of indigestion and drunkenness. For have you often seen a beggar who did not live to old age, nay, to extreme old age? Chilled by day and night, lying on the ground, and eating only what is barely necessary, they yet seem almost to become incapable of dying. But cannot you write? Cannot you keep a school? Cannot you be a watchman at somebody’s door?
“But it is shameful to come to this necessity.”
First, therefore, learn what things are shameful, and then claim to be a philosopher; but at present do not suffer even another to call you so. Is that shameful to you which is not your own act? Of which you are not the cause? Which has happened to you by accident, like a fever or the head-ache? If your parents were poor, or left others their heirs, or though living, do not assist you, are these things shameful for you? Is this what you have learned from the philosophers? Have you never heard that what is shameful is blamable; and what is blamable must be something which deserves to be blamed? Whom do you blame for an action not his own, which he has not himself performed? Did you, then, make your father such as he is? Or is it in your power to mend him? Is that permitted you? What, then, must you desire what is not permitted; and when you fail of it be ashamed? Are you thus accustomed, even when you are studying philosophy, to depend on others, and to hope nothing from yourself? Sigh, then, and groan and eat in fear that you shall have no food to-morrow. Tremble, lest your servants should rob you, or run away from you, or die. Thus live on forever, whoever you are, who have applied yourself to philosophy in name only, and as much as in you lies have disgraced its principles, by showing that they are unprofitable and useless to those who profess them. You have never made constancy, tranquillity, and serenity the object of your desires; have sought no teacher for this knowledge, but many for mere syllogisms. You have never, by yourself, confronted some delusive semblance with — “Can I bear this, or can I not bear it? What remains for me to do?” But, as if all your affairs went safe and well, you have aimed only to secure yourself in your present possessions. What are they? Cowardice, baseness, worldliness, desires unaccomplished, unavailing aversions. These are the things which you have been laboring to secure. Ought you not first to have acquired something by the use of reason, and then to have provided security for that? Whom did you ever see building a series of battlements without placing them upon a wall? And what porter is ever set, where there is no door? But you study! Can you show me what you study?
“Not to be shaken by sophistry.”
Shaken from what? Show me first, what you have in your custody; what you measure, or what you weigh; and then accordingly show me your weights and measures; and to what purpose you measure that which is but dust. Ought you not to show what makes men truly happy, what makes their affairs proceed as they wish? How we may blame no one, accuse no one; how acquiesce in the administration of the universe? Show me these things. “See, I do show them,” say you; “I will solve syllogisms to you.” This is but the measure, O unfortunate! and not the thing measured. Hence you now pay the penalty due for neglecting philosophy. You tremble, you lie awake; you advise with everybody, and if the result of the advice does not please everybody, you think that you have been ill-advised. Then you dread hunger, as you fancy; yet it is not hunger that you dread; but you are afraid that you will not have some one to cook for you; some one else for a butler; another to pull off your shoes; a fourth to dress you; others to rub you; others to follow you: that when you have undressed yourself in the bathing-room, and stretched yourself out, like a man crucified, you may be rubbed here and there; and the attendant may stand by, and say, “Come this way; give your side; take hold of his head; turn your shoulder”; and that when you are returned home from the bath you may cry out, “Does nobody bring anything to eat?” And then, “Take away; wipe the table.” This is your dread, that you will not be able to lead the life of a sick man. But learn the life of those in health; how slaves live, how laborers, how those who are genuine philosophers; how Socrates lived, even with a wife and children; how Diogenes; how Cleanthes, at once studying and drawing water [for his livelihood]. If these are the things you would have, you can possess them everywhere, and with a fearless confidence.
“In what?”
In the only thing that can be confided in; in what is sure, incapable of being restrained or taken away; your own will.
But why have you contrived to make yourself so useless and good for nothing, that nobody will receive you into his house; nobody take care of you: but although, if any sound useful vessel be thrown out of doors, whoever finds it will take it up and prize it as something gained; yet nobody will take you up, but everybody esteem you a loss. What, cannot you so much as perform the office of a dog or a cock? Why, then, do you wish to live any longer if you are so worthless? Does any good man fear that food should fail him? It does not fail the blind; it does not fail the lame. Shall it fail a good man? A paymaster is always to be found for a soldier, or a laborer, or a shoemaker, and shall one be wanting to a good man? Is God so negligent of his own institutions, of his servants, of his witnesses, whom alone he uses for examples to the uninstructed, to show that He exists, and that he administers the universe rightly, and doth not neglect human affairs; and that no evil can happen to a good man, either living or dead? What, then, is the case, when he doth not bestow food? What else than that, like a good general, he hath made me a signal of retreat? I obey, I follow; speaking well of my leader, praising his works. For I came when it seemed good to him, and, again, when it seems good to him, I depart; and in life it was my business to praise God within myself and to every auditor, and to the world. Doth he grant me but few things? Doth he refuse me affluence? It is not his pleasure that I should live luxuriously; for he did not grant that even to Hercules, his own son; but another reigned over Argos and Mycene, while he obeyed, labored, and strove. And Eurystheus was just what he was; neither truly king of Argos, nor of Mycene; not being indeed king over himself. But Hercules was ruler and governor of the whole earth and seas; the expeller of lawlessness and injustice; the introducer of justice and sanctity. And this he effected naked and alone. Again; when Ulysses was shipwrecked and cast away, did his helpless condition at all deject him? Did it break his spirit? No: but how did he go to Nausicaa and her attendants, to ask those necessaries which it seems most shameful to beg from another?
“As some lion, bred in the mountains, confiding in strength.”*
Confiding in what? Not in glory, or in riches, or in dominion, but in his own strength; that is, in his knowledge of what is within him and without him. For this alone is what can render us free and incapable of restraint; can raise the heads of the humble, and make them look, with unaverted eyes, full in the face of the rich and of the tyrants; and this is what philosophy bestows. But you will not even set forth with confidence; but all trembling about such trifles as clothes and plate. Foolish man! have you thus wasted your time till now?
“But what if I should be sick?”
It will then be for the best that you should be sick.
“Who will take care of me?”
God and your friends.
“I shall lie in a hard bed.”
But like a man.
“I shall not have a convenient room.”
Then you will be sick in an inconvenient one.
“Who will provide food for me?”
They who provide for others, too; you will be sick like Manes.†
“But what will be the conclusion of my sickness? Any other than death?”
Why, do you not know, then, that the origin of all human evils, and of baseness, and cowardice, is not death; but rather the fear of death? Fortify yourself, therefore, against this. Hither let all your discourses, readings, exercises, tend. And then you will know that thus alone are men made free.
BOOK IV.
CHAPTER I.
OF FREEDOM.
HE is free who lives as he likes; who is not subject to compulsion, to restraint, or to violence; whose pursuits are unhindered, his desires successful, his aversions unincurred. Who, then, would wish to lead a wrong course of life? “No one.” Who would live deceived, erring, unjust, dissolute, discontented, dejected? “No one.” No wicked man, then, lives as he likes; therefore no such man is free. And who would live in sorrow, fear, envy, pity, with disappointed desires and unavailing aversions? “No one.” Do we then find any of the wicked exempt from these evils? “Not one.” Consequently, then, they are not free.
If some person who has been twice consul should hear this, he will forgive you, provided you add, “but you are wise, and this has no reference to you.” But if you tell him the truth, that, in point of slavery, he does not necessarily differ from those who have been thrice sold, what but chastisement can you expect? “For how,” he says, “am I a slave? My father was free, my mother free. Besides, I am a senator, too, and the friend of Cæsar, and have been twice consul, and have myself many slaves.” In the first place, most worthy sir, perhaps your father too was a slave of the same kind; and your mother, and your grandfather, and all your series of ancestors. But even were they ever so free, what is that to you? For what if they were of a generous, you of a mean spirit; they brave, and you a coward; they sober, and you dissolute?
“But what,” he says, “has this to do with my being a slave.” Is it no part of slavery to act against your will, under compulsion, and lamenting? “Be it so. But who can compel me but the master of all, Cæsar?” By your own confession, then, you have one master; and let not his being, as you say, master of all, give you any comfort; for then you are merely a slave in a large family. Thus the Nicopolitans, too, frequently cry out, “By the genius of Cæsar we are free!”
For the present, however, if you please, we will let Cæsar alone. But tell me this. Have you never been in love with any one, either of a servile or liberal condition? “Why, what has that to do with being slave or free?” Were you never commanded anything by your mistress that you did not choose? Have you never flattered your fair slave? Have you never kissed her feet? And yet if you were commanded to kiss Cæsar’s feet, you would think it an outrage and an excess of tyranny. What else is this than slavery? Have you never gone out by night where you did not desire? Have you never spent more than you chose? Have you not sometimes uttered your words with sighs and groans? Have you never borne to be reviled and shut out of doors? But if you are ashamed to confess your own follies, see what Thrasonides* says, and does; who, after having fought more battles perhaps than you, went out by night, when [his slave] Geta would not dare to go; nay, had he been compelled to do it by him, would have gone bewailing and lamenting the bitterness of servitude. And what says he afterwards? “A contemptible girl has enslaved me, whom no enemy ever enslaved.” Wretch! to be the slave of a girl and a contemptible girl too! Why, then, do you still call yourself free? Why do you boast your military expeditions? Then he calls for a sword, and is angry with the person who, out of kindness, denies it; and sends presents to her who hates him; and begs, and weeps, and then again is elated on every little success. But what elation? Is he raised above desire or fear?
Consider in animals what is our idea of freedom. Some keep tame lions, and feed them and even lead them about; and who will say that any such lion is free? Nay, does he not live the more slavishly the more he lives at ease? And who that had sense and reason would wish to be one of those lions? Again, how much will caged birds suffer in trying to escape? Nay, some of them starve themselves rather than undergo such a life; others are saved only with difficulty and in a pining condition; and the moment they find any opening, out they go. Such a desire have they for their natural freedom, and to be at their own disposal, and unrestrained. “And what harm can this confinement do you?” — “What say you? I was born to fly where I please, to live in the open air, to sing when I please. You deprive me of all this, and then ask, what harm I suffer?”
Hence we will allow those only to be free who will not endure captivity; but so soon as they are taken, die and so escape. Thus Diogenes somewhere says that the only way to freedom is to die with ease. And he writes to the Persian king, “You can no more enslave the Athenians than you can fish.” — “How? Can I not get possession of them?” — “If you do,” said he, “they will leave you, and be gone like fish. For catch a fish, and it dies. And if the Athenians, too, die as soon as you have caught them, of what use are your warlike preparations?” This is the voice of a free man who had examined the matter in earnest; and, as it might be expected, found it all out. But if you seek it where it is not, what wonder if you never find it?
A slave wishes to be immediately set free. Think you it is because he is desirous to pay his fee [of manumission] to the officer? No, but because he fancies that, for want of acquiring his freedom, he has hitherto lived under restraint and unprosperously. “If I am once set free,” he says, “it is all prosperity; I care for no one; I can speak to all as being their equal and on a level with them. I go where I will, I come when and how I will.” He is at last made free, and presently having nowhere to eat he seeks whom he may flatter, with whom he may sup. He then either submits to the basest and most infamous degradation; and if he can obtain admission to some great man’s table, falls into a slavery much worse than the former; or perhaps, if the ignorant fellow should grow rich, he doats upon some girl, laments, and is unhappy, and wishes for slavery again. “For what harm did it do me? Another clothed me, another shod me, another fed me, another took care of me when I was sick. It was but in a few things, by way of return, I used to serve him. But now, miserable wretch! what do I suffer, in being a slave to many, instead of one! Yet, if I can be promoted to equestrian rank, I shall live in the utmost prosperity and happiness.” In order to obtain this, he first deservedly suffers; and as soon as he has obtained it, it is all the same again. “But, then,” he says, “if I do but get a military command, I shall be delivered from all my troubles.” He gets a military command. He suffers as much as the vilest rogue of a slave; and, nevertheless, he asks for a second command, and a third; and when he has put the finishing touch, and is made a senator, then he is a slave indeed. When he comes into the public assembly, it is then that he undergoes his finest and most splendid slavery.
[It is needful] not to be foolish, but to learn what Socrates taught, the nature of things; and not rashly to apply general principles to particulars. For the cause of all human evils is the not being able to apply general principles to special cases. But different people have different grounds of complaint; one, for instance, that he is sick. That is not the trouble, it is in his principles. Another, that he is poor; another, that he has a harsh father and mother; another, that he is not in the good graces of Cæsar. This is nothing else but not understanding how to apply our principles. For who has not an idea of evil, that it is hurtful? That it is to be avoided? That it is by all means to be prudently guarded against? One principle does not contradict another, except when it comes to be applied. What, then, is this evil, — thus hurtful and to be avoided? “Not to be the friend of Cæsar,” says some one. He is gone; he has failed in applying his principles; he is embarrassed; he seeks what is nothing to the purpose. For if he comes to be Cæsar’s friend, he is still no nearer to what he sought. For what is it that every man seeks? To be secure, to be happy, to do what he pleases without restraint and without compulsion. When he becomes the friend of Cæsar, then does he cease to be restrained? To be compelled? Is he secure? Is he happy? Whom shall we ask? Whom can we better credit than this very man who has been his friend? Come forth and tell us whether you sleep more quietly now than before you were the friend of Cæsar? You presently hear him cry, “Leave off, for Heaven’s sake, and do not insult me. You know not the miseries I suffer; there is no sleep for me; but one comes and says that Cæsar is already awake; another, that he is just going out. Then follow perturbations, then cares.” Well; and when did you use to sup the more pleasantly, — formerly, or now? Hear what he says about this, too. When he is not invited, he is distracted; and if he is, he sups like a slave with his master, solicitous all the while not to say or do anything foolish. And what think you? Is he afraid of being whipped like a slave? No such easy penalty. No; but rather, as becomes so great a man, Cæsar’s friend, of losing his head. And when did you bathe the more quietly; when did you perform your exercises the more at your leisure; in short, which life would you rather wish to live, your present, or the former? I could swear there is no one so stupid and insensible as not to deplore his miseries, in proportion as he is the more the friend of Cæsar.
Since, then, neither they who are called kings nor the friends of kings live as they like, who, then, after all, is free? Seek, and you will find; for you are furnished by nature with means for discovering the truth. But if you are not able by these alone to find the consequence, hear them who have sought it. What do they say? Do you think freedom a good? “The greatest.” Can any one, then, who attains the greatest good, be unhappy or unsuccessful in his affairs? “No.” As many, therefore, as you see unhappy, lamenting, unprosperous, — confidently pronounce them not free. “I do.” Henceforth, then, we have done with buying and selling, and such like stated conditions of becoming slaves. For if these concessions hold, then, whether the unhappy man be a great or a little king, — of consular or bi-consular dignity, — he is not free. “Agreed.”
Further, then, answer me this; do you think freedom to be something great and noble and valuable? “How should I not?” Is it possible, then, that he who acquires anything so great and valuable and noble should be of an abject spirit? “It is not.” Whenever, then, you see any one subject to another, and flattering him contrary to his own opinion, confidently say that he too is not free; and not only when he does this for a supper, but even if it be for a government, nay, a consulship. Call those indeed little slaves who act thus for the sake of little things; and call the others as they deserve, great slaves. “Be this, too, agreed.” Well; do you think freedom to be something independent and self-determined? “How can it be otherwise?” Him, then, whom it is in the power of another to restrain or to compel, affirm confidently to be by no means free. And do not heed his grandfathers or great-grandfathers; or inquire whether he has been bought or sold; but if you hear him say from his heart and with emotion, “my master,” though twelve Lictors should march before him, call him a slave. And if you should hear him say, “Wretch, that I am! what do I suffer!” call him a slave. In short, if you see him wailing, complaining, unprosperous, call him a slave, even in purple.
“Suppose, then, that he does nothing of all this.” Do not yet say that he is free; but learn whether his principles are in any event liable to compulsion, to restraint, or disappointment; and if you find this to be the case, call him a slave, keeping holiday during the Saturnalia. Say that his master is abroad; that he will come presently; and you will know what he suffers. “Who will come?” Whoever has the power either of bestowing or of taking away any of the things he desires.
“Have we so many masters, then?” We have. For, prior to all such, we have the things themselves for our masters. Now they are many; and it is through these that the men who control the things inevitably become our masters too. For no one fears Cæsar himself; but death, banishment, confiscation, prison, disgrace. Nor does any one love Cæsar unless he be a person of great worth; but we love riches, the tribunate, the prætorship, the consulship. When we love or hate or fear such things, they who have the disposal of them must necessarily be our masters. Hence we even worship them as gods. For we consider that whoever has the disposal of the greatest advantages is a deity; and then further reason falsely, “but such a one has the control of the greatest advantages; therefore he is a deity.” For if we reason falsely, the final inference must be also false.
What is it, then, that makes a man free and independent? For neither riches, nor consulship, nor the command of provinces, nor of kingdoms, can make him so; but something else must be found.” What is it that keeps any one from being hindered and restrained in penmanship, for instance? “The science of penmanship.” In music? “The science of music.” Therefore in life too, it must be the science of living. As you have heard it in general, then, consider it likewise in particulars. Is it possible for him to be unrestrained who desires any of those things that are within the power of others? “No.” Can he avoid being hindered? “No.” Therefore neither can he be free. Consider, then, whether we have nothing or everything in our own sole power, — or whether some things are in our own power and some in that of others. “What do you mean?” When you would have your body perfect, is it in your own power, or is it not? “It is not.” When you would be healthy? “It is not.” When you would be handsome? “It is not.” When you would live or die? “It is not.” Body then is not our own; but is subject to everything that proves stronger than itself. “Agreed.” Well; is it in your own power to have an estate when you please, and such a one as you please? “No.” Slaves? “No.” Clothes? “No.” A house? “No.” Horses? “Indeed none of these.” Well; if you desire ever so earnestly to have your children live, or your wife, or your brother, or your friends, is it in your own power? “No, it is not.”
Will you then say that there is nothing independent, which is in your own power alone, and unalienable? See if you have anything of this sort. “I do not know.” But, consider it thus: can any one make you assent to a falsehood? “No one.” In the matter of assent, then, you are unrestrained and unhindered. “Agreed.” Well, and can any one compel you to exert your aims towards what you do not like? “He can. For when he threatens me with death, or fetters, he thus compels me.” If, then, you were to despise dying or being fettered, would you any longer regard him? “No.” Is despising death, then, an action in our power, or is it not? “It is.” Is it therefore in your power also to exert your aims towards anything, or is it not? “Agreed that it is. But in whose power is my avoiding anything?” This, too, is in your own. “What then if, when I am exerting myself to walk, any one should restrain me?” What part of you can he restrain? Can he restrain your assent? “No, but my body.” Ay, as he may a stone. “Be it so. But still I cease to walk.” And who claimed that walking was one of the actions that cannot be restrained? For I only said that your exerting yourself towards it could not be restrained. But where there is need of body and its assistance, you have already heard that nothing is in your power. “Be this, too, agreed.” And can any one compel you to desire against your will? “No one.” Or to propose, or intend, or, in short, not to be beguiled by the appearances of things? “Nor this. But when I desire anything, he can restrain me from obtaining what I desire.” If you desire anything that is truly within your reach, and that cannot be restrained, how can he restrain you? “By no means.” And pray who claims that he who longs for what depends on another will be free from restraint?
“May I not long for health, them?” By no means; nor anything else that depends on another; for what is not in your own power, either to procure or to preserve when you will, that belongs to another. Keep off not only your hands from it, but even more than these, your desires. Otherwise you have given yourself up as a slave; you have put your neck under the yoke, if you admire any of the things which are not your own, but which are subject and mortal, to which of them soever you are attached. “Is not my hand my own?” It is a part of you, but it is by nature clay, liable to restraint, to compulsion; a slave to everything stronger than itself. And why do I say, your hand? You ought to hold your whole body but as a useful ass, with a pack-saddle on, so long as may be, so long as it is allowed you. But if there should come a military conscription, and a soldier should lay hold on it, let it go. Do not resist, or murmur; otherwise you will be first beaten and lose the ass after all. And since you are thus to regard even the body itself, think what remains to do concerning things to be provided for the sake of the body. If that be an ass, the rest are but bridles, pack-saddles, shoes, cats, hay, for him. Let these go, too. Quit them yet more easily and expeditiously. And when you are thus prepared and trained to distinguish what belongs to others from your own, what is liable to restraint from what is not; to esteem the one your own property, but not the other; to keep your desire, to keep your aversion carefully regulated by this point; whom have you any longer to fear? “No one.” For about what should you be afraid? About what is your own, in which consists the essence of good and evil? And who has any power over this? Who can take it away? Who can hinder you, any more than God can be hindered. But are you afraid for body, for possessions, for what belongs to others, for what is nothing to you? And what have you been studying all this while, but to distinguish between your own and that which is not your own; what is in your power and what is not in your power; what is liable to restraint and what is not? And for what purpose have you applied to the philosophers? That you might nevertheless be disappointed and unfortunate? No doubt you will be exempt from fear and perturbation! And what is grief to you? For whatsoever we anticipate with fear, we endure with grief. And for what will you any longer passionately wish? For you have a temperate and steady desire of things dependent on will, since they are accessible and desirable; and you have no desire of things uncontrollable by will, so as to leave room for that irrational, and impetuous, and precipitate passion.
Since then you are thus affected with regard to things, what man can any longer be formidable to you? What has man that he can be formidable to man, either in appearance, or speech, or mutual intercourse? No more than horse to horse, or dog to dog, or bee to bee. But things are formidable to every one, and whenever any person can either give these to another, or take them away, he becomes formidable too. “How, then, is this citadel to be destroyed?” Not by sword or fire, but by principle. For if we should demolish the visible citadel, shall we have demolished also that of some fever, of some fair woman, in short, the citadel [of temptation] within ourselves; and have turned out the tyrants to whom we are subject upon all occasions and every day, sometimes the same, sometimes others? From hence we must begin; hence demolish the citadel, and turn out the tyrants; — give up body, members, riches, power, fame, magistracies, honors, children, brothers, friends; esteem all these as belonging to others. And if the tyrants be turned out from hence, why should I besides demolish the external citadel, at least on my own account? For what harm to me from its standing? Why should I turn out the guards? For in what point do they affect me? It is against others that they direct their fasces, their staves, and their swords. Have I ever been restrained from what I willed, or compelled against my will? Indeed, how is this possible? I have placed my pursuits under the direction of God. Is it His will that I should have a fever? It is my will too. Is it His will that I should pursue anything? It is my will, too. Is it His will that I should desire? It is my will too. Is it His will that I should obtain anything? It is mine too. Is it not His will? It is not mine. Is it His will that I should be tortured? Then it is my will to be tortured. Is it His will that I should die? Then it is my will to die. Who can any longer restrain or compel me, contrary to my own opinion? No more than Zeus.
It is thus that cautious travellers act. Does some one hear that the road is beset by robbers? He does not set out alone, but waits for the retinue of an ambassador, or quæstor, or proconsul; and when he has joined himself to their company, goes along in safety. Thus does the prudent man act in the world. There are many robberies, tyrants, storms, distresses, losses of things most dear. Where is there any refuge? How can he go alone unattacked? What retinue can he wait for, to go safely through his journey? To what company shall he join himself? To some rich man? To some consular senator? And what good will that do me? He may be robbed himself, groaning and lamenting. And what if my fellow-traveller himself should turn against me and rob me? What shall I do? I say, I will be the friend of Cæsar. While I am his companion, no one will injure me. Yet before I can become illustrious enough for this, what must I bear and suffer! How often, and by how many, must I be robbed! And, then, if I do become the friend of Cæsar, he too is mortal; and if, by any accident, he should become my enemy, where can I best retreat? To a desert? Well; and may not a fever come there? What can be done then? Is it not possible to find a fellow-traveller, safe, faithful, brave, incapable of being surprised? A person who reasons thus, understands and considers that, if he joins himself to God, he shall go safely through his journey.
“How do you mean, join himself?” That what ever is the will of God may be his will too: that whatever is not the will of God may not be his. “How, then, can this be done?” Why, how otherwise than by considering the workings of God’s power and his administration? What has he given me to be my own, and independent? What has he reserved to himself? He has given me whatever depends on will. The things within my power he has made incapable of hindrance or restraint. But how could he make a body of clay incapable of hindrance? Therefore he has subjected possessions, furniture, house, children, wife, to the revolutions of the universe. Why, then, do I fight against God? Why do I will to retain that which depends not on will? That which is not granted absolutely; but how? In such a manner, and for such a time as was thought proper. But he who gave takes away. Why, then, do I resist? Besides being a fool, in contending with a stronger than myself, I shall be unjust, which is a more important consideration. For whence had I these things, when I came into the world? My father gave them to me. And who gave them to him? And who made the sun? Who the fruits? Who the seasons? Who their connection and relations with each other? And after you have received all, and even your very self from another, are you angry with the giver; and do you complain if He takes anything away from you? Who are you; and for what purpose did you come? Was it not He who brought you here? Was it not He who showed you the light? Hath not He given you companions? Hath not He given you senses? Hath not He given you reason? And as whom did He bring you here? Was it not as a mortal? Was it not as one to live with a little portion of flesh upon earth, and to see his administration; to behold the spectacle with Him, and partake of the festival for a short time? After having beheld the spectacle and the solemnity, then, as long as it is permitted you, will you not depart when He leads you out, adoring and thankful for what you have heard and seen? “No; but I would enjoy the feast still longer.” So would the initiated [in the mysteries], too, be longer in their initiation; so, perhaps, would the spectators at Olympia see more combatants. But the solemnity is over. Go away. Depart like a grateful and modest person; make room for others. Others, too, must be born as you were; and when they are born must have a place, and habitations, and necessaries. But if the first do not give way, what room is there left? Why are you insatiable, unconscionable? Why do you crowd the world?
“Ay, but I would have my wife and children with me too.” Why, are they yours? Are they not the Giver’s? Are they not His who made you also? Will you not then quit what belongs to another? Will you not yield to your Superior? “Why, then, did he bring me into the world upon these conditions?” Well; if it is not worth your while, depart. He hath no need of a discontented spectator. He wants such as will share the festival; make part of the chorus; who will extol, applaud, celebrate the solemnity. He will not be displeased to see the wretched and fearful dismissed from it. For when they were present they did not behave as at a festival nor fill a proper place, but lamented, found fault with the Deity, with their fortune, with their companions. They were insensible both of their advantages and of the powers which they received for far different purposes; the powers of magnanimity, nobleness of spirit, fortitude, and that which now concerns us, freedom. “For what purpose, then, have I received these things?” To use them. “How long?” As long as He who lent them pleases. If, then, they are not necessary, do not make an idol of them, and they will not be so; do not tell yourself that they are necessary, when they are not.
This should be our study from morning till night, beginning with the least and frailest things, as with earthen-ware, with glass-ware. Afterwards, proceed to a suit of clothes, a dog, a horse, an estate; thence to yourself, body, members, children, wife, brothers. Look everywhere around you, and be able to detach yourself from these things. Correct your principles. Permit nothing to cleave to you that is not your own; nothing to grow to you that may give you agony when it is torn away. And say, when you are daily training yourself as you do here, not that you act the philosopher, which may be a presumptuous claim, but that you are asserting your freedom. For this is true freedom. This is the freedom that Diogenes gained from Antisthenes; and declared it was impossible that he should ever after be a slave to any one. Hence, when he was taken prisoner, how did he treat the pirates? Did he call any of them master? I do not mean the name, for I am not afraid of a word, but of the disposition from whence the word proceeds. How did he reprove them for feeding their prisoners ill? How was he sold? Did he seek a master? No; but a slave. And when he was sold, how did he converse with his lord? He immediately disputed with him whether he ought to be dressed or shaved in the manner he was; and how he ought to bring up his children. And where is the wonder? For if the same master had bought some one to instruct his children in gymnastic exercises, would he in those exercises have treated him as a servant or as a master? And so if he had bought a physician or an architect? In every department the skilful must necessarily be superior to the unskilful. What else, then, can he be but master, who possesses the universal knowledge of life? For who is master in a ship? The pilot. Why? Because whoever disobeys him is a loser. “But a master can put me in chains.” Can he do it then, without being a loser? “I think not, indeed.” But because he must be a loser, he evidently must not do it; for no one acts unjustly without being a loser. — “And how does he suffer, who puts his own slave in chains?” What think you? From the very fact of chaining him. This you yourself must grant, if you would hold to the doctrine that man is not naturally a wild, but a gentle animal. For when is it that a vine is in a bad condition? “When it is in a condition contrary to its nature.” How is it with a cock? “The same.” It is therefore the same with a man also. What is his nature? To bite, and kick, and throw into prison, and cut off heads? No, but to do good, to assist, to indulge the wishes of others. Whether you will or not, then, he is in a bad condition whenever he acts unreasonably. “And so was not Socrates in a bad condition?” No, but his judges and accusers. “Nor Helvidius, at Rome?” No, but his murderer. “How do you talk?” Why, just as you do. You do not call that cock in a bad condition which is victorious, and yet wounded; but that which is conquered and comes off unhurt. Nor do you call a dog happy which neither hunts nor toils; but when you see him perspiring, and distressed, and panting with the chase. In what do we talk paradoxes? If we say that the evil of everything consists in what is contrary to its nature, is this a paradox? Do you not say it with regard to other things? Why, therefore, in the case of man alone, do you take a different view? But further; it is no paradox to say that by nature man is gentle and social, and faithful. “This is none.” How then [is it a paradox to say] that, when he is whipped, or imprisoned, or beheaded, he is not hurt? If he suffers nobly does he not come off even the better and a gainer? But he is the person hurt who suffers the most miserable and shameful evils; who, instead of a man, becomes a wolf, a viper, or a hornet.
Come, then; let us recapitulate what has been granted. The man who is unrestrained, who has all things in his power as he wills, is free; but he who may be restrained, or compelled, or hindered, or thrown into any condition against his will, is a slave. “And who is unrestrained?” He who desires none of those things that belong to others. “And what are those things, which belong to others?” Those which are not in our own power, either to have or not to have; or to have them thus or so. Body, therefore, belongs to another; its parts to another; property to another. If, then, you attach yourself to any of these as your own, you will be punished, as he deserves who desires what belongs to others. This is the way that leads to freedom; this the only deliverance from slavery; to be able at length to say, from the bottom of one’s soul:
- “Conduct me, Zeus, and thou, O destiny,
- Wherever your decrees have fixed my lot.”*
But what say you, philosopher? A tyrant calls upon you to speak something unbecoming you. Will you say it, or will you not? “Stay, let me consider.” Would you consider now? And what did you use to consider when you were in the schools? Did you not study what things were good and evil, and what indifferent? “I did.” Well; and what were the opinions which pleased us? — “That just and fair actions were good; unjust and base ones, evil.” Is living a good? “No.” Dying, an evil? “No.” A prison? “No.” And what did a mean and dishonest speech, the betraying a friend, or the flattering a tyrant, appear to us? “Evils.” Why, then, are you still considering, and have not already considered and come to a resolution? For what sort of a consideration is this: — “Whether I ought, when it is in my power, to procure myself the greatest good, instead of procuring myself the greatest evil.” A fine and necessary consideration, truly, and deserving mighty deliberation! Why do you trifle with us, man? No one ever needed to consider any such point; nor, if you really imagined things fair and honest to be good, things base and dishonest to be evil, and all other things indifferent, would you ever be in such a perplexity as this, or near it; but you would presently be able to distinguish by your understanding as you do by your sight. For do you ever have to consider whether black is white; or whether light is heavy? Do you not follow the plain evidence of your senses? Why, then, do you say that you are now considering whether things indifferent are to be avoided, rather than evils? The truth is, you have no principles; for things indifferent do not impress you as such, but as the greatest evils; and these, on the other hand, as things of no importance.
For thus has been your practice from the first. “Where am I? If I am in the school and there is an audience, I talk as the philosophers do. But if I am out of the school, then away with this stuff that belongs only to scholars and fools.” This man is accused by the testimony of a philosopher, his friend; this philosopher turns parasite; another hires himself out for money; a third does that in the very senate. When one is not governed by appearances, then his principles speak for themselves. You are a poor cold lump of prejudice, consisting of mere phrases, on which you hang as by a hair. You should preserve yourself firm and practical, remembering that you are to deal with real things. In what manner do you hear, — I will not say that your child is dead, for how could you possibly bear that? — but that your oil is spilled, your wine consumed? Would that some one, while you are bawling, would only say this: “Philosopher, you talk quite otherwise when in the schools. Why do you deceive us? Why, when you are a worm, do you call yourself a man?” I should be glad to be near one of these philosophers, while he is revelling in debauchery, that I might see how he demeans himself, and what sayings he utters; whether he remembers the title he bears and the discourses which he hears, or speaks, or reads.
“And what is all this to freedom?” It lies in nothing else but this; whether you rich people approve or not. “And who is your evidence of this?” Who, but yourselves? You who have a powerful master, and live by his motion and nod, and faint away if he does but look sternly upon you, who pay your court to old men and old women, and say, “I cannot do this or that, it is not in my power.” Why is it not in your power? Did not you just now contradict me, and say you were free? “But Aprylla has forbidden me.” Speak the truth, then, slave, and do not run away from your masters nor deny them, nor dare to assert your freedom, when you have so many proofs of your slavery. One might indeed find some excuse for a person compelled by love to do something contrary to his opinion, even when at the same time he sees what is best without having resolution enough to follow it, since he is withheld by something overpowering, and in some measure divine. But who can bear you, who are in love with old men and old women; and perform menial offices for them, and bribe them with presents, and wait upon them like a slave when they are sick; at the same time wishing they may die, and inquiring of the physician whether their distemper be yet mortal? And again, when for these great and venerable magistracies and honors you kiss the hands of the slaves of others; so that you are the slave of those who are not free themselves! And then you walk about in state, a prætor or a consul. Do I not know how you came to be prætor; whence you received the consulship; who gave it to you? For my own part, I would not even live, if I must live by Felicio’s means, and bear his pride and slavish insolence. For I know what a slave is, blinded by what he thinks good fortune.
“Are you free yourself, then?” you may ask. By Heaven, I wish and pray for it. But I own I cannot yet face my masters. I still pay a regard to my body, and set a great value on keeping it whole; though, for that matter, it is not whole. But I can show you one who was free, that you may no longer seek an example. Diogenes was free. “How so?” Not because he was of free parents, for he was not; but because he was so in himself; because he had cast away all which gives a handle to slavery; nor was there any way of getting at him, nor anywhere to lay hold on him, to enslave him. Everything sat loose upon him, everything only just hung on. If you took hold on his possessions, he would rather let them go than follow you for them; if on his leg, he let go his leg; if his body, he let go his body; acquaintance, friends, country, just the same. For he knew whence he had them, and from whom, and upon what conditions he received them. But he would never have forsaken his true parents, the gods, and his real country [the universe]; nor have suffered any one to be more dutiful and obedient to them than he; nor would any one have died more readily for his country than he. For he never had to inquire whether he should act for the good of the whole universe; for he remembered that everything that exists belongs to that administration, and is commanded by its ruler. Accordingly, see what he himself says and writes. “Upon this account,” said he, “O Diogenes, it is in your power to converse as you will with the Persian monarch and with Archidamus, king of the Lacedemonians.” Was it because he was born of free parents? Or was it because they were descended from slaves, that all the Athenians, and all the Lacedemonians, and Corinthians, could not converse with them as they pleased; but feared and paid court to them? Why then is it in your power, Diogenes? “Because I do not esteem this poor body as my own. Because I want nothing. Because this, and nothing else is a law to me.” These were the things that enabled him to be free.
And that you may not urge that I show you the example of a man clear of incumbrances, without a wife or children, or country, or friends, or relations, to bend and draw him aside; — take Socrates, and consider him, who had a wife and children, but held them not as his own; had a country, friends, relations, but held them only so long as it was proper, and in the manner that was proper; submitting all these to the law and to the obedience due to it. Hence, when it was proper to fight, he was the first to go out, and exposed himself to danger without the least reserve. But when he was sent by the thirty tyrants to apprehend Leon,* because he esteemed it a base action, he did not even deliberate about it; though he knew that, perhaps, he might die for it. But what did that signify to him? For it was something else that he wanted to preserve, not his mere flesh; but his fidelity, his honor free from attack or subjection. And afterwards, when he was to make a defence for his life, does he behave like one having children? Or a wife? No; but like a single man. And how does he behave, when required to drink the poison? When he might escape and Crito would have him escape from prison for the sake of his children, what says he? Does he esteem it a fortunate opportunity? How should he? But he considers what is becoming, and neither sees nor regards anything else. “For I am not desirous,” he says, “to preserve this pitiful body; but that part which is improved and preserved by justice, and impaired and destroyed by injustice.” Socrates is not to be basely preserved. He who refused to vote for what the Athenians commanded; he, who contemned the thirty tyrants; he, who held such discourses on virtue and moral beauty; such a man is not to be preserved by a base action, but is preserved by dying, instead of running away. For even a good actor is preserved as such by leaving off when he ought, not by going on to act beyond his time. “What then will become of your children?” — “If I had gone away into Thessaly, you would have taken care of them; and will there be no one to take care of them when I am departed to Hades?”* You see how he ridicules and plays with death. But if it had been you or I, we should presently have proved by philosophical arguments, that those who act unjustly are to be repaid in their own way; and should have added, “If I escape I shall be of use to many; if I die, to none.” Nay, if it had been necessary, we should have crept through a mouse-hole to get away. But how should we have been of use to any? For where must they have dwelt? If we were useful alive, should we not be of still more use to mankind by dying when we ought and as we ought? And now the remembrance of the death of Socrates is not less, but even more useful to the world than that of the things which he did and said when alive.
Study these points, these principles, these discourses; contemplate these examples if you would be free, if you desire the thing in proportion to its value. And where is the wonder that you should purchase so good a thing at the price of others, so many, and so great? Some hang themselves, others break their necks, and sometimes even whole cities have been destroyed for that which is reputed freedom; and will not you for the sake of the true and secure and inviolable freedom, repay God what he hath given when he demands it? Will you not study not only, as Plato says, how to die, but how to be tortured and banished and scourged; and, in short, how to give up all that belongs to others. If not, you will be a slave among slaves, though you were ten thousand times a consul; and even though you should rise to the palace you will never be the less so. And you will feel that, though philosophers (as Cleanthes says) do, perhaps, talk contrary to common opinion, yet it is not contrary to reason. For you will find it true, in fact, that the things that are eagerly followed and admired are of no use to those who have gained them; while they who have not yet gained them imagine that, if they are acquired, every good will come along with them; and, then, when they are acquired, there is the same feverishness, the same agitation, the same nausea, and the same desire for what is absent. For freedom is not procured by a full enjoyment of what is desired, but by controlling the desire. And in order to know that this is true, take the same pains about these which you have taken about other things. Hold vigils to acquire a set of principles that will make you free. Instead of a rich old man pay your court to a philosopher. Be seen about his doors. You will not get any disgrace by being seen there. You will not return empty or unprofited if you go as you ought. However, try at least. The trial is not dishonorable.
CHAPTER II.
OF COMPLAISANCE.
TO this point you must attend before all others; not to be so attached to any one of your former acquaintances or friends as to condescend to behavior like his; otherwise you will undo yourself. But if it comes into your head, “I shall appear odd to him, and he will not treat me as before,” remember, that there is nothing to be had for nothing; nor is it possible that he who acts in the same manner as before, should not be the same person. Choose, then, whether you will be loved by those who formerly loved you, and be like your former self; or be better, and not meet with the same treatment. For if this is preferable, immediately incline altogether this way, and let no other kinds of reasoning draw you aside; for no one can improve while he is wavering. If, then, you prefer this to everything, if you would be fixed only on this, and employ all your pains about it, give up everything else. Otherwise this wavering will affect you in both ways; you will neither make a due improvement, nor preserve the advantages you had before. For before, by setting your heart entirely on things of no value, you were agreeable to your companions. But you cannot excel in both styles; you must necessarily lose as much of the one as you partake of the other. If you do not drink with those with whom you used to drink, you cannot appear equally agreeable to them. Choose, then, whether you would be a drunkard, and agreeable to them, — or sober, and disagreeable to them. If you do not sing with those with whom you used to sing, you cannot be equally dear to them. Here too, then, choose which you will. For if it is better to be modest and decent than to have it said of you “what an agreeable fellow,” give up the rest; renounce it; withdraw yourself; have nothing to do with it. But if this does not please you, incline with your whole force the contrary way. Be one of the debauchees; one of the adulterers. Act all that is consistent with such a character, and you will obtain what you would have. Jump up in the theatre, too, and roar out in praise of the dancer. But characters so different are not to be confounded. You cannot act both Thersites and Agamemnon. If you would be Thersites, you must be hump-backed and bald; if Agamemnon, great and noble, and faithful to those who are under your care.
CHAPTER III.
WHAT THINGS ARE TO BE EXCHANGED FOR OTHERS.
WHEN you have lost anything external, have always at hand the consideration of what you have got instead of it; and if that be of more value, do not by any means call yourself a loser; whether it be a horse for an ass; an ox for a sheep; a good action for a piece of money; a due composure of mind for a dull jest; or modesty for indecent talk. By continually remembering this, you will preserve your character such as it ought to be. Otherwise, consider that you are spending your time in vain; and all that to which you are now applying your mind, you are about to spill and overturn. And there needs but little, merely a small deviation from reason, to destroy and overset all. A pilot does not need so much apparatus to overturn a ship as to save it; but if he exposes it a little too much to the wind, it is lost; even if he should not do it by design, but only for a moment be thinking of something else, it is lost. Such is the case here, too. If you do but nod a little, all that you have hitherto accomplished is gone. Take heed, then, to the appearances of things. Keep yourself watchful over them. It is no inconsiderable matter that you have to guard; but modesty, fidelity, constancy, docility, innocence, fearlessness, serenity; in short, freedom. For what will you sell these? Consider what the purchase is worth. “But shall I not get such a thing instead of it?” Consider, if you do not get it, what it is that you have instead. Suppose I have decency, and another the office of tribune; I have modesty, and he the prætorship? But I do not applaud where it is unbecoming; I will pay no undeserved honor; for I am free, and the friend of God, so as to obey him willingly; but I must not value anything else, neither body, nor possessions, nor fame; in short, nothing. For it is not His will that I should value them. For if this had been His pleasure, He would have placed in them my good, which now He hath not done; therefore I cannot transgress his commands. Seek in all things your own highest good, — and for other aims, recognize them as far as the case requires, and in accordance with reason, contented with this alone. Otherwise you will be unfortunate, disappointed, restrained, hindered.” These are the established laws, these the statutes. Of these one ought to be an expositor, and to these obedient, rather than to those of Masurius and Cassius.*
CHAPTER IV.
CONCERNING THOSE WHO EARNESTLY DESIRE A LIFE OF REPOSE.
REMEMBER that it is not only the desire of riches and power that debases us and subjects us to others, but even that of quiet, leisure, learning, or travelling. For, in general, reverence for any external thing whatever makes us subject to others. Where is the difference, then, whether you desire to be a senator or not to be a senator? Where is the difference, whether you desire power or to be out of power? Where is the difference, whether you say “I am in a wretched way, I have nothing to do; but am tied down to books, as inactive as if I were dead”; — or, “I am in a wretched way, I have no leisure to read?” For as levees and power are among things external and uncontrollable by will, so, likewise is a book. For what purpose would you read? Tell me. For if you rest merely in being amused and learning something, you are insignificant and miserable. But if you refer it to the proper end, what is that but a life truly prosperous? And if reading does not procure you a prosperous life, of what use is it. “But it does procure a prosperous life (say you); and therefore I am uneasy at being deprived of it.” And what sort of prosperity is that which everything can hinder; — I do not say Cæsar alone, or Cæsar’s friend, but a crow, a man practising the flute, a fever, or ten thousand other things? But nothing is so essential to prosperity as that it should be permanent and unhindered. Suppose I am now called to do something. I now go, therefore, and will be attentive to the bounds and measures which ought to be observed; that I may act modestly, steadily, and without desire or aversion as to externals. In the next place, I am attentive to other men; what they say, and how they are moved; and that not from ill-nature, nor that I may have an opportunity for censure or ridicule; but I turn to myself. “Am I also guilty of the same faults; and how then shall I leave them off?” or, “I once thus erred, but, God be thanked, not now.” Well; when you have done thus, and been employed on such things, have you not done as good a work as if you had read a thousand lines or written as many? For are you uneasy at not reading while you are eating? When you eat, or bathe, or exercise, are you not satisfied with doing it in a manner corresponding to what you have read? Why, then, do you not reason in like manner about everything? When you approach Cæsar or any other person, if you preserve yourself dispassionate, fearless, sedate; if you are rather an observer of what is done than the subject of observation; if you do not envy those who are preferred to you; if you are not overcome by the occasion, what need you more? Books? How, or to what end? For these are not the real preparation for living, but living is made up of things very different. Just as if a champion, when he enters the lists, should begin crying because he is not still exercising without. It was for this that you were exercised. For this were the dumb-bells, the dust, and your young antagonists. And do you now seek for these when it is the time for actual business? This is just as if, in forming our opinions, when perplexed between true and false semblances, we should, instead of practically distinguishing between them, merely peruse dissertations on evidence.
What, then, is the trouble? That we have neither learned by reading, nor by writing, how to deal practically with the semblances of things, according to the laws of nature. But we stop at learning what is said, and, being able to explain it to others, at solving syllogisms and arranging hypothetical arguments. Hence where the study is, there, too, is the hindrance. Do you desire absolutely what is out of your power? Be restrained then, be hindered, be disappointed. But if we were to read dissertations about the exertion of our efforts, not merely to see what might be said about our efforts, but to exert them well; on desire and aversion, that we might not be disappointed of our desires, nor incur our aversions; on the duties of life, that, mindful of our relations, we might do nothing irrational nor inconsistent with them; then we should not be provoked at being hindered in our reading; but should be contented with the performance of actions suitable to us, and should learn a new standard of computation. Not, “To-day I have perused so many lines; I have written so many”; but, “To-day I have used my efforts as the philosophers direct. I have restrained my desires absolutely; I have applied my aversion only to things controllable by will. I have not been terrified by such a one, nor put out of countenance by such another. I have exercised my patience, my abstinence, my beneficence.” And thus we should thank God for what we ought to thank him.
But now we resemble the crowd in another way also, and do not know it. One is afraid that he shall not be in power; you, that you shall. By no means be afraid of it, man; but as you laugh at him, laugh at yourself. For there is no difference, whether you thirst like one in a fever, or dread water like him who is bit by a mad dog. Else how can you say, like Socrates, “If it so pleases God, so let it be?” Do you think that Socrates, if he had fixed his desires on the leisure of the lyceum or the academy, or the conversation of the youth there, day after day, would have made so many campaigns as he did, so readily? Would not he have lamented and groaned: “How wretched am I! now must I be miserable here, when I might be sunning myself in the lyceum?” Was that your business in life, then, to sun yourself? Was it not to be truly successful? To be unrestrained and free? And how could he have been Socrates, if he had lamented thus? How could he after that have written Pæans in a prison?
In short, then, remember this, that so far as you prize anything external to your own will, you impair that will. And not only power is external to it, but the being out of power too; not only business, but leisure too. “Then must I live in this tumult now?” What do you call a tumult? “A multitude of people.” And where is the hardship? Suppose it to be the Olympic Games. Think it a public assembly. There, too, some bawl out one thing, some another; some push the rest. The baths are crowded. Yet who of us is not pleased with these assemblies, and does not grieve to leave them? Do not be hard to please, and squeamish at what happens. “Vinegar is disagreeable, for it is sour. Honey is disagreeable, for it disorders my constitution. I do not like vegetables.” “So I do not like retirement, it is a desert; I do not like a crowd, it is a tumult.” Why, if things are so disposed, that you are to live alone or with few, call this condition repose, and make use of it as you ought. Talk with yourself, judge of the appearances presented to your mind; train your mental habits to accuracy. But if you happen on a crowd, call it one of the public games, a grand assembly, a festival. Endeavor to share in the festival with the rest of the world. For what sight is more pleasant to a lover of mankind than a great number of men? We see companies of oxen or horses with pleasure. We are highly delighted to see a great many ships. Who is sorry to see a great many men? “But they stun me with their noise.” Then your hearing is hindered; and what is that to you? Is your faculty of making a right use of the appearances of things hindered too? Or who can restrain you from using your desire and aversion, your powers of pursuit and avoidance, conformably to nature? What tumult is sufficient for this?
Do but remember the general rules. What is mine? What not mine? What is allotted me? What is it the will of God that I should do now? What is not his will? A little while ago it was His will that you should be at leisure, should talk with yourself, write about these things, read, hear, prepare yourself. You have had sufficient time for this. At present, He says to you, “Come now to the combat. Show us what you have learned; how you have wrestled.” How long would you exercise by yourself? It is now the time to show whether you are of the number of those champions who merit victory, or of those who go about the world conquered in all the circle of games. Why, then, are you out of humor? There is no combat without a tumult. There must be many preparatory exercises, many acclamations, many masters, many spectators. “But I would live in quiet.” Why, then, lament and groan as you deserve. For what greater punishment is there to those who are uninstructed and disobedient to the orders of God, than to grieve, to mourn, to envy; in short, to be disappointed and unhappy? Are you not willing to deliver yourself from all this? “And how shall I deliver myself?” Have you not heard that you must absolutely control desire, and apply aversion to such things only as are controllable by will? That you must consent to resign all, body, possessions, fame, books, tumults, power, exemption from power? For to whichsoever your disposition is, you are a slave; you are under subjection; you are made liable to restraint, to compulsion; you are altogether the property of others. But have that maxim of Cleanthes always ready,
“Conduct me, Zeus; and thou, O destiny.”
Is it your will that I should go to Rome? Conduct me to Rome. To Gyaros? — To Gyaros. To Athens? — To Athens. To prison? — To prison. If you once say, “When may I go to Athens?” you are undone. This desire, if it be unaccomplished, must necessarily render you disappointed; and, if fulfilled, vain respecting what ought not to elate you; — if, on the contrary, you are hindered, then you are wretched through incurring what you do not like. Therefore give up all these things.
“Athens is a fine place.” But it is a much finer thing to be happy, serene, tranquil, not to have your affairs dependent on others. “Rome is full of tumults and visits.” But prosperity is worth all difficulties. If, then, it be a proper time for these, why do not you withdraw your aversion from them? What necessity is there for you to be made to carry your burden, by being cudgelled like an ass? Otherwise, consider that you must always be a slave to him who has the power to procure your discharge, — to every one who has the power of hindering you; — and must worship him like your evil genius.
The only way to real prosperity (let this rule be at hand morning, noon, and night) is a resignation of things uncontrollable by will; to esteem nothing as property; to deliver up all things to our tutelar genius and to fortune; to leave the control of them to those whom Zeus hath made such; to be ourselves devoted to that only which is really ours; to that which is incapable of restraint; and whatever we read, or write, or hear, to refer all to this.
Therefore I cannot call any one industrious, if I hear only that he reads or writes; nor do I call him so even if he adds the whole night to the day, unless I know to what he applies it. For not even you would call him industrious who sits up for the sake of a girl; nor, therefore, in the other case do I. But if he does it for fame, I call him ambitious; if for money, avaricious; if from the desire of learning, bookish; but not industrious. But if he applies his labor to his ruling faculty, in order to treat and regulate it conformably to nature, then only I call him industrious. Never praise or blame any person on account of outward actions that are common to all; but only on account of principles. These are the peculiar property of each individual, and the things which make actions good or bad.
Mindful of this, enjoy the present and accept all things in their season. If you meet in action any of those things which you have made a subject of study, rejoice in them. If you have laid aside ill-nature and reviling; if you have lessened your harshness, indecent language, inconsiderateness, effeminacy; if you are not moved by the same things as formerly, or if not in the same manner as formerly; — you may keep a perpetual festival, to-day for success in one affair, to-morrow for another. How much better a reason for sacrifice is this than obtaining a consulship or a government? These things you have from yourself and from the gods. Remember this, who it is that gave them, and to whom and for what purpose. Habituated once to these reasonings, can you still think that it makes any difference what place God allots you? Are not the gods everywhere at the same distance? Do not they everywhere see equally what is doing?
CHAPTER V.
CONCERNING THE QUARRELSOME AND FEROCIOUS.
A WISE and good person neither quarrels with any one himself, nor, as far as possible, suffers another to do so. The life of Socrates affords us an example of this too, as well as of other things; since he not only everywhere avoided quarrelling himself, but did not even suffer others to quarrel. See in Xenophon’s Banquet how many quarrels he ended; how, again, he bore with Thrasymachus, with Polus, with Callicles; how with his wife, how with his son, who attempted to confute him, and cavilled at him. For he well remembered that no one is master of the ruling faculty of another; and therefore he desired nothing but what was his own. “And what is that?” Not that any particular person should be dealt with conformably to nature; for that belongs to others; but that while they act in their own way, as they please, he should nevertheless live conformably to nature, only doing what belongs to himself, in order to make them live conformably to nature also. For this is the point that a wise and good person has in view. To have the command of an army? No; but if it be allotted him, to properly apply his own powers in that sphere. To marry? No; but if marriage be allotted him, to act in this sphere also, according to the laws of nature. But if he expects perfection in his wife or his child, then he asks to have that for his own which really belongs to others. And wisdom consists in this very point, to learn what things are our own and what belong to others.
What room is there then for quarrelling, to a person thus disposed? For does he wonder at anything that happens? Does it appear strange to him? Does he not prepare for worse and more grievous injuries from bad people than actually happen to him? Does he not reckon it so much gained if they come short of the last extremities? Such a one has reviled you. You are much obliged to him that he has not struck you. But he has struck you too. You are much obliged to him that he has not wounded you too. But he has wounded you too. You are much obliged to him that he has not killed you. For when did he ever learn, or from whom, that he is a gentle, that he is a social animal; that the very injury itself is a great mischief to him who inflicts it? As, then, he has not learned these things, nor believes them, why should he not follow what appears to be for his interest? Your neighbor has thrown stones. What then? Is it any fault of yours? But your goods are broken. What then? Are you a piece of furniture? No; but your essence consists in the faculty of will. What behavior then is assigned you in return? If you consider yourself as a wolf, — then, to bite again, to throw more stones. But if you ask the question as a man, then examine your treasure; see what faculties you have brought into the world with you. Are they fitted for ferocity? For revenge? When is a horse miserable? When he is deprived of his natural faculties. Not when he cannot crow, but when he cannot run. And a dog? Not when he cannot fly, but when he cannot hunt. Is not a man, then, also unhappy in the same manner? Not he who cannot strangle lions or perform athletic feats, (for he has received no faculties for this purpose from nature); but who has lost his rectitude of mind, his fidelity. This is he who ought to receive public condolence for the misfortunes into which he is fallen; not, by Heaven, either he who has the misfortune to be born or to die; but he whom it has befallen while he lives to lose what is properly his own. Not his paternal possessions, his paltry estate or his house, his lodging or his slaves, for none of these are a man’s own; but all these belong to others, are servile, dependent, and very variously assigned by the disposers of them. But his personal qualifications as a man, the impressions which he brought into the world stamped upon his mind; such as we look for in money, accepting or rejecting it accordingly. “What impression has this piece of money?” — “Trajan’s.” — “Give it me.” — “Nero’s.”* Throw it away. It is false; it is good for nothing. So in the other case. “What stamp have his principles?” — “Gentleness, social affection, patience, good-nature.” Bring them hither. I receive them. I make such a man a citizen; I receive him for a neighbor, a fellow-traveller. Only see that he have not the Neronian stamp. Is he passionate? Is he resentful? Is he querulous? Would he, if he took the fancy, break the heads of those who fell in his way? Why then do you call him a man? For is everything determined by a mere outward form? Then say, just as well, that a piece of wax is an apple, or that it has the smell and taste, too. But the external figure is not enough; nor, consequently, is it sufficient to constitute a man, that he has a nose and eyes, if he have not the proper principles of a man. Such a one does not understand reason, or apprehend when he is confuted. He is like an ass. Another is dead to the sense of shame. He is a worthless creature; anything rather than a man. Another seeks whom he may kick or bite: so that he is neither sheep nor ass. But what then? He is a wild beast.
“Well; but would you have me despised, then?” By whom? By those who know you? And how can they despise you who know you to be gentle and modest? But, perhaps, by those who do not know you? And what is that to you? For no other artist troubles himself about those ignorant of art. “But people will be much readier to attack me.” Why do you say me? Can any one hurt your will, or restrain you from treating, conformably to nature, the phenomena of existence? Why, then, are you disturbed and desirous to make yourself appear formidable? Why do you not make public proclamation that you are at peace with all mankind, however they may act; and that you chiefly laugh at those who suppose they can hurt you? “These wretches neither know who I am, nor in what consist my good and evil; nor how little they can touch what is really mine.” Thus the inhabitants of a fortified city laugh at the besiegers. “What trouble, now, are these people giving themselves for nothing? Our wall is secure; we have provisions for a very long time, and every other preparation.” These are what render a city fortified and impregnable; but nothing but its principles render the human soul so. For what wall is so strong, what body so impenetrable, what possession so unalienable, what dignity so secured against stratagems? All things else, everywhere else, are mortal, easily reduced; and whoever in any degree fixes his mind upon them, must necessarily be subject to perturbation, despair, terrors, lamentations, disappointed desires, and unavailing aversions.
And will we not fortify, then, the only citadel that is granted us; and, withdrawing ourselves from what is mortal and servile, diligently improve what is immortal and by nature free? Do we not remember that no one either hurts or benefits another; but only the principles which we hold concerning everything? It is this that hurts us; this that overturns us. Here is the fight, the sedition, the war. It was nothing else that made Eteocles and Polynices enemies, but their principles concerning empire, and their principles concerning exile; that the one seemed the extremest evil, the other, the greatest good. Now the very nature of every one is to pursue good, to avoid evil; to esteem him as an enemy and betrayer who deprives us of the one, and involves us in the other, though he be a brother, or a son, or father. For nothing is more nearly related to us than good. So that if good and evil consist in externals, there is no affection between father and son, brother and brother; but all is everywhere full of enemies, betrayers, sycophants. But if a right choice be the only good, and a wrong one the only evil, what further room is there for quarrelling, for reviling? About what can it be? About what is nothing to us. Against whom? Against the ignorant, against the unhappy, against those who are deceived in the most important respects.
Mindful of this, Socrates lived in his own house, patiently bearing a furious wife, a senseless son. For what were the effects of her fury? The throwing as much water as she pleased on his head, the trampling* a cake under her feet. “And what is this to me, if I think such things nothing to me? This very point is my business; and neither a tyrant, nor a master, shall restrain my will; nor multitudes, though I am a single person; nor one ever so strong, though I am ever so weak. For this is given by God to every one, free from restraint.”
These principles make friendship in families, concord in cities, peace in nations. They make a person grateful to God, everywhere courageous, as dealing with things merely foreign and of minor importance. But we, alas! are able indeed to write and read these things, and to praise them when they are read; but very far from being convinced by them. In that case, what is said of the Lacedemonians,
“Lions at home, foxes at Ephesus,”
may be applied to us, too; lions in the school, but foxes out of it.
CHAPTER VI.
CONCERNING THOSE WHO ARE ANNOYED AT BEING PITIED.
IT vexes me, say you, to be pitied. Is this your affair, then, or theirs who pity you? And further, how is it in your power to prevent it? “It is, if I show them that I do not need pity.” But are you now in such a condition as not to need pity, or are you not? “I think I am. But these people do not pity me for what, if anything, would deserve pity, my faults; but for poverty, and want of power, and sicknesses, and deaths, and other things of that kind.” Are you, then, prepared to convince the world that none of these things is in reality an evil; but that it is possible for a person to be happy, even when he is poor, and without honors and power? Or are you prepared to put on the appearance of being rich and powerful? The last of these is the part of an arrogant, silly, worthless fellow. Observe, too, by what means this fiction must be carried on. You must hire some poor slaves, and get possessed of a few little pieces of plate, and often show them in public; and though they are the same, endeavor to conceal that they are the same; you must have gay clothes and other finery, and make a show of being honored by your great people; and endeavor to sup with them, or be thought to sup with them; and use some vile arts with your person, to make it appear handsomer and genteeler than it really is. All this you must contrive, if you would take the second way not to be pitied. And the first is impracticable as well as tedious, to undertake the very thing that Zeus himself could not do; to convince all mankind what things are really good and evil. Is this granted you? The only thing granted you is to convince yourself; and you have not yet done that; and yet do you undertake to convince others? Why, who has lived so long with you as you have with yourself? Who is so likely to have faith in you, in order to be convinced by you, as yourself? Who is more truly a well-wisher or a friend to you than yourself? How is it, then, that you have not yet convinced yourself? Should you not now revolve these things? What you were studying was this; to learn to be exempt from grief, perturbation, and meanness, and to be free. Have you not heard, then, that the only way that leads to this is, to give up what is beyond the control of will; to withdraw from it, and confess that it belongs to others? To what order of things belongs another’s opinion about you? “Things uncontrollable by will.” Is it nothing then to you? “Nothing.” While you are still piqued and disturbed about it, then, do you consider that you are convinced concerning good and evil?
Letting others alone, then, why will you not be your own scholar and teacher? Let others look to it, whether it be for their advantage to think and act contrary to nature; but no one is nearer to me than myself. What means this? I have heard the reasonings of philosophers, and assented to them; yet, in fact, I am not the more relieved. Am I so stupid? And yet, in other things to which I had an inclination, I was not found very stupid; but I quickly learned grammar and the exercises of the palæstra, and geometry, and the solution of syllogisms. Has not reason, then, convinced me? And yet there is no one of the other things that I so much approved or liked from the very first. And now I read concerning these subjects, I hear discourses upon them, I write about them, and I have not yet found any principle more sure than this. What, then, do I need? Is not this the difficulty, that the contrary principles are not removed out of my mind? Is it not that I have not strengthened these opinions by exercise, nor practised them in action? but, like arms thrown aside, they are grown rusty, and do not suit me? Yet neither in the palæstra, nor writing, nor reading, nor solving syllogisms, am I contented with merely learning; but I apply in every way the forms of arguments which are presented to me, and I invent others; and the same of convertible propositions. But the necessary principles by which I might become exempted from fear, grief, and passion, and be unrestrained and free, I do not exercise, nor bestow on them the proper care. And, then, I trouble myself what others will say of me; whether I shall appear to them worthy of regard; whether I shall appear happy. Will you not see, foolish man, what you can say of yourself? What sort of person you appear to yourself in your opinions, in your desires, in your aversions, in your pursuits, in your preparation, in your intention, in the other proper works of a man? But instead of that, do you trouble yourself whether others pity you? “Very true. But I am pitied without reason.” Then are you not pained by this? And is not he who is in pain to be pitied? “Yes.” How, then, are you pitied without reason? For you render yourself worthy of pity by what you suffer upon being pitied.
What says Antisthenes, then? Have you never heard? “It is kingly, O Cyrus, to do well and to be ill spoken of.” My head is well, and all around me think it aches. What is that to me? I am free from a fever; and they compassionate me as if I had one. “Poor soul, what a long while have you had this fever!” I say, too, with a dismal countenance, Ay, indeed, it is now a long time that I have been ill. “What can be the consequence, then?” What pleases God. And at the same time I secretly laugh at those who pity me. What forbids, then, but that the same may be done in the other case? I am poor, but I have right principles concerning poverty. What is it to me, then, if people pity me for my poverty? I am not in power and others are; but I have such opinions as I ought to have concerning power and the want of power. Let them see to it who pity me. I am neither hungry, nor thirsty, nor cold. But because they are hungry and thirsty, they suppose me to be so too. What can I do for them? Am I to go about making proclamation, and saying, Do not deceive yourselves, good people, I am very well; I care for neither poverty, nor want of power, nor anything else but right principles? These I possess unrestrained, and care for nothing further.
But what trifling is this? How have I right principles when I am not contented to be what I am; but am in agony, how I shall appear? “But others will get more, and be preferred to me.” Well, what is more reasonable, than that they who take pains for anything should get most in that particular direction, in which they take pains? They have taken pains for power; you, for right principles: they, for riches; you, for a proper use of the phenomena of existence. See whether they have the advantage of you in that for which you have taken pains, and which they neglect; if they judge better concerning the natural bounds and limits of things; if their desires are less often disappointed than yours, their aversions less often incurred; if they aim better in their intentions, in their purposes, in their pursuits; if they preserve a becoming behavior as men, as sons, as parents, and so on with the other relations of life. But if they are in power, and you not, why will you not speak the truth to yourself; that you do nothing for the sake of power, but that they do everything? It were very reasonable that he who carefully seeks anything, should be less successful than he who neglects it! “No; but since I take care to have right principles, it is more reasonable that I should excel.” Yes, in respect to what you take pains about, your principles. But give up to others the things in which they have taken more pains than you. Else it is just as if, because you have right principles, you should expect to aim an arrow better than an archer, or to forge better than a smith. Therefore cease to take pains about principles, and apply yourself to those things which you wish to possess, and then begin crying, if you do not succeed; for you deserve to cry. But now you claim that you are engaged and absorbed in other things; and they say well that no man can be of two trades. One man, as soon as he rises and goes out, seeks to whom he may pay his compliments, whom he may flatter, to whom he may send a present, how he may please the favorite; how, by doing mischief to one, he may oblige another. Whenever he prays, he prays for things like these; whenever he sacrifices, he sacrifices for things like these. To these he transfers the Pythagorean precept:
“Let not the stealing god of Sleep surprise.”
*Where have I failed in point of flattery? What have I done? Anything like a free, brave-spirited man? If he should find anything of this sort, he rebukes and accuses himself. “What business had you to say that? For could you not have lied? Even the philosophers say there is no objection against telling a lie.”
But, on the other hand, if you have in reality been careful about nothing else but to make a right use of the phenomena of existence; then, as soon as you are up in the morning, consider what you need in order to be free from passion? What, to enjoy tranquillity? “In what do I consist? Merely in body, in estate, in reputation? None of these. What, then? I am a reasonable creature. What, then, is required of me?” Meditate upon your actions. Where have I failed in any requisite for prosperity? What have I done, either unfriendly or unsocial? What have I omitted that was necessary in these points?
Since there is so much difference, then, in your desires, your actions, your wishes, would you yet have an equal share with others in those things about which you have not taken pains, and they have? And do you wonder, after all, and are you out of humor if they pity you? But they are not out of humor, if you pity them. Why? Because they are convinced that they are in possession of their proper good; but you are not convinced that you are. Hence you are not contented with your own condition, but desire theirs; whereas they are contented with theirs, and do not desire yours. For if you were really convinced that it is you who are in possession of what is good, and that they are mistaken, you would not so much as think what they say about you.
CHAPTER VII.
OF FEARLESSNESS.
WHAT makes a tyrant formidable? His guards, say you, and their swords; they who protect his bedchamber; and they who keep out intruders. Why, then, if you bring a child to him amidst these guards, is it not afraid? Is it because the child does not know what they mean? Suppose, then, that any one knows what is meant by guards, and that they are armed with swords; and for that very reason comes in the tyrant’s way, being desirous, on account of some misfortune, to die, and seeking to die easily by the hand of another. Does such a man fear the guards? No; for he desires the very thing that renders them formidable. Well, then; if any one being without an absolute desire to live or die, but indifferent to it, comes in the way of a tyrant, what prevents his approaching him without fear? Nothing. If, then, another should think concerning his estate, or wife, or children, as this man thinks concerning his body; and, in short, from some madness or folly should be of such a disposition as not to care whether he has them or not; but just as children, playing with shells, are busied with the play, but not with the shells, so he should pay no regard to these affairs, except to carry on the play with them, what tyrant, what guards or swords are any longer formidable to such a man?
And is it possible that any one should be thus disposed towards these things from madness; and the Galileans from mere habit; yet that no one should be able to learn, from reason and demonstration, that God made all things in the world, and made the whole world itself unrestrained and perfect; and all its parts for the use of the whole? All other creatures are indeed excluded from a power of comprehending the administration of the world; but a reasonable being has abilities for the consideration of all these things: both that itself is a part, and what part; and that it is fit the parts should submit to the whole. Besides, being by nature constituted noble, magnanimous, and free, it sees that of the things which relate to it some are unrestrained and in its own power, some restrained and in the power of others: the unrestrained, such as depend on will; the restrained, such as do not depend on it. And for this reason, if it esteems its good and its interest to consist in things unrestrained and in its own power, it will be free, prosperous, happy, safe, magnanimous, pious, thankful to God for everything, never finding fault with anything, never censuring anything that is brought about by him. But if it esteems its good and its interest to consist in externals, and things uncontrollable by will, it must necessarily be restrained, be hindered, be enslaved to those who have the power over those things which it admires and fears; it must necessarily be impious, as supposing itself injured by God, and unjust, as claiming more than its share; it must necessarily, too, be abject and base.
Why may not he who discerns these things live with an easy and light heart, quietly awaiting whatever may happen, and bearing contentedly what has happened? Shall it be poverty? Bring it; and you shall see what poverty is when it is met well. Would you have power? Bring toils too along with it. Banishment? Wherever I go, it will be well with me there; for it was well with me here, not on account of the place, but of the principles which I shall carry away with me; for no one can deprive me of these; on the contrary, they alone are my property, and cannot be taken away; and their possession suffices me wherever I am, or whatever I do.
“But it is now time to die.” What is that you call dying? Do not talk of the thing in a tragedy strain; but state the thing as it is, that it is time for your material part to revert whence it came. And where is the terror of this? What part of the world is going to be lost? What is going to happen that is new or prodigious? Is it for this that a tyrant is formidable? Is it on this account that the swords of his guards seem so large and sharp? Try these things upon others. For my part, I have examined the whole. No one has authority over me. God hath made me free; I know his commands; after this no one can enslave me. I have a proper vindicator of my freedom; proper judges. Are you the master of my body? But what is that to me? Of my little estate? But what is that to me? Of banishment and chains? Why all these again, and my whole body, I give up to you; make a trial of your power whenever you please, and you will find how far it extends.
Whom, then, can I any longer fear? Those who guard the chamber? Lest they should do — what? Shut me out? If they find me desirous to come in, let them. “Why do you come to the door, then?” Because it is fitting for me, that while the play lasts I should play too. “How then are you incapable of being shut out?” Because, if I am not admitted, I would not wish to go in; but would much rather that things should be as they are, for I esteem what God wills to be better than what I will. To Him I yield myself as a servant and a follower. My pursuits, my desires, my very will, must coincide with His. Being shut out does not affect me; but those who push to get in. Why, then, do not I push too? Because I know that there is no really good thing distributed to those who get in. But when I hear any one congratulated on the favor of Cæsar, I ask what he has got. “A province.” Has he the needed wisdom also? “A public office.” Has he with it the knowledge how to use it? If not, why should I push my way in?
Some one scatters nuts and figs. Children scramble and quarrel for them; but not men, for they think them trifles. But if any one should scatter shells, not even children would scramble for these. Provinces are being distributed. Let children look to it. Money. Let children look to it. Military command, a consulship. Let children scramble for them. Let these be shut out, be beaten, kiss the hands of the giver, or of his slaves. But to me they are mere figs and nuts. “What, then, is to be done?” If you miss them while he is throwing them, do not trouble yourself about it; but if a fig should fall into your lap, take it, and eat it; for one may pay so much regard even to a fig. But if I am to stoop and throw down one [rival] or be thrown down by another, and flatter those who succeed, a fig is not worth this, nor is any other of those things which are not really good, and which the philosophers have persuaded me not to esteem as good.
Show me the swords of the guards. “See how large and how sharp they are.” What, then, can these great and sharp swords do? “They kill.” And what can a fever do? “Nothing else.” And a [falling] tile? “Nothing else.” Do you then wish me to be bewildered by all these things, and to worship them, and to go about as a slave to them all? Heaven forbid! But having once learned that everything that is born must likewise die, (that the world may not be at a stand, nor the course of it hindered,) I no longer see any difference, whether this be effected by a fever, or a tile, or a soldier; but if any comparison is to be made, I know that the soldier will effect it with less pain and more speedily. Since then I neither fear any of those things which he can inflict upon me, nor covet anything which he can bestow, why do I stand any longer in awe of a tyrant? Why am I amazed at him? Why do I fear his guards? Why do I rejoice, if he speaks kindly to me, and receives me graciously; and why boast to others of my reception? For is he Socrates or Diogenes, that his praise should show what I am? Or have I set my heart on imitating his manners? But to keep up the play I go to him and serve him, so long as he commands nothing unreasonable or improper. But if he should say to me, “Go to Salamis, and bring Leon,”* I bid him seek another, for I play no longer. “Lead him away.” I follow as a part of the play. “But your head will be taken off.” And will his own remain on forever; or yours, who obey him? “But you will be thrown out unburied.” If I am identical with my corpse, I shall be thrown out; but if I am something else than the corpse, speak more handsomely, as the thing is, and do not think to frighten me. These things are frightful to children and fools. But if any one, who has once entered into the school of a philosopher, knows not what he himself is, then he deserves to be frightened, and to flatter the last object of flattery; if he has not yet learnt that he is neither flesh, nor bones, nor nerves, but is that which makes use of these, and regulates and comprehends the phenomena of existence.
“Well; but these reasonings make men despise the laws.” And what reasonings, then, render those who use them more obedient to the laws? But the law of fools is no law. And yet, see how these reasonings render us properly disposed, even towards such persons, since they teach us not to assert against them any claim wherein they can surpass us. They teach us to give up body, to give up estate, children, parents, brothers, to yield everything, to let go everything, excepting only principles; which even Zeus hath excepted and decreed to be every one’s own property. What unreasonableness, what breach of the laws, is there in this? Where you are superior and stronger, there I give way to you. Where, on the contrary, I am superior, do you submit to me; for this has been my study, and not yours. Your study has been to walk upon a mosaic floor, to be attended by your servants and clients, to wear fine clothes, to have a great number of hunters, fiddlers, and players. Do I lay any claim to these? On the other hand, have you made a study of principles, or even of your own reason? Do you know of what parts it consists? How they are combined and joined, and with what powers? Why, then, do you take it amiss, if another, who has studied them, has the advantage of you in these things? “But they are of all things the greatest.” Well; and who restrains you from being conversant with them, and attending to them ever so carefully? Or who is better provided with books, with leisure, with assistants? Only turn your thoughts now and then to these matters; bestow but a little time upon your own ruling faculty. Consider what is the power you have, and whence it came, that uses all other things, that examines them all, that chooses, that rejects. But while you employ yourself merely about externals, you will possess those indeed beyond all rivals; but all else will be, just as you elect to have it, sordid and neglected.
CHAPTER VIII.
CONCERNING SUCH AS HASTILY ASSUME THE PHILOSOPHIC DRESS.
NEVER commend or censure any one for common actions, nor attribute to them either skilfulness or unskilfulness; and thus you will at once be free both from rashness and ill-nature. Such a one bathes hastily. Does he therefore do it ill? Not at all. But what? Hastily. “Is everything well done, then?” By no means. But what is done from good principles is well done; what from bad ones, ill. Till you know from what principle any one acts, neither commend nor censure the action. But the principle is not easily discerned from the external appearance. Such a one is a carpenter. Why? He uses an axe. What proof is that? Such a one is a musician, for he sings. What proof is that? Such a one is a philosopher. Why? Because he wears a cloak and long hair. What then do mountebanks wear? And so, when people see any of these acting indecently, they presently say, “See what the philosopher does.” But they ought rather, from his acting indecently, to say that he is no philosopher. For, if indeed the essence of philosophic pursuits is to wear a cloak and long hair, they say right; but if it be rather to keep himself free from faults, since he does not fulfil his profession, why do not they deprive him of his title? For this is the way with regard to other arts. When we see any one handle an axe awkwardly, we do not say, “Where is the use of this art? See how poorly carpenters acquit themselves.” But we say the very contrary, “This man is no carpenter; for he handles an axe awkwardly.” So, if we hear any one sing badly, we do not say, “Observe how musicians sing,” but rather, “This fellow is no musician.” It is with regard to philosophy alone, that people are thus affected. When they see any one acting inconsistently with the profession of a philosopher, they do not take away his title; but assuming that he is a philosopher, and then reasoning from his improper behavior, they infer that philosophy is of no use.
“What, then, is the reason of this?” Because we pay some regard to the idea which we have of a carpenter and a musician, and so of other artists, but not of a philosopher; which idea being thus vague and confused, we judge of it only from external appearances. And of what other art do we form our opinion from the dress or the hair? Has it not principles too, and materials, and an aim? What, then, are the materials of a philosopher? A cloak? No, but reason. What his aim? To wear a cloak? No, but to have his reason in good order. What are his principles? Are they how to get a great beard, or long hair? No, but rather, as Zeno expresses it, — to know the elements of reason, what is each separately and how linked together, and what their consequences.
Why, then, will you not first see, whether when acting improperly he fulfils his profession, ere you proceed to blame the study? Whereas now, when acting soberly yourself, you say, in regard to whatever he appears to do amiss, “Observe the philosopher!” As if it were proper to call a person, who does such things, a philosopher. And again, “This is philosophical!” But you do not say, “Observe the carpenter, or observe the musician,” when you know one of them to be an adulterer, or see him to be a glutton. So, in some small degree, even you perceive what the profession of a philosopher is; but are misled and confounded by your own carelessness. And, indeed, even those called philosophers enter upon their profession by commonplace beginnings. As soon as they have put on the cloak and let their beards grow, they cry, “I am a philosopher.” Yet no one says, “I am a musician,” merely because he has bought a fiddle and fiddlestick: nor, “I am a smith,” because he is dressed in the cap and apron. But they take their name from their art, not from their garb.
For this reason, Euphrates was in the right to say, “I long endeavored to conceal my embracing the philosophic life; and it was of use to me. For, in the first place, I knew that whatever I did right I did not for spectators, but for myself. I eat in a seemly manner, for my own approbation. I preserved composure of look and manner, all for God and myself. Then, as I contended alone, I alone was in danger. Philosophy was in no danger, on my doing anything shameful or unbecoming; nor did I hurt the rest of the world, which, by offending as a philosopher, I might have done. For this reason, they who were ignorant of my intention, used to wonder that while I conversed and lived entirely with philosophers, I never took up the character. And where was the harm, that I should be discovered to be a philosopher by my actions, rather than by the usual badges? See how I eat, how I drink, how I sleep, how I bear, how I forbear; how I assist others; how I make use of my desires, how of my aversions; how I preserve the natural and acquired relations, without confusion and without obstruction. Judge of me hence, if you can. But if you are so deaf and blind that you would not suppose Vulcan himself to be a good smith, unless you saw the cap upon his head, where is the harm in not being found out by so foolish a judge?”
It was thus, too, that Socrates concealed himself from the multitude; and some even came and desired him to introduce them to philosophers. Was he accustomed to be displeased, then, like us; and to say, What! do not you take me for a philosopher? No, he took them and introduced them; contented with merely being a philosopher, and rejoicing in feeling no annoyance, that he was not thought one. For he remembered his business; and what is the business of a wise and good man? To have many scholars? By no means. Let those see to it who have made this their study. Well, then, is it to be a perfect master of difficult theorems? Let others see to that, too. What, then, was his position, and what did he desire to be? What constituted his hurt or advantage? “If,” said he, “any one can still hurt me, I am accomplishing nothing. If I depend for my advantage upon another, I am nothing. Have I any wish unaccomplished? Then I am unhappy.” To such a combat he invited every one, and, in my opinion, yielded to no one. But do you think it was by making proclamation, and saying, “I am such a one?” Far from it: but by being such a one. For it is folly and insolence to say, “I am passive and undisturbed. Be it known to you, mortals, that while you are disturbed and vexed about things of no value, I alone am free from all perturbation.” Are you then so little satisfied with your exemption from pain that you must needs make proclamation: “Come hither all you who have the gout, or the headache, or a fever, or are lame, or blind; and see me, free from every distemper.” This is vain and shocking, unless you can show, like Æsculapius, by what method of cure they may presently become as free from distempers as yourself, and can bring your own health as a proof of it.
Such is the Cynic honored with the sceptre and diadem from Zeus; who says, “That you may see, O mankind, that you do not seek happiness and tranquillity where it is, but where it is not, behold, I am sent an example to you from God; — who have neither estate, nor house, nor wife, nor children, — nor even a bed, coat, or furniture. And yet see how in what good condition I am. Try me; and if you see me free from perturbation, hear the remedies, and by what means I was cured.” This now is benevolent and noble. But consider whose business it is. That of Zeus, or his whom he judges worthy of this office; that he may never show to the world anything to impeach his own testimony for virtue and against externals.
“Neither pallid of hue, nor wiping tears from his cheek.”*
And not only this, but he does not desire or seek for company, or place, or amusement, as boys do the vintage time, or holidays; — being always fortified by virtuous shame, as others are by walls, and gates, and sentinels.
But now they who have only such an inclination to philosophy as weak stomachs have to some kinds of food, of which they will presently grow sick, expect to hasten to the sceptre, to the kingdom. They let their hair grow, assume the cloak, bare the shoulder, wrangle with all they meet; and if they see any one in a thick, warm coat, must needs wrangle with him. First harden yourself against all weather, man. Consider your inclination; whether it be not that of a weak stomach, or of a longing woman. First study to conceal what you are; philosophize a little while by yourself. Fruit is produced thus. The seed must first be buried in the ground, lie hid there some time, and grow up by degrees, that it may come to perfection. But if it produces the ear before the stalk has its proper joints, it is imperfect, and of the garden of Adonis.* Now you are a poor plant of this kind. You have blossomed too soon: the winter will kill you. See what countrymen say about seeds of any sort, when the warm weather comes too early. They are in great anxiety for fear the seeds should shoot out too luxuriantly; and then one frost taking them may show how prejudicial their forwardness was. Beware you too, O man. You have shot out luxuriantly; you have sprung forth towards a trifling fame, before the proper season. You seem to be somebody, as a fool may among fools. You will be taken by the frost; or rather, you are already frozen downward at the root; you still blossom indeed a little at the top, and therefore you think you are still alive and flourishing.
Let us, at least, ripen naturally. Why do you lay us open? Why do you force us? We cannot yet bear the air. Suffer the root to grow; then the first, then the second, then the third joint of the stalk to spring from it; and thus nature will force out the fruit, whether I will or not. For who that is charged with such principles, but must perceive, too, his own powers, and strive to put them in practice. Not even a bull is ignorant of his own powers, when any wild beast approaches the herd, nor waits he for any one to encourage him; nor does a dog when he spies any game. And if I have the powers of a good man, shall I wait for you to qualify me for my own proper actions? But believe me, I have them not quite yet. Why, then, would you wish me to be withered before my time, as you are?
CHAPTER IX.
CONCERNING A PERSON WHO HAD GROWN IMMODEST.
WHEN you see another in power, set this against it, that you have the advantage of not needing power. When you see another rich, see what you have instead of riches; for if you have nothing in their stead, you are miserable. But if you have the advantage of not needing riches, know that you have something more than he has, and of far greater value. Another possesses a handsome woman; you the happiness of not desiring a handsome woman. Do you think these are little matters? And what would not those very persons give, who are rich and powerful, and possess handsome women, if they were only able to despise riches and power, and those very women whom they love and whom they possess! Do not you know of what nature the thirst of one in a fever is? It has no resemblance to that of a person in health. The latter drinks and is satisfied. But the other, after being delighted a very little while, is nauseated, the water becomes bile, he is sick at his stomach, and becomes more thirsty than ever. It is the same with avarice, ambition, lust. Presently comes jealousy, fear of loss, unbecoming words, designs, and actions.
“And what,” say you, “do I lose?” You were modest, man, and are so no longer. Have you lost nothing? Instead of Chrysippus and Zeno, you read Aristides* and Euenus.† Have you lost nothing, then? Instead of Socrates and Diogenes, you admire him who can corrupt and seduce most women. You would be handsome, by decking your person, when you are not really so. You love to appear in fine clothes, to attract female eyes; and, if you anywhere meet with a good perfumer, you esteem yourself a happy man. But formerly you did not so much as think of any of these things; but only where you might find a decent discourse, a worthy person, a noble design. For this reason, you used to appear like a man both at home and abroad; to wear a manly dress; to hold discourses worthy of a man. And after this, do you tell me you have lost nothing? What then, do men lose nothing but money? Is not modesty to be lost? Is not decency to be lost? Or can he who loses these suffer no injury? You indeed perhaps no longer think anything of this sort to be an injury. But there was once a time when you accounted this to be the only injury and hurt; when you were anxiously afraid lest any one should shake your regard from such discourses and actions. See, it is not shaken by another, but by yourself. Fight against yourself, recover yourself to decency, to modesty, to freedom. If you had formerly been told any of these things of me, that one prevailed on me to commit adultery, to wear such a dress as yours, or to be perfumed, would you not have gone and laid violent hands on the man who thus abused me? And will you not now help yourself? For how much easier is that sort of assistance? You need not kill, or fetter, or affront, or go to law with any one; but merely talk with yourself, the person who will most readily be persuaded by you, and with whom no one has greater weight than you. And, in the first place, condemn your actions; but when you have condemned them, do not despair of yourself, nor be like those poor-spirited people who, when they have once given way, abandon themselves entirely, and are carried along as by a torrent. Take example from the wrestling-masters. Has the boy fallen down? Get up again, they say; wrestle again, till you have acquired strength. Be you affected in the same manner. For be assured that there is nothing more tractable than the human mind. You need but will, and it is done, it is set right; as, on the contrary, you need but nod over the work, and it is ruined. For both ruin and recovery are from within.
“And, after all, what good will this do me?” What greater good do you seek? From being impudent, you will become modest; from indecent, decent; from dissolute, sober. But if you seek any greater things than these, do as you are doing. It is no longer in the power of any God to save you.
CHAPTER X.
WHAT THINGS WE ARE TO DESPISE, AND WHAT CHIEFLY TO VALUE.
THE doubts and perplexities of all men are concerning externals; — what they shall do, — how it will be, — what will be the event, — whether this thing will happen, or that? All this is the talk of persons engaged in things uncontrollable by will. For who says, How shall I do, not to assent to what is false? How, not to dissent from what is true? If any one is of such a good disposition as to be anxious about these things, I will remind him: “Why are you anxious? It is in your own power. Be assured. Do not hastily give your assent before you have applied those tests prescribed by nature.” Again, if he be anxious, for fear lest he should fail of what he seeks or incur what he shuns, I will first embrace him, because, slighting what others are fluttered and terrified about, he takes care of what is his own, where his very being is; then I will say to him: “If you would not fail of what you seek, or incur what you shun, desire nothing that belongs to others; shun nothing beyond your own power; otherwise you must necessarily be disappointed in what you seek, and incur what you shun.” Where is the doubt here? Where the room for, How will it be? What will be the event? And Will this happen, or that? Is not the event uncontrollable by will? “Yes.” And does not the essence of good and evil consist in what is within the control of will? It is in your power, then, to treat every event conformably to nature? Can any one restrain you? “No one.” Then do not say to me any more, How will it be? For, however it be, you will set it right, and the event to you will be auspicious.
Pray what would Hercules have been, if he had said, “What can be done to prevent a great lion, or a large boar, or savage men, from coming in my way?” Why, what is that to you? If a large boar should come in your way, you will fight the greater combat; if wicked men, you will deliver the world from wicked men. “But then if I should die by this means?” You will die as a good man, in the performance of a gallant action. For since, at all events, one must die, one must necessarily be found doing something, either tilling, or digging, or trading, or serving a consulship, or sick with indigestion or dysentery. At what employment, then, would you have death find you? For my part, I would have it to be some humane, beneficent, public-spirited, noble action. But if I cannot be found doing any such great things, yet, at least, I would be doing what I am incapable of being restrained from, what is given me to do, — correcting myself, improving that faculty which makes use of the phenomena of existence to procure tranquillity, and render to the several relations of life their due; and if I am so fortunate, advancing still further to the security of judging right. If death overtakes me in such a situation, it is enough for me if I can stretch out my hands to God, and say, “The opportunities which I have received from Thee of comprehending and obeying thy administration, I have not neglected. As far as in me lay, I have not dishonored Thee. See how I have used my perceptions; how my convictions. Have I at any time found fault with Thee? Have I been discontented at Thy dispensations; or wished them otherwise? Have I transgressed the relations of life? I thank Thee that Thou hast brought me into being. I am satisfied with the time that I have enjoyed the things which thou hast given me. Receive them back again, and distribute them as thou wilt; for they were all Thine, and Thou gavest them to me.”
Is it not enough to depart in this mood of mind? And what life is better and more becoming than that of such a one? Or what conclusion happier? But in order to attain these advantages, there are no inconsiderable risks to be encountered. You cannot seek a consulship and these things too, nor toil for an estate and these things too, nor take charge of your slaves and yourself too. But if you insist on anything of what belongs to others, then what is your own is lost. This is the nature of the affair. Nothing is to be had for nothing. And where is the wonder? If you would be consul, you must watch, run about, kiss hands, be wearied down with waiting at the doors of others, must say and do many slavish things, send gifts to many, daily presents to some. And for what result? Twelve bundles of rods;* to sit three or four times on the tribunal; to give the games of the circus, and suppers in baskets to all the world; or let any one show me what there is in it more than this. Will you, then, employ no expense and no pains to acquire peace and tranquillity, to sleep sound while you do sleep, to be thoroughly awake while you are awake, to fear nothing, to be anxious for nothing? But if anything belonging to you be lost or idly wasted, while you are thus engaged, or another gets what you ought to have had, will you immediately begin fretting at what has happened? Will you not compare the exchange you have made? How much for how much? But you would have such great things for nothing, I suppose. And how can you? Two trades cannot be combined; you cannot bestow your care both upon externals and your own ruling faculty. But if you would have the former, let the latter alone; or you will succeed in neither, while you are drawn in different ways by the two. On the other hand, if you would have the latter, let the former alone. “The oil will be spilled, the furniture will be spoiled”; — but still I shall be free from passion. “There will be a fire when I am out of the way, and the books will be destroyed”; — but still I shall make a right use of the phenomena of existence. “But I shall have nothing to eat.” If I am so unlucky, dying is a safe harbor. That is the harbor for all, death; that is the refuge; and for that reason there is nothing difficult in life. You may go out of doors when you please, and be troubled with smoke no longer.
Why, then, are you anxious? Why break your rest? Why do you not calculate where your good and evil lie; and say, “They are both in my own power; nor can any deprive me of the one, nor involve me against my will in the other.” Why, then, do not I lay myself down and sleep? What is my own is safe. Let what belongs to others look to itself, who carries it off, how it is distributed by him who hath the disposal of it. Who am I, to will that it should be so and so? For is the option given to me? Has any one made me the dispenser of it? What I have in my own disposal is enough for me. I must make the best I can of this. Other things must be as their master pleases.
Does any one who has these things before his eyes lie sleepless, and shift from side to side? What would he have, or what needs he? Patroclus,* or Antilochus, or Menelaus? Why, did he ever think any one of his friends immortal? When was it not obvious that on the morrow, or the next day, he himself or that friend might die? “Ay, very true,” he says; “but I reckoned that he would survive me, and bring up my son.” Because you were a fool, and reckoned upon uncertainties. Why, then, do you not blame yourself, instead of sitting in tears, like a girl? “But he used to set my dinner before me.” Because he was alive, foolish man; but now he cannot. But Automedon will set it before you; and if he should die, you will find somebody else. What if the vessel in which your meat used to be cooked should happen to be broken; must you die with hunger because you have not your old vessel? Do you not send and buy a new one?
“What greater evil could afflict my breast?”
Is this your evil, then? And, instead of removing it, do you accuse your mother, that she did not foretell it to you, that you might have spent your whole life in grieving from that time forward?
Do you not think now that Homer composed all this on purpose to show us that the noblest, the strongest, the richest, the handsomest of men may nevertheless be the most unfortunate and wretched, if they have not the principles they need?
CHAPTER XI.
OF PURITY.
SOME doubt whether the love of society be comprehended in the nature of man; and yet these very persons do not seem to me to doubt but that purity is by all means comprehended in it; and that by this, if by anything, it is distinguished from brute animals. When, therefore, we see any animal cleaning itself, we are apt to cry with wonder, that it is like a human creature. On the contrary, if an animal is censured, we are presently apt to say, by way of excuse, that it is not a human creature. Such excellence do we suppose to be in man, which we first received from the Gods. For as they are by nature pure and uncorrupt, in proportion as men approach to them by reason, they are tenacious of purity and incorruption. But since it is impracticable that their essence, composed of such materials, should be absolutely pure, it is the office of reason to endeavor to render it as pure as possible.
The first and highest purity or impurity, then, is that which is formed in the soul. But you will not find the impurity of the soul and body to be alike. For what stain can you find in the soul, unless it be something which renders it impure in its operations? Now the operations of the soul are its pursuits and avoidances, its desires, aversions, preparations, intentions, assents. What, then, is that which renders it defiled and impure in these operations? Nothing else than its perverse judgments. So that the impurity of the soul consists in wicked principles, and its purification in forming right principles; and that is pure which has right principles, for that alone is unmixed and undefiled in its operations.
Now we should, as far as possible, endeavor after something like this in the body, too. It is impossible but that in such a composition as man, there must be a discharge of superfluous phlegm. For this reason, Nature has made hands, and the nostrils themselves as channels to let out the moisture; nor can this be neglected with propriety. It was impossible but that the feet should be bemired and soiled from what they pass through. Therefore Nature has prepared water and hands. It was impossible but that some uncleanness must cleave to the teeth from eating. Therefore, she says, rinse your teeth. Why? That you may be a man, and not a wild beast, or a swine. It was impossible but that, from perspiration and the pressure of the clothes, something dirty and necessary to be cleaned should remain upon the body. For this there is water, oil, hands, towels, brushes, soap, and other necessary apparatus for its purification. But no; a smith indeed will get the rust off his iron, and have proper instruments for that purpose; and you yourself will have your plates washed before you eat, unless you are quite dirty and slovenly; but you will not wash nor purify your body. “Why should I?” say you. I tell you again, in the first place, that you may be like a man; and, in the next, that you may not offend those with whom you converse. Do you think it fitting to smell offensively? Be it so. But is it fitting as regards those who sit near you? Who are placed at the table with you? Who salute you? Either go into a desert, as you deserve, or live solitary at home, and be the only sufferer. But to what sort of character does it belong to live in a city, and behave so carelessly and inconsiderately? If Nature had trusted even a horse to your care, would you have overlooked and neglected him? Yet now, without being sensible of it, you do something like this. Consider your body as committed to you, instead of a horse. Wash it, rub it, take care that it may not be any one’s aversion, nor disgust any one. Who is not more disgusted at a foul, unwholesome-looking sloven, than at a person who has been accidentally rolled in filth? The stench of the one is adventitious, from without; but that which arises from want of care is a kind of inward putrefaction. “But Socrates bathed but seldom.” Yet his person looked clean, and was so agreeable and pleasing, that the most beautiful and noble youths were fond of him, and desired rather to sit by him than by those who had the finest persons. He might have omitted both bathing and washing, if he had pleased; and yet his amount of bathing had its effect. Cold water may supply the place of the warm bath. “But Aristophanes calls him one of the pallid, barefooted philosophers.”* Why, so he says, too, that he walked in the air, and stole clothes from the Palæstra. Besides, all who have written of Socrates, affirm quite the contrary; that he was not only agreeable in his conversation, but in his person too. And, again, they write the same of Diogenes. For we ought not to frighten the world from philosophy by the appearance of our persons; but to show our serenity of mind, as in all other ways, so in the care of our persons. “See, all of you, that I have nothing; that I want nothing. Without house, without city, and an exile (if that happens to be the case), and without a home, I live more easily and prosperously than the noble and rich. Look upon my person, too, that it is not injured by coarse fare.” But if any one should tell me this, bearing the habit and the visage of a condemned criminal, what God should persuade me to come near philosophy, while it renders men such figures? Heaven forbid! I would not do it, even if I was sure to become a wise man for my pains. I declare, for my own part, I would rather that a young man, on his first inclination to philosophy, should come to me finically dressed, than with his hair spoiled and dirty. For there appears in him some idea of beauty and desire of decency; and where he imagines it to be, there he applies his endeavors. One has nothing more to do but to point it out to him, and say, “You seek beauty, young man, and you do well. Be assured, then, that it springs from the rational part of you. Seek it there, where the pursuits and avoidances, the desires and aversions, are concerned. Herein consists your excellence; but the paltry body is by nature clay. Why do you trouble yourself, to no purpose, about it? You will be convinced by time, if not otherwise, that it is nothing.” But if he should come to me soiled and dirty, with moustaches drooping to his knees, what can I say to him? By what similitude allure him? For what has he studied which has any resemblance to beauty, that I may transfer his attention, and say that beauty is not there, but here? Would you have me tell him that beauty consists not in filth, but in reason? For has he any desire of beauty? Has he any appearance of it? Go, and argue with a hog not to roll in the mire.
It was in the quality of a young man who loved beauty, that Polemo was touched by the discourses of Xenocrates. For he entered with some incentives to the study of beauty, though he sought in the wrong place. And, indeed, Nature hath not made the very brutes dirty which live with man. Does a horse wallow in the mire? Or a good dog? But swine, and dirty geese, and worms, and spiders, which are banished to the greatest distance from human society. Will you, then, who are a man, choose not to be even one of the animals that are conversant with man; but rather a worm or a spider? Will you not bathe sometimes, be it in whatever manner you please? Will you never use water to wash yourself? Will you not come clean, that they who converse with you may have some pleasure in you? But will you accompany us, in your uncleanness, even to the temples, where all unclean ways are forbidden?
What, then, would anybody have you adorn yourself to the utmost? By no means, except in those things where our nature requires it, in reason, principles, actions; but in our persons, only so far as neatness requires, so far as not to give offence. But if you hear that it is not right to wear purple, you must go, I suppose, and roll your cloak in the mud, or tear it. “But how can I have a fine cloak?” You have water, man; wash it. What an amiable youth is here! How worthy this old man, to love and be loved! A fit person to be trusted with the instruction of our sons and daughters, and attended by young people as occasion may require, — to read them lectures from a dunghill! Every deterioration takes its origin from something human; but this almost dehumanizes a man.
CHAPTER XII.
OF TAKING PAINS.
WHEN you cease to take pains for a little while, do not fancy you may recommence whenever you please, but remember this, that by means of the fault of to-day, your affairs must necessarily be in a worse condition for the future. The first and worst evil is that there arises a habit of neglect; and then a habit of postponing effort, and constantly procrastinating as to one’s successes and good behavior and orderly thought and action. Now if procrastination as to anything is advantageous, it must be still more advantageous to omit it altogether; but if it be not advantageous, why do you not take pains all the time? “I would play to-day.” What then? Ought you not to take proper pains about it? “I would sing.” But why not take proper pains about it? For there is no part of life exempted, about which pains are not needed. For will you do anything the worse by taking pains, and the better by neglect? What else in life is best performed by heedless people? Does a smith forge the better by heedlessness? Does a pilot steer more safely by heedlessness? Or is any other, even of the minutest operations, best performed heedlessly? Do you not perceive that, when you have let your mind loose, it is no longer in your power to call it back, either to propriety, or modesty, or moderation? But you do everything at haphazard; you merely follow your inclinations.
“To what, then, am I to direct my pains.”
Why, in the first place, to those universal maxims which you must always have at hand; and not sleep, or arise, or drink, or eat, or converse without them: — that no one is the master of another’s will; and that it is in the will alone that good and evil lie. No one, therefore, is my master, either to procure me any good, or to involve me in any evil; but I alone have the disposal of myself with regard to these things. Since these, then, are secured to me, what need have I to be troubled about externals? What tyrant is formidable? What disease? What poverty? What offence? “I have not pleased such a one.” Is he my concern then? Is he my conscience? “No.” Why, then, do I trouble myself any further about him? “But he is thought to be of some consequence.” Let him look to that; and they who think him so. But I have One whom I must please, to whom I must submit, whom I must obey; God, and those who surround Him. He has intrusted me with myself, and made my will subject to myself alone, having given me rules for the right use of it. If I follow the proper rules in syllogisms, in convertible propositions, I do not heed or regard any one who says anything contrary to them. Why, then, am I vexed at being censured in matters of greater consequence? What is the reason of this perturbation? Nothing else, but that in this instance I want practice. For every science despises ignorance and the ignorant; and not only the sciences, but even the arts. Take any shoemaker, take any smith you will, and he may laugh at the rest of the world, so far as his own business is concerned.
In the first place, then, these are the maxims we must have ready, and do nothing without them, but direct the soul to this mark. To pursue nothing external, nothing that belongs to others, but as He who hath the power hath appointed. Things controllable by will are to be pursued always; and the rest as may be permitted. Besides this, we must remember who we are, and what name we bear, endeavoring to use all the circumstances of life in their proper relations; what is the proper time for singing, what for play, and in what company; what will be the consequence of our performance; whether our companions will despise us, or we ourselves; when to employ raillery, and whom to ridicule; upon what occasions to comply, and with whom; and then, in complying, how to preserve our own character.
Wherever you deviate from any of these rules, the damage is immediate; not from anything external, but from the very action itself. “What, then, is it possible by these means to be faultless?” Impracticable; but this is possible, to use a constant endeavor to be faultless. For we shall have cause to be satisfied, if, by never remitting our pains, we shall be exempt at least from a few faults. But now, when you say you will begin to take pains to-morrow, be assured that it is the same thing as if you said, “To-day I will be shameless, impertinent, base, it shall be in the power of others to grieve me; I will be passionate, I will be envious to-day.” See to how many evils you give yourself up. “But all will be well to-morrow.” How much better to-day? If it be for your interest to-morrow, how much more to-day, that it may be in your power to-morrow too, and that you may not again defer it until the third day.
CHAPTER XIII.
CONCERNING SUCH AS ARE TOO COMMUNICATIVE.
WHEN any one appears to us to discourse frankly of his own affairs, we too are somehow tempted to disclose our secrets to him; and we consider this to be acting with frankness. First, because it seems unfair that when we have heard the affairs of our neighbor, we should not in return communicate ours to him; and besides we think that we shall not appear of a frank character, in concealing what belongs to ourselves. Indeed it is often said, “I have told you all my affairs; and will you tell me none of yours? How happens this?” Lastly, it is supposed that we may safely trust him who has already trusted us; for we imagine that he will never discover our affairs, for fear we should in turn discover his. It is thus that the inconsiderate are caught by the soldiers at Rome. A soldier sits by you in a civilian’s dress, and begins to speak ill of Cæsar. Then you, as if you had received a pledge of his fidelity, by his first beginning the abuse, say likewise what you think; and so you are led away in chains to execution.
Something like this is the case with us in general. But when one has safely intrusted his secrets to me, shall I, in imitation of him, trust mine to any one who comes in my way? The case is different. I indeed hold my tongue (supposing me to be of such a disposition); but he goes and discovers them to everybody; and then, when I come to find it out, if I happen to be like him, from a desire of revenge, I discover his; and asperse and am aspersed. But if I remember that one man does not hurt another, but that every one is hurt or profited by his own actions, I may indeed keep to this, not to do anything like him; yet, by my own talkative folly, I suffer what I do suffer.
“Ay; but it is unfair, when you have heard the secrets of your neighbor, not to communicate anything to him in return.” Why, did I ask you to do it, sir? Did you tell me your affairs upon condition that I should tell you mine in return? If you are a gossip, and take all you meet for friends, would you have me too become like you? But what if the case be this; that you did right in trusting your affairs to me, but it is not right that I should trust you? Would you have me run headlong, and fall? This is just as if I had a sound barrel, and you a leaky one; and you should come and deposit your wine with me, to be put into my barrel; and then should take it ill, that, in my turn, I did not trust you with my wine. No. You have a leaky barrel. How, then, are we any longer upon equal terms? You have intrusted your affairs to an honest man, and a man of honor; one who finds his help or harm in his own actions alone, and in nothing external. Would you have me intrust mine to you, who have dishonored your own will, and who would get a paltry sum, or a post of power or preferment at court, even if it required you to kill your own children, like Medea? Where is the fairness in this? But show me that you are faithful, honorable, steady; show me that you have principles conducive to friendship; show me that your vessel is not leaky, and you shall see that I will not wait for you to intrust your affairs to me, but I will come and entreat you to hear mine. For who would not make use of a good vessel? Who despises a benevolent and friendly adviser? Who will not gladly receive one to share the burden, as it were, of his difficulties; and by sharing, to make it lighter? “Well; but I trust you, and you do not trust me.” In the first place, you do not really trust me; but you are a gossip, and therefore can keep nothing in. For if the former be the case, trust only me. But now, whenever you see a man at leisure, you sit down by him, and say: “My dear friend, there is not a man in the world who wishes me better, or has more kindness for me, than you; I entreat you to hear my affairs.” And this you do to those with whom you have not the least acquaintance. But if you do trust me, it is plainly as a man of fidelity and honor, and not because I have told you my affairs. Let me alone, then, till I reciprocate this opinion. Convince me that, if a person has told his affairs to any one, it is a proof of his being a man of fidelity and honor. For if this were the case, I would go about and tell my affairs to the whole world, if I could thus become a man of fidelity and honor. But that is no such matter; for it demands of a man to have no ordinary principles.
If, then, you see any one taking pains for things that belong to others, and subjecting his will to them, be assured that this man has a thousand things to compel and restrain him. He has no need of burning pitch, or the torturing wheel, to make him tell what he knows; but the nod of a girl, for instance, will shake his purpose; the good-will of a courtier, the desire of an office, of an inheritance; ten thousand other things of that sort. It must therefore be remembered in general, that confidential discourses require fidelity and a certain sort of principles. And where, at this time, are these easily to be found? Pray let any one show me a person of such a disposition as to say, I concern myself only for those things which are my own, incapable of restraint, and by nature free. This I esteem the essence of good. Let the rest be as it may happen; it makes no difference to me.
THE ENCHIRIDION, OR MANUAL.
I.
THERE are things which are within our power, and there are things which are beyond our power. Within our power are opinion, aim, desire, aversion, and, in one word, whatever affairs are our own. Beyond our power are body, property, reputation, office, and, in one word, whatever are not properly our own affairs.
Now the things within our power are by nature free, unrestricted, unhindered; but those beyond our power are weak, dependent, restricted, alien. Remember then, that, if you attribute freedom to things by nature dependent, and take what belongs to others for your own; you will be hindered, you will lament, you will be disturbed, you will find fault both with Gods and men. But if you take for your own only that which is your own, and view what belongs to others just as it really is, then no one will ever compel you, no one will restrict you, you will find fault with no one, you will accuse no one, you will do nothing against your will; no one will hurt you, you will not have an enemy, nor will you suffer any harm.
Aiming therefore at such great things, remember that you must not allow yourself any inclination, however slight, towards the attainment of the others; but that you must entirely quit some of them, and for the present postpone the rest. But if you would have these, and possess power and wealth likewise, you may miss the latter in seeking the former; and you will certainly fail of that, by which alone happiness and freedom are procured.
Seek at once, therefore, to be able to say to every unpleasing semblance, “You are but a semblance and by no means the real thing.” And then examine it by those rules which you have; and first and chiefly, by this: whether it concerns the things which are within our own power, or those which are not; and if it concerns anything beyond our power, be prepared to say that it is nothing to you.
II.
Remember that desire demands the attainment of that of which you are desirous; and aversion demands the avoidance of that to which you are averse; that he who fails of the object of his desires, is disappointed; and he who incurs the object of his aversion, is wretched. If, then, you shun only those undesirable things which you can control, you will never incur anything which you shun. But if you shun sickness, or death, or poverty, you will run the risk of wretchedness. Remove aversion, then, from all things that are not within our power, and transfer it to things undesirable, which are within our power. But for the present altogether restrain desire; for if you desire any of the things not within our own power, you must necessarily be disappointed; and you are not yet secure of those which are within our power, and so are legitimate objects of desire. Where it is practically necessary for you to pursue or avoid anything, do even this with discretion, and gentleness, and moderation.
III.
With regard to whatever objects either delight the mind, or contribute to use, or are tenderly beloved, remind yourself of what nature they are, beginning with the merest trifles: if you have a favorite cup, that it is a cup of which you are fond; for thus, if it is broken, you can bear it: if you embrace your child, or your wife, that you embrace a mortal; and thus, if either of them dies, you can bear it.
IV.
When you set about any action, remind yourself of what nature the action is. If you are going to bathe, represent to yourself the incidents usual in the bath; some persons pouring out, others pushing in, others scolding, others pilfering. And thus you will more safely go about this action, if you say to yourself, “I will now go to bathe, and keep my own will in harmony with nature.” And so with regard to every other action. For thus, if any impediment arises in bathing, you will be able to say, “It was not only to bathe that I desired, but to keep my will in harmony with nature; and I shall not keep it thus, if I am out of humor at things that happen.”
V.
Men are disturbed not by things, but by the views which they take of things. Thus death is nothing terrible, else it would have appeared so to Socrates. But the terror consists in our notion of death, that it is terrible. When, therefore, we are hindered, or disturbed, or grieved, let us never impute it to others, but to ourselves; that is, to our own views. It is the action of an uninstructed person to reproach others for his own misfortunes; of one entering upon instruction, to reproach himself; and of one perfectly instructed, to reproach neither others nor himself.
VI.
Be not elated at any excellence not your own. If a horse should be elated, and say, “I am handsome,” it might be endurable. But when you are elated, and say, “I have a handsome horse,” know that you are elated only on the merit of the horse. What, then, is your own? The use of the phenomena of existence. So that when you are in harmony with nature in this respect, you will be elated with some reason; for you will be elated at some good of your own.
VII.
As in a voyage, when the ship is at anchor, if you go on shore to get water, you may amuse yourself with picking up a shell-fish or a truffle in your way; but your thoughts ought to be bent towards the ship, and perpetually attentive, lest the captain should call; and then you must leave all these things, that you may not have to be carried on board the vessel, bound like a sheep. Thus likewise in life, if, instead of a truffle or shell-fish, such a thing as a wife or a child be granted you, there is no objection; but if the captain calls, run to the ship, leave all these things, and never look behind. But if you are old, never go far from the ship, lest you should be missing when called for.
VIII.
Demand not that events should happen as you wish; but wish them to happen as they do happen, and you will go on well.
IX.
Sickness is an impediment to the body, but not to the will, unless itself pleases. Lameness is an impediment to the leg, but not to the will; and say this to yourself with regard to everything that happens. For you will find it to be an impediment to something else, but not truly to yourself.
X.
Upon every accident, remember to turn towards yourself and inquire what faculty you have for its use. If you encounter a handsome person, you will find continence the faculty needed; if pain, then fortitude; if reviling, then patience. And when thus habituated, the phenomena of existence will not overwhelm you.
XI.
Never say of anything, “I have lost it”; but, “I have restored it.” Has your child died? It is restored. Has your wife died? She is restored. Has your estate been taken away? That likewise is restored. “But it was a bad man who took it.” What is it to you, by whose hands He who gave it hath demanded it again? While He permits you to possess it, hold it as something not your own; as do travellers at an inn.
XII.
If you would improve, lay aside such reasonings as these: “If I neglect my affairs, I shall not have a maintenance; if I do not punish my servant, he will be good for nothing.” For it were better to die of hunger, exempt from grief and fear, than to live in affluence with perturbation; and it is better that your servant should be bad than you unhappy.
Begin therefore with little things. Is a little oil spilt or a little wine stolen? Say to yourself, “This is the price paid for peace and tranquillity; and nothing is to be had for nothing.” And when you call your servant, consider that it is possible he may not come at your call; or, if he does, that he may not do what you wish. But it is not at all desirable for him, and very undesirable for you, that it should be in his power to cause you any disturbance.
XIII.
If you would improve, be content to be thought foolish and dull with regard to externals. Do not desire to be thought to know anything; and though you should appear to others to be somebody, distrust yourself. For be assured, it is not easy at once to keep your will in harmony with nature, and to secure externals; but while you are absorbed in the one, you must of necessity neglect the other.
XIV.
If you wish your children, and your wife, and your friends, to live forever, you are foolish; for you wish things to be in your power which are not so; and what belongs to others, to be your own. So likewise, if you wish your servant to be without fault, you are foolish; for you wish vice not to be vice, but something else. But if you wish not to be disappointed in your desires, that is in your own power. Exercise, therefore, what is in your power. A man’s master is he who is able to confer or remove whatever that man seeks or shuns. Whoever then would be free, let him wish nothing, let him decline nothing, which depends on others; else he must necessarily be a slave.
XV.
Remember that you must behave as at a banquet. Is anything brought round to you? Put out your hand, and take a moderate share. Does it pass by you? Do not stop it. Is it not yet come? Do not yearn in desire towards it, but wait till it reaches you. So with regard to children, wife, office, riches; and you will some time or other be worthy to feast with the Gods. And if you do not so much as take the things which are set before you, but are able even to forego them, then you will not only be worthy to feast with the Gods, but to rule with them also. For, by thus doing, Diogenes and Heraclitus, and others like them, deservedly became divine, and were so recognized.
XVI.
When you see any one weeping for grief, either that his son has gone abroad, or that he has suffered in his affairs; take care not to be overcome by the apparent evil. But discriminate, and be ready to say, “What hurts this man is not this occurrence itself, for another man might not be hurt by it; — but the view he chooses to take of it.” As far as conversation goes, however, do not disdain to accommodate yourself to him, and if need be, to groan with him. Take heed, however, not to groan inwardly too.
XVII.
Remember that you are an actor in a drama of such sort as the author chooses. If short, then in a short one; if long, then in a long one. If it be his pleasure that you should act a poor man, see that you act it well; or a cripple, or a ruler, or a private citizen. For this is your business, to act well the given part; but to choose it, belongs to another.
XVIII.
When a raven happens to croak unluckily, be not overcome by appearances, but discriminate, and say, “Nothing is portended to me; but either to my paltry body, or property, or reputation, or children, or wife. But to me all portents are lucky, if I will. For whatsoever happens, it belongs to me to derive advantage therefrom.”
XIX.
You can be unconquerable, if you enter into no combat, in which it is not in your own power to conquer. When, therefore, you see any one eminent in honors or power, or in high esteem on any other account, take heed not to be bewildered by appearances and to pronounce him happy; for if the essence of good consists in things within our own power, there will be no room for envy or emulation. But, for your part, do not desire to be a general, or a senator, or a consul, but to be free; and the only way to this is, a disregard of things which lie not within our own power.
XX.
Remember that it is not he who gives abuse or blows who affronts; but the view we take of these things as insulting. When, therefore, any one provokes you, be assured that it is your own opinion which provokes you. Try, therefore, in the first place, not to be bewildered by appearances. For if you once gain time and respite, you will more easily command yourself.
XXI.
Let death and exile, and all other things which appear terrible, be daily before your eyes, but death chiefly; and you will never entertain any abject thought, nor too eagerly covet anything.
XXII.
If you have an earnest desire towards philosophy, prepare yourself from the very first to have the multitude laugh and sneer, and say, “He is returned to us a philosopher all at once”; and “Whence this supercilious look?” Now for your part, do not have a supercilious look indeed; but keep steadily to those things which appear best to you, as one appointed by God to this particular station. For remember that, if you are persistent, those very persons who at first ridiculed, will afterwards admire you. But if you are conquered by them, you will incur a double ridicule.
XXIII.
If you ever happen to turn your attention to externals, for the pleasure of any one, be assured that you have ruined your scheme of life. Be contented, then, in everything, with being a philosopher; and, if you wish to seem so likewise to any one, appear so to yourself, and it will suffice you.
XXIV.
Let not such considerations as these distress you: “I shall live in discredit, and be nobody anywhere.” For if discredit be an evil, you can no more be involved in evil through another, than in baseness. Is it any business of yours, then, to get power, or to be admitted to an entertainment? By no means. How then, after all, is this discredit? And how is it true that you will be nobody anywhere; when you ought to be somebody in those things only which are within your own power, in which you may be of the greatest consequence? “But my friends will be unassisted.” What do you mean by unassisted? They will not have money from you; nor will you make them Roman citizens. Who told you, then, that these are among the things within our own power; and not rather the affairs of others? And who can give to another the things which he himself has not? “Well, but get them, then, that we too may have a share.” If I can get them with the preservation of my own honor, and fidelity, and self-respect, show me the way, and I will get them; but if you require me to lose my own proper good, that you may gain what is no good, consider how unreasonable and foolish you are. Besides, which would you rather have, a sum of money, or a faithful and honorable friend? Rather assist me, then, to gain this character, than require me to do those things by which I may lose it. Well, but my country, say you, as far as depends upon me, will be unassisted. Here again, what assistance is this you mean? It will not have porticos nor baths of your providing? And what signifies that? Why, neither does a smith provide it with shoes, nor a shoemaker with arms. It is enough if every one fully performs his own proper business. And were you to supply it with another faithful and honorable citizen, would not he be of use to it? Yes. Therefore neither are you yourself useless to it. “What place then,” say you, “shall I hold in the state?” Whatever you can hold with the preservation of your fidelity and honor. But if, by desiring to be useful to that, you lose these, how can you serve your country, when you have become faithless and shameless?
XXV.
Is any one preferred before you at an entertainment, or in courtesies, or in confidential intercourse? If these things are good, you ought to rejoice that he has them; and if they are evil, do not be grieved that you have them not. And remember that you cannot be permitted to rival others in externals, without using the same means to obtain them. For how can he, who will not haunt the door of any man, will not attend him, will not praise him, have an equal share with him who does these things? You are unjust, then, and unreasonable, if you are unwilling to pay the price for which these things are sold, and would have them for nothing. For how much are lettuces sold? An obolus, for instance. If another, then, paying an obolus takes the lettuces, and you, not paying it, go without them, do not imagine that he has gained any advantage over you. For as he has the lettuces, so you have the obolus which you did not give. So, in the present case, you have not been invited to such a person’s entertainment; because you have not paid him the price for which a supper is sold. It is sold for praise; it is sold for attendance. Give him, then, the value, if it be for your advantage. But if you would at the same time not pay the one, and yet receive the other, you are unreasonable and foolish. Have you nothing, then, in place of the supper? Yes, indeed you have; not to praise him whom you do not like to praise; not to bear the insolence of his lackeys.
XXVI.
The will of Nature may be learned from things upon which we are all agreed. As, when our neighbor’s boy has broken a cup, or the like, we are ready at once to say, “These are casualties that will happen.” Be assured, then, that when your own cup is likewise broken, you ought to be affected just as when another’s cup was broken. Now apply this to greater things. Is the child or wife of another dead? There is no one who would not say, “This is an accident of mortality.” But if any one’s own child happens to die, it is immediately, “Alas! how wretched am I!” It should be always remembered how we are affected on hearing the same thing concerning others.
XXVII.
As a mark* is not set up for the sake of missing the aim, so neither does the nature of evil exist in the world.
XXVIII.
If a person had delivered up your body to some passer-by, you would certainly be angry. And do you feel no shame in delivering up your own mind to any reviler, to be disconcerted and confounded?
XXIX.†
XXX.
Duties are universally measured by relations. Is a certain man your father? In this are implied, taking care of him; submitting to him in all things; patiently receiving his reproaches, his correction. But he is a bad father. Is your natural tie, then, to a good father? No, but to a father. Is a brother unjust? Well, preserve your own just relation towards him. Consider not what he does; but what you are to do, to keep your own will in a state conformable to nature. For another cannot hurt you, unless you please. You will then be hurt when you consent to be hurt. In this manner, therefore, if you accustom yourself to contemplate the relations of neighbor, citizen, commander, you can deduce from each the corresponding duties.
XXXI.
Be assured that the essence of piety towards the Gods lies in this, to form right opinions concerning them, as existing, and as governing the universe justly and well. And fix yourself in this resolution, to obey them, and yield to them, and willingly follow them amidst all events, as being ruled by the most perfect wisdom. For thus you will never find fault with the Gods, nor accuse them of neglecting you. And it is not possible for this to be effected in any other way, than by withdrawing yourself from things which are not within our own power, and by making good or evil to consist only in those which are. For if you suppose any other things to be either good or evil, it is inevitable that, when you are disappointed of what you wish, or incur what you would avoid, you should reproach and blame their authors. For every creature is naturally formed to flee and abhor things that appear hurtful, and that which causes them; and to pursue and admire those which appear beneficial, and that which causes them. It is impracticable, then, that one who supposes himself to be hurt, should rejoice in the person who, as he thinks, hurts him; just as it is impossible to rejoice in the hurt itself. Hence, also, a father is reviled by his son, when he does not impart the things which seem to be good; and this made Polynices and Eteocles mutually enemies, that empire seemed good to both. On this account the husbandman reviles the Gods; — the sailor, the merchant, or those who have lost wife or child. For where our interest is, there too is piety directed. So that whoever is careful to regulate his desires and aversions as he ought, is thus made careful of piety likewise. But it also becomes incumbent on every one to offer libations, and sacrifices, and first-fruits, according to the customs of his country, purely, and not heedlessly nor negligently; not avariciously, nor yet extravagantly.
XXXII.
When you have recourse to divination, remember that you know not what the event will be, and you come to learn it of the diviner; but of what nature it is you knew before coming; at least, if you are of philosophic mind. For if it is among the things not within our own power, it can by no means be either good or evil. Do not, therefore, bring with you to the diviner either desire or aversion, — else you will approach him trembling, — but first clearly understand, that every event is indifferent, and nothing to you, of whatever sort it may be; for it will be in your power to make a right use of it, and this no one can hinder. Then come with confidence to the Gods as your counsellors; and afterwards, when any counsel is given you, remember what counsellors you have assumed, and whose advice you will neglect, if you disobey. Come to divination, as Socrates prescribed, in cases of which the whole consideration relates to the event, and in which no opportunities are afforded by reason, or any other art, to discover the matter in view. When, therefore, it is our duty to share the danger of a friend or of our country, we ought not to consult the oracle as to whether we shall share it with them or not. For though the diviner should forewarn you that the auspices are unfavorable, this means no more than that either death or mutilation or exile is portended. But we have reason within us; and it directs us, even with these hazards, to stand by our friend and our country. Attend, therefore, to the greater diviner, the Pythian God, who once cast out of the temple him who neglected to save his friend.*
XXXIII.
Begin by prescribing to yourself some character and demeanor, such as you may preserve both alone and in company.
Be mostly silent; or speak merely what is needful, and in few words. We may, however, enter sparingly into discourse sometimes, when occasion calls for it; but let it not run on any of the common subjects, as gladiators, or horse-races, or athletic champions, or food, or drink, — the vulgar topics of conversation; and especially not on men, so as either to blame, or praise, or make comparisons. If you are able, then, by your own conversation, bring over that of your company to proper subjects; but if you happen to find yourself among strangers, be silent.
Let not your laughter be loud, frequent, or abundant.
Avoid taking oaths, if possible, altogether; at any rate, so far as you are able.
Avoid public and vulgar entertainments; but if ever an occasion calls you to them, keep your attention upon the stretch, that you may not imperceptibly slide into vulgarity. For be assured that if a person be ever so pure himself, yet, if his companion be corrupted, he who converses with him will be corrupted likewise.
Provide things relating to the body no farther than absolute need requires; as meat, drink, clothing, house, retinue. But cut off everything that looks towards show and luxury.
Before marriage, guard yourself with all your ability from unlawful intercourse with women; yet be not uncharitable or severe to those who are led into this, nor frequently boast that you yourself do otherwise.
If any one tells you that such a person speaks ill of you, do not make excuses about what is said of you, but answer: “He was ignorant of my other faults, else he would not have mentioned these alone.”
It is not necessary for you to appear often at public spectacles; but if ever there is a proper occasion for you to be there, do not appear more solicitous for any other, than for yourself; that is, wish things to be only just as they are, and only the best man to win; for thus nothing will go against you. But abstain entirely from acclamations, and derision, and violent emotions. And when you come away, do not discourse a great deal on what has passed, and what contributes nothing to your own amendment. For it would appear by such discourse that you were dazzled by the show.
Be not prompt or ready to attend private recitations; but if you do attend, preserve your gravity and dignity, and yet avoid making yourself disagreeable.
When you are going to confer with any one, and especially with one who seems your superior, represent to yourself how Socrates or Zeno would behave in such a case, and you will not be at a loss to meet properly whatever may occur.
When you are going before any one in power, fancy to yourself that you may not find him at home, that you may be shut out, that the doors may not be opened to you, that he may not notice you. If, with all this, it be your duty to go, bear what happens, and never say to yourself, “It was not worth so much.” For this is vulgar, and like a man bewildered by externals.
In society, avoid a frequent and excessive mention of your own actions and dangers. For however agreeable it may be to yourself to allude to the risks you have run, it is not equally agreeable to others to hear your adventures. Avoid likewise an endeavor to excite laughter. For this may readily slide you into vulgarity, and, besides, may be apt to lower you in the esteem of your acquaintance. Approaches to indecent discourse are likewise dangerous. Therefore when anything of this sort happens, use the first fit opportunity to rebuke him who makes advances that way; or, at least, by silence, and blushing, and a serious look, show yourself to be displeased by such talk.
XXXIV.
If you are dazzled by the semblance of any promised pleasure, guard yourself against being bewildered by it; but let the affair wait your leisure, and procure yourself some delay. Then bring to your mind both points of time; that in which you shall enjoy the pleasure, and that in which you will repent and reproach yourself, after you have enjoyed it; and set before you, in opposition to these, how you will rejoice and applaud yourself, if you abstain. And even though it should appear to you a seasonable gratification, take heed that its enticements and allurements and seductions may not subdue you; but set in opposition to this, how much better it is to be conscious of having gained so great a victory.
XXXV.
When you do anything from a clear judgment that it ought to be done, never shrink from being seen to do it, even though the world should misunderstand it; for if you are not acting rightly, shun the action itself; if you are, why fear those who wrongly censure you?
XXXVI
As the proposition, either it is day, or it is night, has much force in a disjunctive argument, but none at all in a conjunctive one; so, at a feast, to choose the largest share, is very suitable to the bodily appetite, but utterly inconsistent with the social spirit of the entertainment. Remember, then, when you eat with another, not only the value to the body of those things which are set before you, but also the value of proper courtesy towards your host.
XXXVII.
If you have assumed any character beyond your strength, you have both demeaned yourself ill in that, and quitted one which you might have supported.
XXXVIII.
As in walking you take care not to tread upon a nail, or turn your foot, so likewise take care not to hurt the ruling faculty of your mind. And if we were to guard against this in every action, we should enter upon action more safely.
XXXIX.
The body is to every one the proper measure of its possessions, as the foot is of the shoe. If, therefore, you stop at this, you will keep the measure; but if you move beyond it, you must necessarily be carried forward, as down a precipice; as in the case of a shoe, if you go beyond its fitness to the foot, it comes first to be gilded, then purple, and then studded with jewels. For to that which once exceeds the fit measure there is no bound.
XL.
Women from fourteen years old are flattered by men with the title of mistresses. Therefore, perceiving that they are regarded only as qualified to give men pleasure, they begin to adorn themselves, and in that to place all their hopes. It is worth while, therefore, to try that they may perceive themselves honored only so far as they appear beautiful in their demeanor, and modestly virtuous.
XLI.
It is a mark of want of intellect, to spend much time in things relating to the body; as to be immoderate in exercises, in eating and drinking, and in the discharge of other animal functions. These things should be done incidentally and our main strength be applied to our reason.
XLII.
When any person does ill by you, or speaks ill of you, remember that he acts or speaks from an impression that it is right for him to do so. Now, it is not possible that he should follow what appears right to you, but only what appears so to himself. Therefore, if he judges from false appearances, he is the person hurt; since he too is the person deceived. For if any one takes a true proposition to be false, the proposition is not hurt, but only the man is deceived. Setting out, then, from these principles, you will meekly bear with a person who reviles you; for you will say upon every occasion, “It seemed so to him.”
XLIII.
Everything has two handles: one by which it may be borne; another by which it cannot. If your brother acts unjustly, do not lay hold on the affair by the handle of his injustice; for by that it cannot be borne: but rather by the opposite, that he is your brother, that he was brought up with you; and thus you will lay hold on it as it is to be borne.
XLIV.
These reasonings have no logical connection: “I am richer than you; therefore I am your superior”: “I am more eloquent than you; therefore I am your superior.” The true logical connection is rather this: “I am richer than you; therefore my possessions must exceed yours”: “I am more eloquent than you; therefore my style must surpass yours.” But you, after all, consist neither in property nor in style.
XLV.
Does any one bathe hastily? Do not say, that he does it ill, but hastily. Does any one drink much wine? Do not say that he does ill, but that he drinks a great deal. For unless you perfectly understand his motives, how should you know if he acts ill? Thus you will not risk yielding to any appearances but such as you fully comprehend.
XLVI.
Never proclaim yourself a philosopher; nor make much talk among the ignorant about your principles, but show them by actions. Thus, at an entertainment, do not discourse how people ought to eat; but eat as you ought. For remember that thus Socrates also universally avoided all ostentation. And when persons came to him, and desired to be introduced by him to philosophers, he took them and introduced them; so well did he bear being overlooked. So if ever there should be among the ignorant any discussion of principles, be for the most part silent. For there is great danger in hastily throwing out what is undigested. And if any one tells you that you know nothing, and you are not nettled at it, then you may be sure that you have really entered on your work. For sheep do not hastily throw up the grass, to show the shepherds how much they have eaten; but, inwardly digesting their food, they produce it outwardly in wool and milk. Thus, therefore, do you not make an exhibition before the ignorant of your principles; but of the actions to which their digestion gives rise.
XLVII.
When you have learned to nourish your body frugally, do not pique yourself upon it; nor, if you drink water, be saying upon every occasion, “I drink water.” But first consider how much more frugal are the poor than we, and how much more patient of hardship. But if at any time you would inure yourself by exercise to labor and privation, for your own sake and not for the public, do not attempt great feats; but when you are violently thirsty, just rinse your mouth with water, and tell nobody.
XLVIII.
The condition and characteristic of a vulgar person is, that he never looks for either help or harm from himself, but only from externals. The condition and characteristic of a philosopher is, that he looks to himself for all help or harm. The marks of a proficient are, that he censures no one, praises no one, blames no one, accuses no one; says nothing concerning himself as being anybody, or knowing anything: when he is in any instance hindered or restrained, he accuses himself; and if he is praised, he smiles to himself at the person who praises him; and if he is censured, he makes no defence. But he goes about with the caution of a convalescent, careful of interference with anything that is doing well, but not yet quite secure. He restrains desire; he transfers his aversion to those things only which thwart the proper use of our own will; he employs his energies moderately in all directions; if he appears stupid or ignorant, he does not care; and, in a word, he keeps watch over himself as over an enemy and one in ambush.
XLIX.
When any one shows himself vain, on being able to understand and interpret the works of Chrysippus, say to yourself: “Unless Chrysippus had written obscurely, this person would have had nothing to be vain of. But what do I desire? To understand Nature, and follow her. I ask, then, who interprets her; and hearing that Chrysippus does, I have recourse to him. I do not understand his writings. I seek, therefore, one to interpret them.” So far there is nothing to value myself upon. And when I find an interpreter, what remains is, to make use of his instructions. This alone is the valuable thing. But if I admire merely the interpretation, what do I become more than a grammarian, instead of a philosopher? Except, indeed, that instead of Homer I interpret Chrysippus. When any one, therefore, desires me to read Chrysippus to him, I rather blush, when I cannot exhibit actions that are harmonious and consonant with his discourse.
L.
Whatever rules you have adopted, abide by them as laws, and as if you would be impious to transgress them; and do not regard what any one says of you, for this, after all, is no concern of yours. How long, then, will you delay to demand of yourself the noblest improvements, and in no instance to transgress the judgments of reason? You have received the philosophic principles with which you ought to be conversant; and you have been conversant with them. For what other master, then, do you wait as an excuse for this delay in self-reformation? You are no longer a boy, but a grown man. If, therefore, you will be negligent and slothful, and always add procrastination to procrastination, purpose to purpose, and fix day after day in which you will attend to yourself, you will insensibly continue to accomplish nothing, and, living and dying, remain of vulgar mind. This instant, then, think yourself worthy of living as a man grown up and a proficient. Let whatever appears to be the best, be to you an inviolable law. And if any instance of pain or pleasure, glory or disgrace, be set before you, remember that now is the combat, now the Olympiad comes on, nor can it be put off; and that by one failure and defeat honor may be lost — or won. Thus Socrates became perfect, improving himself by everything; following reason alone. And though you are not yet a Socrates, you ought, however, to live as one seeking to be a Socrates.
LI.
The first and most necessary topic in philosophy is the practical application of principles; as, We ought not to lie: the second is that of demonstrations; as, Why it is that we ought not to lie: the third, that which gives strength and logical connection to the other two; as, Why this is a demonstration. For what is demonstration? What is a consequence? What a contradiction? What truth? What falsehood? The third point is then necessary on account of the second; and the second on account of the first. But the most necessary, and that whereon we ought to rest, is the first. But we do just the contrary. For we spend all our time on the third point, and employ all our diligence about that, and entirely neglect the first. Therefore, at the same time that we lie, we are very ready to show how it is demonstrated that lying is wrong.
LII
Upon all occasions we ought to have these maxims ready at hand: —
-
- Conduct me, Zeus, and thou, O Destiny,
- Wherever your decrees have fixed my lot.
- I follow cheerfully; and, did I not,
- Wicked and wretched, I must follow still.*
-
- Whoe’er yields properly to Fate is deemed
- Wise among men, and knows the laws of Heaven.†
FROM STOBÆUS, ANTONIUS, AND MAXIMUS.*
I.
A LIFE at odds with Fortune resembles a wintry torrent; for it is turbulent and muddy and difficult to pass, and violent and noisy and brief.
A soul conversant with virtue resembles a perpetual fountain; for it is clear and gentle and agreeable and sweet and serviceable and rich and harmless and innocent.
II.
If you would be good, first believe that you are bad.
III.
It is better sometimes frankly to offend, and act often wisely, than to say we seldom err and offend frequently.
IV.
Chastise your passions, that they may not chastise you.
V.
Be not so much ashamed of what is inglorious, as studious to shun what is untruthful.
VI.
If you would be well spoken of, learn to speak well of others. And when you have learned to speak well, endeavor likewise to do well; and thus you will reap the fruit of being well spoken of.
VII.
Freedom and slavery are merely names of virtue and of vice; and both these are matters of will. But neither of them belongs to things in which will has no share. But Fortune is accustomed to dispose at her pleasure of the body, and those things relating to the body in which will has no share. For no one is a slave whose will is free.
Fortune is an evil chain to the body, and vice to the soul. For he whose body is unbound, and whose soul is chained, is a slave. On the contrary, he whose body is chained, and his soul unbound, is free. The chain of the body, Nature unbinds by death, or baseness for money; the chain of the soul, virtue unbinds by wisdom and experience and philosophic training.
VIII.
If you would live tranquil and contented, endeavor that all who live with you may be good. And you can have them good by instructing the willing and dismissing the unwilling. For sin and bondage will fly with those who leave you, and with those who remain with you will virtue and liberty be left.
IX.
It is scandalous, that he who sweetens his drink by the gift of the bees, should by vice embitter reason, the gift of the Gods.
X.
No one who is a lover of money, a lover of pleasure, or a lover of glory, is likewise a lover of mankind; but only he who is a lover of virtue.
XI.
As you would not wish to sail in a large and elegant and gilded ship, and sink; so neither is it desirable to inhabit a grand and sumptuous house, and be in a tumult.
XII.
When we are invited to an entertainment we take what we find; and if any one should bid the master of the house set fish or tarts before him, he would be thought absurd. Yet in the world we ask the Gods for what they do not give us; and that, though there are so many things which they have given us.
XIII.
They are pretty fellows indeed, said he, who value themselves on things not in our own power. I am a better man than you, says one; for I have many estates, and you are pining with hunger. I have been consul, says another; I am a ruler, says a third; and I have a fine head of hair, says a fourth. Yet one horse does not say to another, “I am better than you; for I have a great deal of hay and a great deal of oats; and I have a gold bridle and embroidered trappings”; but only, “I am swifter than you.” And every creature is better or worse from its own good or bad qualities. Is man, then, the only creature which has no natural good quality? And must we take account of hair, and clothes, and ancestors?
XIV.
Patients are displeased with a physician who does not prescribe to them; and think he gives them over. And why are none so affected towards a philosopher as to conclude that he despairs of their recovery to a right way of thinking, if he tells them nothing for their good?
XV.
They who have a good constitution of body can bear heat and cold; and so they who have a right constitution of soul can meet anger and grief and immoderate joy and the other passions.
XVI.
Examine yourself, whether you had rather be rich or happy; and if rich, be assured that this is neither a good, nor altogether in your own power; but if happy, that this is both a good, and in your own power; since the one is a temporary loan of Fortune, and the other depends on will.
XVII.
As when you see a viper, or an asp, or a scorpion, in a box of ivory or gold, you do not love it or think it happy because of the magnificence of the material in which it is enclosed; but you shun and detest it, because it is of a pernicious nature: so, likewise, when you see vice lodged in the midst of wealth, and the swelling pride of fortune, be not struck by the splendor of the material with which it is surrounded; but despise the base alloy of its manners.
XVIII.
Riches are not among the number of things which are good; prodigality is of the number of those which are evil; modesty of those which are good. Now modesty invites to frugality and the acquisition of things that are good; but riches invite to prodigality and seduce from modesty. It is difficult, therefore, for a rich person to be modest, or a modest person rich.
XIX.
If you had been born and bred in a ship, you would not be impatient to become the pilot. For you are not necessarily identified with the ship there, nor with riches here; but with reason everywhere. That therefore which is natural and congenial to you, reason, think likewise to be peculiarly your own, and take care of it.
XX.
If you were born in Persia, you would not endeavor to live in Greece; but to be happy in the place where you were. Why, then, if you are born in poverty, do you yearn to be rich, and not rather to be happy in the condition where you are?
XXI.
As it is better to lie straitened for room upon a little couch, in health, than to toss upon a wide bed in sickness, so it is better to contract yourself within the compass of a small fortune, and be happy, than to have a great one and be wretched.
XXII.
It is not poverty that causes sorrow, but covetous desires; nor do riches deliver from fear, but only reasoning. If therefore you acquire a habit of reasoning, you will neither desire riches, nor complain of poverty.
XXIII.
A horse is not elated, and does not value himself on his fine stable or trappings or saddle-cloths, nor a bird on the warm materials of its nest; but the former on the swiftness of his feet, and the latter of its wings. Do not you, therefore, glory in your food or dress; or in short any external advantage; but in integrity and beneficence.
XXIV.
There is a difference between living well and living profusely. The one arises from contentment and order and propriety and frugality; the other from dissoluteness and luxury and disorder and indecency. In short, to the one belongs true praise; to the other, censure. If therefore you would live well, do not seek to be praised for profuseness.
XXV.
Let the first satisfaction of appetite be always the measure to you of eating and drinking; and appetite itself the sauce and the pleasure. Thus you will never take more than is necessary, nor will you want cooks; and you will be contented with whatever drink falls in your way.
XXVI.
Consider that you do not thrive merely by the food in your stomach; but by the elevation of your soul. For the former, as you see, is evacuated and carried off altogether; but the latter, though the soul be parted, remains uncorrupted through all things.
XXVII.
In every feast remember that there are two guests to be entertained, the body and the soul; and that what you give the body you presently lose, but what you give the soul remains forever.
XXVIII.
Do not mingle anger with profusion, and set them before your guests. Profusion, when it has made its way through the body, is quickly gone; but anger, when it has penetrated the soul, abides for a long time. Take care not to pay a great price merely to be transported with anger, and affront your guests; but rather delight them at a cheap rate by gentle behavior.
XXIX.
Take care at your meals that the attendants be not more in number than those whom they are to attend. For it is absurd that many persons should wait on a few chairs.
XXX.
It would be best if, both while you are personally making your preparations and while you are feasting at table, you could give among the servants part of what is before you. But if such a thing be difficult at that time, remember that you, who are not weary, are attended by those who are; you who are eating and drinking, by those who are not; you who are talking, by those who are silent; you who are at ease, by those who are under constraint: and thus you will never be heated into any unreasonable passion yourself, nor do any mischief by provoking another.
XXXI.
Strife and contention are always absurd, but particularly unbecoming at table conversations. For a person warmed with wine will never either teach, or be convinced by, one who is sober. And wherever sobriety is wanting, the end will show that you have exerted yourself to no purpose.
XXXII.
Grasshoppers are musical; but snails are dumb. The latter rejoice in being wet; and the former in being warm. Then the dew calls out the one race, and for this they come forth; but, on the contrary, the noonday sun awakens the others, and in this they sing. If therefore you would be a musical and harmonious person, whenever the soul is bedewed with wine at drinking-parties, suffer her not to go forth and defile herself. But when in rational society she glows by the beams of reason, then command her to speak from inspiration, and utter the oracles of justice.
XXXIII.
Consider him with whom you converse in one of these three ways; either as your superior, or inferior, or equal. If superior, you ought to hear him and be convinced; if inferior, to convince him; if equal, to agree with him; and thus you will never be led into the love of strife.
XXXIV.
It is better, by yielding to truth, to conquer prejudice, than by yielding to principle to be defeated by truth.
XXXV.
If you seek truth, you will not seek merely victory at all hazards; and when you have found truth, you will have a security against being conquered.
XXXVI.
Truth conquers by itself; prejudice, by appealing to externals.
XXXVII.
It is better, through living with one free person, to be fearless and free, than to be a slave in company with many.
XXXVIII.
What you avoid suffering yourself, seek not to impose on others. You avoid slavery, for instance; take care not to enslave. For if you can bear to exact slavery from others, you appear to have been yourself a slave. For vice has nothing in common with virtue, nor freedom with slavery. As a person in health would not wish to be attended by the sick, nor to have those who live with him in a state of sickness; so neither would a person who is free bear to be served by slaves, nor to have those who live with him in a state of slavery.
XXXIX.
Whoever you are that would live apart from slaves, deliver yourself from slavery. And you will be free if you deliver yourself from appetite. For neither was Aristides called just, nor Epaminondas divine, nor Lycurgus a preserver, because they were rich and slave-holders; but because, being poor, they delivered Greece from slavery.
XL.
If you would have your house securely inhabited, imitate the Spartan Lycurgus. And as he did not enclose his city with walls, but fortified the inhabitants with virtue, and preserved the city always free; so do you, likewise, not surround yourself with a great court-yard, nor raise high towers, but strengthen those who live with you by benevolence, and fidelity, and friendship. And thus nothing hurtful will enter, even if the whole band of wickedness be set in array against it.
XLI.
Do not hang your house round with tablets and pictures; but adorn it with virtue. For those are merely foreign and a fading deception of the eyes; but this, a congenial and indelible and perpetual ornament to the house.
XLII.
Instead of herds of oxen, endeavor to assemble flocks of friends about your house.
XLIII.
As a wolf resembles a dog, so much does a flatterer, an adulterer, a parasite, resemble a friend. Take heed therefore, that instead of guardian dogs, you do not inadvertently admit ravening wolves.
XLIV.
To seek admiration by adorning one’s house with stucco belongs to a tasteless man; but to adorn our characters by the charm of an amiable nature shows at once a lover of beauty and a lover of man.
XLV.
If you chiefly admire little things, you will never be held worthy of great ones; but if you are above little things, you will be held greatly worthy.
XLVI.
Nothing is meaner than the love of pleasure, the love of gain, and insolence. Nothing is nobler than magnanimity, meekness, and philanthropy.
XLVII.
[We represent] those intractable philosophers who do not think pleasure to be in itself the natural state of man; but merely an incident of those things in which his natural state consists, — justice, moderation, and freedom. Why, then, should the soul rejoice and be glad in the minor blessings of the body, as Epicurus says, and not be pleased with its own good, which is the very greatest? And yet Nature has given me likewise a sense of shame; and I am covered with blushes when I think I have uttered any indecent expression. This emotion will not suffer me to recognize pleasure as a good and the end of life.
XLVIII.
The ladies at Rome have Plato’s Republic in their hands, because he allows a community of wives; for they attend merely to the words of the author, and not to his sense. For he does not first order one man and one woman to marry and live together, and then allow a community of wives; but he abolishes that system of marriage, and introduces one of another kind. And, in general, men are pleased in finding out excuses for their own faults. Yet philosophy says, it is not fit even to move a finger without some reason.
XLIX.
It is the rarest pleasures which especially delight us.
L.
Once exceed moderation, and the most delightful things may become the most undelightful.
LI.
Agrippinus was justly entitled to praise on this account, that, though he was a man of the highest worth, he never praised himself; but blushed, even if another praised him. And he was a man of such a character, as to commend every untoward event that befell him: if he was feverish, the fever; if disgraced, the disgrace; if banished, the banishment. And, when once, as he was going to dine, a messenger brought him word that Nero ordered him to banishment; Well then, said Agrippinus, let us dine at Aricia.*
LII.
Diogenes affirmed no labor to be good, unless the end were a due state and tone of the soul, and not of the body.
LIII.
As a true balance is neither set right by a true one, nor judged by a false one; so likewise a just person has neither to be set right by just persons, nor to be judged by unjust ones.
LIV.
As what is straight needs no straightness, so what is just needs [to borrow] no justice.
LV.
Give no judgment from another tribunal before you have yourself been judged at the tribunal of absolute justice.
LVI.
If you would give a just decision, heed neither parties nor pleaders, but the cause itself.
LVII.
You will commit the fewest faults in judging, if you are faultless in your own life.
LVIII.
It is better, by giving a just judgment, to be blamed by him who is deservedly condemned, than by giving an unjust judgment, to be justly censured by Nature.
LIX.
As the touchstone which tries gold, but is not itself tried by the gold; such is he, who has the standard of judgment.
LX.
It is scandalous for a judge to have to be judged by others.
LXI.
As nothing is straighter than absolute straightness, so nothing is juster than absolute justice.
LXII.
Who among you does not admire the action of Lycurgus the Lacedemonian? For when he had been deprived of one of his eyes by one of the citizens, and the people had delivered the young man to him, to be punished in whatever manner he should think proper, Lycurgus forbore to give him any punishment. But having instructed him, and rendered him a good man, he brought him into the theatre; and while the Lacedemonians were struck with admiration: “I received,” said he, “this person from you, dangerous and violent, and I restore him to you gentle and a good citizen.”
LXIII.
When Pittacus had been unjustly treated by some person, and had the power of chastising him, he let him go, saying, “Forgiveness is better than punishment; for the one is the proof of a gentle, the other of a savage nature.”
LXIV.
This, above all, is the business of nature, to connect and apply the active powers to what appears fit and beneficial.
LXV.
It is the character of the most mean-spirited and foolish men, to suppose that they shall be despised by others, unless they somehow strike the first blow at their enemies.
LXVI.
When you are going to attack any one with vehemence and threatening, remember to say first to yourself, that you are constituted gentle, and that by doing nothing violent, you will live without the need of repentance, and irreproachable.
LXVII.
We ought to know that it is not easy for a man to form his principles of action, unless he daily reiterates and hears the same things, and at the same time applies them in action.
LXVIII.
Nicias was so intent on business, that he often asked his domestics whether he had bathed, and whether he had dined.
LXIX.
While Archimedes was intent on his diagrams, his servants drew him away by violence, and anointed* him, and after his body was anointed, he traced his figures upon that.
LXX.
When Lampis, the naval commander, was asked how he acquired wealth; he answered, that great wealth cost but little trouble, but that a little wealth [at the beginning] cost a great deal.
LXXI.
When Solon was silent at an entertainment, and was asked by Periander, whether he was silent for want of words, or from folly: “No fool,” answered he, “can be silent at a feast.”
LXXII.
Consult nothing so much, upon every occasion, as discretion. Now it is more discreet to be silent than to speak; and to omit speaking whatever is not accompanied with sense and reason.
LXXIII.
As light-houses in harbors, by kindling a great flame from a few faggots, afford a considerable assistance to ships wandering on the sea; so an illustrious person, in a state harassed by storms, confers great benefits on his fellow-citizens, when himself contented with little.
LXXIV.
You would certainly, if you undertook to steer a ship, learn the steersman’s art. And as in that case, you can steer the whole ship; so in another case, the whole state.
LXXV.
If you have a mind to adorn your city by consecrated monuments, first consecrate in yourself the most beautiful monument, — of gentleness, and justice, and benevolence.
LXXVI.
You will confer the greatest benefits on your city, not by raising its roofs, but by exalting its souls. For it is better that great souls should live in small habitations, than that abject slaves should burrow in great houses.
LXXVII.
Do not variegate the structure of your walls with Eubœan and Spartan stone; but adorn both the minds of the citizens and of those who govern them by the Greek culture. For cities are made good habitations by the sentiments of those who live in them, not by wood or stone.
LXXVIII.
As, if you were to breed lions, you would not be solicitous about the magnificence of their dens, but about the qualities of the animals; so, if you undertake to preside over your fellow-citizens, be not so solicitous about the magnificence of the buildings, as careful of the nobleness of those who inhabit them.
LXXIX.
As a skilful manager of horses does not feed the good colts, and suffer the unruly ones to starve; but feeds them both alike, chastising the one more, to make him draw equally with his fellow; so a man of foresight and administrative skill endeavors to do good to the well-disposed citizens, but not at once to destroy those that are otherwise. He by no means denies subsistence to either of them; only he disciplines and urges on, with the greater vehemence, him who resists reason and the laws.
LXXX.
As a goose is not alarmed by hissing, nor a sheep by bleating; so neither be you terrified by the voice of a senseless multitude.
LXXXI.
As you do not comply with a multitude, when it unreasonably asks of you any part of your own property; so neither be disconcerted before a mob, demanding of you any unjust compliance.
LXXXII.
Pay in advance your dues to the public, and you will never be asked for what is not due.
LXXXIII.
As the sun waits not for prayers and incantations to be prevailed on to rise, but immediately shines forth, and is received with universal salutation; so neither do you wait for applauses and shouts and praises in order to do good; but be a voluntary benefactor, and you will be beloved like the sun.
LXXXIV.
A ship ought not to be held by one anchor, nor life by a single hope.
LXXXV.
We ought not to stretch either our legs or our hopes for a point they cannot reach
LXXXVI.
Thales, being asked what was the most universal possession, answered, “Hope; for they have it who have nothing else.”
LXXXVII.
It is more necessary for the soul to be healed than the body; for it is better to die than to live ill.
LXXXVIII.
Pyrrho used to say, “There is no difference between living and dying.” A person asked him, Why then do you not die? “Because,” answered Pyrrho, “there is no difference.”
LXXXIX.
Nature is admirable, and, as Xenophon says, avaricious of life. Hence we love and tend the body, which is of all things the most unpleasant and squalid. For if we were obliged, for only five days, to take care of our neighbor’s body, we would not endure it. For only consider what it would be, when we rise in the morning, to clean the teeth of others, and do all requisite offices besides. In reality, it is wonderful that we should love a thing which every day demands so much attendance. I stuff this sack, and then I empty it again. What is more troublesome? But I must obey God. Therefore I remain, and endure to wash and feed and clothe this poor body. When I was younger, he demanded of me still more, and I bore it. And when Nature, which gave the body, takes it away, will you not bear that? “I love it,” say you. This is what I have just been observing; and this very love has Nature given you, but she also says, “Now let it go, and have no further trouble.”
XC.
When a young man dies, some one blames the Gods that, at the time when he himself ought to be at rest, he is still encumbered with the troubles of life. Yet when death approaches, he wishes to live, and sends for the physician, and entreats him to omit no care or pains. It is marvellous that men should not be willing either to live or die.
XCI.
To a longer and worse life, a shorter and better is by all means to be preferred by every one.
XCII.
When we are children, our parents deliver us to the care of a tutor; who is continually to watch over us that we get no hurt. When we are become men, God delivers us to the guardianship of an implanted conscience. We ought by no means, then, to despise this guardian; for it will both displease God, and we shall be enemies to our own conscience.
XCIII.
Riches ought to be used as the means to some end, and not lavished on every occasion.
XCIV.
All men should wish rather for virtue than for wealth, which is dangerous to the foolish, since vice is increased by riches. And in proportion as any one is foolish, he becomes the more profuse, through having the means of gratifying his passion for pleasure.
XCV.
What ought not to be done, do not even think of doing.
XCVI.
Deliberate much before you speak or act; for what is once said or done you cannot recall.
XCVII.
Every place is safe to him who dwells with justice.
XCVIII.
Crows pick out the eyes of the dead, when they are no longer of any use. But flatterers destroy the souls of the living by blinding their eyes.
XCIX.
The anger of a monkey and the threats of a flatterer deserve equal regard.
C.
Kindly receive those who are willing to give good advice; but not those who upon every occasion are eager to flatter. For the former truly see what is advantageous; but the latter consider only the opinions of their superiors; and imitate the shadows of bodies, nodding assent to what they say.
CI.
An adviser ought, in the first place, to have a regard to the delicacy and sense of shame of the person admonished. For they who are beyond blushing are incorrigible.
CII.
It is better to advise than reproach; for the one is mild and friendly, the other stern and severe; the one corrects the erring, the other only convicts them.
CIII.
Impart to strangers and persons in need according to your ability. For he who gives nothing to the needy shall receive nothing in his own need.
CIV.
A person once brought clothes to a pirate, who had been cast ashore, and almost killed by the severity of the weather; then carried him to his house, and furnished him with all necessaries. Being reproached by some one for doing good to the evil; “I have paid this regard,” answered he, “not to the man, but to humanity.”
CV.
We ought not to choose every pleasure; but that whose end is good.
CVI.
It belongs to a wise man to resist pleasure; and to a fool to be enslaved by it.
CVII.
In all vice, pleasure, being presented like a bait, draws sensual minds to the hook of perdition.
CVIII.
Choose rather to punish your appetites than to be punished by them.
CIX.
No one is free who commands not himself.
CX.
The vine bears three clusters; the first of pleasure, the second of intoxication, the third of outrage.
CXI.
Do not talk much over wine to show your learning; for your discourse will be unpleasing.
CXII.
He is a drunkard who takes more than three glasses; and though he be not drunk, he has exceeded moderation.
CXIII.
Let discourse of God be renewed every day more surely than our food.
CXIV.
Think of God oftener than you breathe.
CXV.
If you always remember that God stands by as a witness of whatever you do, either in soul or body, you will never err, either in your prayers or actions, and you will have God abiding with you.
CXVI.
As it is pleasant to view the sea from the shore, so it is pleasant to one who has escaped, to remember his past labors.
CXVII.
Law aims to benefit human life; but it cannot, when men themselves choose to suffer, for it manifests its proper virtue on condition of obedience.
CXVIII.
As physicians are the preservers of the sick, so are the laws, of the injured.
CXIX.
The justest laws are the truest.
CXX.
It is decent to yield to a law, to a ruler, and to a wiser man.
CXXI.
Things done contrary to law are to be regarded as undone.
CXXII.
In prosperity it is very easy to find a friend; in adversity, nothing is so difficult.
CXXIII.
Time delivers fools from grief; and reason, wise men.
CXXIV.
He is a man of sense who does not grieve for what he has not, but rejoices in what he has.
CXXV.
Epictetus being asked how a person might grieve his enemy, answered, “By doing as well as possible himself.”
CXXVI.
Let no wise man estrange himself from the government of the state; for it is both wicked to withdraw from being useful to the needy, and cowardly to give way to the worthless. For it is foolish to choose rather to be governed ill than to govern well.
CXXVII.
Nothing is more becoming a ruler, than to despise no one, nor be insolent, but to preside over all impartially.
CXXVIII.
Any person may live happy in poverty, but few in wealth and power. So great is the advantage of poverty, that no wise man would exchange it for disreputable wealth; unless indeed Themistocles, the son of Neocles, the most wealthy of the Athenians, but poor in virtue, was better than Aristides and Socrates. But both himself and his wealth are perished, and without a name. For a bad man loses all in death; but virtue is eternal.
CXXIX.
[Remember] that such is, and was, and will be, the nature of the world, nor is it possible that things should be otherwise than they now are; and that not only men and other creatures upon earth partake of this change and transformation, but diviner things also. For indeed even the four elements are transformed and metamorphosed; and earth becomes water, and water air, and this again is transformed into other things. And the same manner of transformation happens from things above to those below. Whoever endeavors to turn his mind towards these points, and persuade himself to receive with willingness what cannot be avoided, will pass his life in moderation and harmony.
CXXX.
He who is discontented with things present and allotted, is unskilled in life. But he who bears them, and the consequences arising from them, nobly and rationally, is worthy to be esteemed a good man.
CXXXI.
All things serve and obey the [laws of the] universe; the earth, the sea, the sun, the stars, and the plants and animals of the earth. Our body likewise obeys the same, in being sick and well, young and old, and passing through the other changes decreed. It is therefore reasonable that what depends on ourselves, that is, our own understanding, should not be the only rebel. For the universe is powerful and superior, and consults the best for us by governing us in conjunction with the whole. And further; opposition, besides that it is unreasonable, and produces nothing except a vain struggle, throws us into pain and sorrows.
The following Fragments are ascribed jointly to Epictetus and other authors.
I.
Moderation, as it is a short and agreeable way, brings much delight and little trouble.
II.
Fortify yourself with moderation; for this is an impregnable fortress.
III.
Prefer nothing to truth, not even the choicest friendship, since this borders on those passions by which justice is both confounded and darkened.
IV.
Truth is an immortal and an eternal thing. It bestows not a beauty which time will wither, nor a courage which may quail before a human tribunal; but only things just and lawful, from which it divides and destroys all that is unjust.
V.
We should have neither a blunt sword nor a pointless speech.
VI.
Nature has given man one tongue, but two ears, that we may hear twice as much as we speak.
VII.
Nothing is in reality either pleasant or unpleasant by nature; but all things become such through habit.
VIII.
Choose the best life; for habit will make it pleasant.
IX.
Choose rather to leave your children well instructed than rich. For the hopes of the wise are better than the riches of the ignorant.
X.
A daughter is to a father a possession which is not his own.
XI.
The same person advised to bequeath modesty to children, rather than gold.
XII.
The reproof of a father is an agreeable medicine; for the profit is greater than the pain.
XIII.
He who is fortunate in a son-in-law, finds a son; he who is unfortunate in one, loses likewise a daughter.
XIV.
The worth of instruction, like that of gold, passes current in every place.
XV.
He who cultivates wisdom cultivates the knowledge of God.
XVI.
There is no creature so beautiful as a man adorned by instruction.
XVII.
We ought to flee the friendship of the wicked, and the enmity of the good.
XVIII.
Misfortunes test friends, and detect enemies.
XIX.
We ought to do well by our friends, when they are present; and speak well of them, when they are absent.
XX.
Let him not think himself loved by any, who loves none.
XXI.
We ought to choose, both for a physician and for a friend, not the most agreeable, but the most useful.
XXII.
If you would lead a life without sorrow, regard things which will happen, as if they had already happened.
XXIII.
Be exempt from grief; not like irrational creatures, from insensibility, nor from inconsiderateness, like fools; but like a man of virtue, making reason the remedy for grief.
XXIV.
They whose minds are the least grieved by calamities, and who best meet them in action, are the greatest both in public and in private life.
XXV.
They who are well instructed, like those who are exercised in the Palæstra, if they happen to fall quickly and dexterously rise again from misfortunes.
XXVI.
We ought to call in reason, like a good physician, to our assistance in misfortune.
XXVII.
Too much intoxication from good fortune, as from drinking, makes a fool more senseless.
XXVIII.
Envy is the adversary of the fortunate.
XXIX.
He who remembers what man is, can be discontented at nothing which happens.
XXX.
A pilot and a fair wind are necessary to a happy voyage; reason and art, to a happy life.
XXXI.
Of good fortune, as of ripe fruit, we must make the most while it lasts.
XXXII.
He is unreasonable who quarrels with events which happen from natural necessity.
The following Fragments are omitted by Mr. Upton; but as they stand under the name of Arrian, and seem to be in the spirit of Epictetus, they are added here.
I.
* WHAT does it signify to me, said he, whether the universe is composed of atoms or uncompounded substances, — or of fire and earth? Is it not sufficient to know the essence of good and evil, and the proper bounds of the desires and aversions, and of the active powers; and by making use of these as so many certain rules, to order the conduct of life, and let go these things which are above us; which, perhaps, are incomprehensible to human understanding, but if one should suppose them ever so comprehensible, are still of doubtful benefit when comprehended. And must it not be said that he gives himself trouble to no purpose who attributes these things as essential to the character of a philosopher? “What, then, is the Delphic admonition, Know thyself, superfluous?” “No, surely,” said he. “What, then, does it mean?” If any one should admonish a performer in a chorus to know himself, would he not take it as a hint to improve his motions?
II.
† The same person being asked, “Wherein do the diligent have the advantage of the slothful?” answered, “Wherein the pious have the advantage of the impious: — in good hopes.”
III.
* Walls give to cities, and education to minds, ornament and security.
IV.
† When a young man was giving himself airs in a public place, and saying, that he had grown wise by conversing with many wise men: “I have conversed too,” answered somebody, “with many rich men, but I have not grown rich.”
V.
‡ Socrates, being sent for by Archelaus, as designing to make him a rich man, returned him this answer: “Four quarts of meal are sold at Athens for five denarii, and the fountains run with water. If what I have is not sufficient for me, yet I am sufficiently able to make a shift with that; and thus it becomes sufficient for me. Do you not perceive that it makes no difference in the goodness of Polus’s voice, whether he performs the part of Œdipus in his regal state, or whether he is a wanderer and a beggar at Colonus? And shall a brave man appear worse than Polus, and not perform well in whatever part is imposed upon him by the Deity? Shall he not imitate Odysseus, who made no worse figure in rags than in a fine purple robe?”
VI.
* There are some persons who are calmly of a high spirit, and do all the same things quietly, and as it were without anger, which those do who are hurried with strong passion. We are to guard, therefore, against the faults of such persons, as being much worse than those of violent anger. For people of the latter character are quickly satiated with vengeance; whereas the others, like persons in a slow fever, extend the excitement over a longer time.
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[* ]See his translation of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, B. III. c. 3, note.
[* ]Compare pages 12, 22, 29, 40, 44, 147, 255, 265, 288, etc.
[* ]Aulus Gellius, Noctes Atticæ, B. II. c. 18. Salmasius, however, doubts the genuineness of this passage. (Com., ed. 1640, p. 3.) The same epigram has been attributed to Leonidas of Tarentum.
[* ]Plautius Lateranus, a Consul elect, was put to death by the command of Nero, for being privy to the conspiracy of Piso. His execution was so sudden, that he was not permitted to take leave of his wife and children; but was hurried into a place appropriated to the punishment of slaves, and there killed by the hand of the tribune Statius. He suffered in obstinate silence, and without making any reproach to Statius, who was concerned in the same plot for which he himself was punished. Tacitus, Ann. xv. c. 60. — C.
[† ]Epaphroditus was the master of requests and freedman of Nero, and the master of Epictetus. He assisted Nero in killing himself; for which he was condemned to death by Domitian. Suetonius in Vitâ Neronis, c. 49; Domit. c. 14. — C.
[* ]Thraseas Pætus, a Stoic philosopher, put to death by Nero. He was husband of Arria, so well known by that beautiful epigram in Martial. The expression of Tacitus concerning him is remarkable: “After the murder of so many excellent persons, Nero at last formed a desire of cutting off virtue itself, by the execution of Thraseas Pætus and Bareas Soranus.” Ann. xvi. c. 21. — C.
[† ]Rufus was a Tuscan, of the equestrian order, and a Stoic philosopher. When Vespasian banished the other philosophers, Rufus was alone excepted. — C.
[‡ ]Agrippinus was banished by Nero, for no other crime than the unfortunate death of his father, who had been causelessly killed by the command of Tiberius; and this had furnished a pretence for accusing him of hereditary disloyalty. Tacitus, Ann. xvi. c. 28, 29. — C.
[* ]Aricia, a town about sixteen miles from Rome, which lay in his road to banishment. — C.
[† ]The Spartans, to make a trial of the fortitude of their children, used to have them publicly whipped at the altar of Diana; and often with so much severity, that they expired. The boys supported this exercise with so much constancy as never to cry out, nor even groan. — C.
[* ]Nero was remarkably fond of theatrical entertainments; and used to introduce upon the stage the descendants of noble families, whom want had rendered venal. Tacitus, Ann. xiv. c. 14. — C.
[† ]An allusion to the purple border, which distinguished the dress of the Roman nobility. — C.
[‡ ]Helvidius Priscus was no less remarkable for his learning and philosophy, than for the sanctity of his manners and the love of his country. He behaved however with too much haughtiness on several occasions, to Vespasian, who sentenced him to death with great reluctance, and even forbade the execution, when it was too late. Sueton. in Vesp. § 15. — C.
[* ]Bato was a famous master of the Olympic exercises. — C.
[† ]Domitian ordered all the philosophers to be banished. To avoid this inconvenience, those who had a mind to disguise their profession, took off their beards. — C.
[* ]Chrysippus was regarded as the highest authority among the later Stoics; but not one of his seven hundred volumes has come down to posterity. — H.
[* ]Triptolemus was said to have introduced agriculture and vegetable food among men, under the guidance of Ceres. — H.
[† ]The New Academy denied the existence of any universal truths. — H.
[* ]This is a disputed passage, and something is probably lost. The above version mainly follows Upton and Mrs. Carter. — H.
[* ]Xenophon, Mem. I. 1; Homer, Iliad, X. 278. — H.
[* ]Sophocles, Œdipus Tyrannus, V. 1391. — H.
[* ]An island in the Ægean Sea, to which the Romans used to banish criminals. — C.
[* ]This passage is omitted as inexplicable by Mrs. Carter. Schweighaeuser says, “Tentare interpretationem possum; praestare non possum.” A passage just below I also have omitted, as the text is admitted to be in a hopeless state. — H.
[* ]Plato, Apologia, I. 28. — H.
[* ]Imitated from Iliad, xii. 328. — H.
[* ]This seems to be said by one of the hearers, who wanted to have the absurdities of the sceptics confuted and guarded against by regular argument. Epictetus allows this to be right, for such as have abilities and leisure; but recommends in others the more necessary task of curing their own moral disorders, and insinuates that the mere common occurrences of life are sufficient to overthrow the notions of the Pyrrhonists. — C.
[* ]This is not a literal quotation from Plato, but similar passages are to be found in his Laws, ix. 5; Sophist, § 29; Protagoras, § 87, etc. — H.
[* ]Euripides, Medea, 1087. — H.
[* ]Euripides, Fragments. — H.
[* ]The prescribed form of manumission. — H.
[* ]This discourse is supposed to have been addressed to a pupil, who feared to remain at Rome, because of the persecutions aimed by Domitian at the philosophers. — H.
[* ]In a speech which Cyrus made to his soldiers, after the battle with the Assyrians, he mentioned Chrysantas, one of his captains, with particular honor, for this instance of obedience. Xenoph. Cyrop. IV. 1. — C.
[* ]Diogenes Laertius in his life of Socrates (c. 42) gives the first verse of a hymn thus composed by him. — H.
[* ]A lady of high rank at Rome, banished from Italy, among many noble persons, by Domitian. — C.
[* ]Iliad, I. 526. — H.
[* ]Plato, Gorgias, § 69, and elsewhere. — H.
[* ]Hesiod, Theogony, 87. — H.
[* ]Homer, Iliad, xiii. 281. — H.
[† ]Antigonus Gonatas, king of Macedon, had so great an esteem for Zeno, that he often took a journey to Athens to visit him; and endeavored, by magnificent promises, to allure him to his court, but without success. He gave it as a reason for the distinguished regard which he paid him, that, though he had made him many, and very considerable offers, Zeno never appeared either mean or insolent. — C.
[* ]When Diogenes was sailing to Ægina, he was taken by pirates, and carried to Crete, and there exposed to sale. Being asked what he could do, he answered, “Govern men”; and pointing to a well-dressed Corinthian, who was passing by, “Sell me,” said he, “to him; for he wants a master.” The Corinthian, whose name was Xeniades, bought him, and appointed him the tutor to his children; and Diogenes perfectly well discharged his trust. — C.
[* ]A beautiful clear river in Bœotia, flowing into the Ismenus The Marcian water was conveyed by Ancus Marcius to Rome. — C.
[* ]Two famous robbers who infested Attica, and were at last killed by Theseus. — C.
[* ]The topic of the Desires and Aversions. — C.
[* ]The “Pseudomenos” was a famous problem among the Stoics, and it is this. When a person says, I lie; does he lie, or does he not? If he lies, he speaks truth: if he speaks truth, he lies. Chrysippus wrote six books upon it. — C.
[* ]Hercules is said to have been the author of the gymnastic games; and the first victor. Those who afterwards conquered in wrestling, and the pancratium, were numbered from him. — C.
[† ]This pompous title was given to those who had been victors in all the Olympic games. — C.
[* ]Works and Days, v. 383. — H.
[* ]A logical subtlety. — H.
[* ]Homer, Odyssey, IX. 39. The expression became proverbial, signifying “from bad to worse.” — H.
[* ]Translation conjectural. — H.
[* ]When the Athenians found themselves unable to resist the forces of the Persians, they left their city; and, having removed their wives and children, and their movable effects, to Trœzen and Salamis, went on board their ships, and defended the liberty of Greece by their fleet. — C.
[* ]What follows is against the Academics, who denied the evidence of the senses. — C.
[* ]Euripides, Alcestis, v. [691] 701. The second line, as quoted by Epictetus, is not found in the received editions. Pheres, the father of Admetus, is defending himself for not consenting to die in place of his son. — H.
[† ]Euripides, Phœnissæ, v. 630, 631.
[* ]Amphiaraus married Eriphyle, the sister of Adrastus, king of Argos, and was betrayed by her for a golden chain. — C.
[* ]These words are part of a letter written by Epicurus, when he was dying, to one of his friends. Diog. Laert. X. 22. — C. The titles previously given are those of treatises by Epicurus. — H.
[]A Fragment of Cleanthes, quoted in full in Enchiridion, c. 52. — H.
[* ]Homer, Iliad, II. 25.
[* ]These are the names of combatants in the Olympic games. A Pancratiast was one who united the exercises of wrestling and boxing. A Pentathlete, one who contended on all the five games of leaping, running, throwing the discus, darting, and wrestling. — C.
[* ]By accidentally visiting the school of Xenocrates. — H.
[† ]Laius, king of Thebes, petitioned Apollo for a son. The oracle answered him, that if Laius became a father, he should perish by the hand of his son. The prediction was fulfilled by Œdipus. — C.
[* ]Homer, Odyssey, I. 37.
[* ]Extending the middle finger, with the ancients, was a mark of the greatest contempt. — C.
[† ]Crinis was a Stoic philosopher. The circumstances of his death are not now known. — C.
[* ]Xenophon, Mem. I. 6. — H.
- “And how they quaff in gold,
- Crystal and myrrhine cups, imbossed with gems.”
- Paradise Regained, IV. 181.
Myrrhine cups were probably a kind of agate described by Pliny, which, when burnt, had the smell of myrrh. See Teatro Critico, Tom. 6, disc. 4, § 6. — C.
[* ]Pythagoras, Golden Verses, 40-44. This is Rowe’s translation, as quoted by Mrs. Carter, but not precisely as given in Dacier’s Pythagoras (London, 1707), p. 165. — H.
[* ]Homer, Odyssey, XIV. 54. — H.
[† ]A phrase occurs here, which has greatly puzzled the commentators, but which evidently refers to the gymnastic exercise known as the “perche-pole,” where a pole is balanced by one performer and ascended by another. — H.
[‡ ]Diogenes used, in winter, to grasp statues, when they were covered with snow, as an exercise, to inure himself to hardship. Diogenes Laertius — C.
[* ]The Stoics held to successive conflagrations at destined periods; in which all beings were reabsorbed into the Deity. — C.
[* ]This fifteenth chapter makes the twenty-ninth of the Enchiridion; but with some varieties of reading. — C
[* ]Euphrates was a philosopher of Syria, whose character is described, with the highest encomiums, by Pliny. See L. I. Ep. x. — C.
[* ]This person is not known. One of his name is mentioned in the Acts of Ignatius, as being consul at the time when he suffered martyrdom. — C.
[* ]The son of Creon, — who killed himself, after he had been informed by an oracle that his death would procure a victory to the Thebans. — C.
[* ]Homer, Iliad, X. 15; 91 – 5. — H.
[* ]St. Jerome, cited by Mr. Upton, gives the following, somewhat different account of this matter. Diogenes, as he was going to the Olympic Games, was taken with a fever, and laid himself down in the road; his friends would have put him into some vehicle; but he refused it, and bid them go on to the show. “This night,” said he, “I will either conquer, or be conquered. If I conquer the fever, I will come to the games; if it conquers me, I will descend to Hades.’ — C.
- [“Si febrim vicero, ad Agonem veniam:
- Si me vicerit, ad inferna descendam”
- Jerome adv. Jovianum, Lib. II. — H.]
[* ]It is remarkable, that Epictetus here uses the same word (ἀπερισπάστως) with St. Paul, 1 Cor. vii. 35, and urges the same consideration, of applying wholly to the service of God, to dissuade from marriage. — C.
[* ]Homer, Iliad, II. 25. — H.
[* ]Crates, a rich Theban, gave away a large fortune, and assumed the wallet and staff of a Cynic philosopher. Hipparchia, a Thracian lady, forsook wealth and friends to share his poverty, in spite of his advice to the contrary. Diogenes Laertius: Crates. — H.
[* ]Homer, Iliad, II. 24, 25. — H.
[* ]Cleanthes, in Diogenes Laertius. — H.
[* ]Homer, Iliad, VI. 492, 493. — H.
[* ]Mr. Upton observes that these florid descriptions were the principal study of the Sophists. — C.
[* ]These words are the beginning of Xenophon’s Memoirs of Socrates; and it was a debate among the minute critics, whether argument or arguments was the proper reading. — C.
[† ]Plato, Apology, § 18; Crito, § 6. — H.
[* ]Plato, Apology, § 1. — H.
[* ]Homer, Odyssey, I. 3. Afterwards, XV. 487. — H.
[* ]It was the custom at Athens, in cases where no fixed punishment was appointed by the law, before the judges gave sentence, to ask the criminal himself what penalty he thought he deserved. Socrates refused either to comply with this form himself, or suffer any of his friends to do it for him; alleging that the naming a penalty was a confession of guilt. When the judges therefore asked him what penalty he thought he deserved, he answered, “The highest honors and rewards, and to be maintained in the Prytaneum at the public expense.” An answer which so extremely irritated his judges, that they immediately condemned him to death. — C.
[* ]A people towards the extremity of Greece. — C.
[† ]Diogenes was the disciple of Antisthenes. — C.
[* ]This was said by Xenophon, when news was brought him that his son Gryllus was killed in a battle. — C.
[* ]Homer, Odyssey, VI. 130. — H.
[† ]The name of a slave, particularly of a slave who once belonged to Diogenes; and perhaps this expression alludes to some story about him, which is now unknown. — C.
[* ]A character in one of the Comedies of Menander, called The Hated Lover. — C.
[* ]A Fragment of Cleanthes, before quoted; and given in full in Enchiridion, c. 52. — H.
[* ]Socrates, with four other persons, was commanded by the thirty tyrants of Athens to fetch Leon from the isle of Salamis, in order to be put to death. His companions executed their commission; but Socrates remained at home, and chose rather to expose his life to the fury of the tyrants, than be accessary to the death of an innocent person. He would most probably have fallen a sacrifice to their vengeance, if the Oligarchy had not shortly after been dissolved. See Plato’sApology. — C.
[* ]Plato, Crito. I. 15. — H.
[* ]Two famous lawyers. — C.
[* ]Nero being declared an enemy by the Senate, his coin was, in consequence of this, prohibited and destroyed. — C.
[* ]Alcibiades sent a fine great cake as a present to Socrates; which so provoked the jealousy of the meek Xantippe, that she threw it down, and stamped upon it. Socrates only laughed, and said, “Now you will have no share in it yourself.” — C.
[* ]See the Pythagorean verses (quoted in B. III. c. 10) of which these questions are a parody. — C.
[* ]As with Socrates; see note, ante, p. 314.
[* ]Homer, Odyssey, XI. 528, 529. — H.
[* ]At the feast of Adonis there were carried about little earthen pots filled with mould, in which grew several sorts of herbs. These were called gardens; and from thence the gardens of Adonis came to be proverbially applied to things unfruitful or fading; because those herbs were only sowed so long before the festival as to sprout forth and be green at that time, and then were presently cast into the water. — C.
[* ]An indecent poet of Miletus. — C.
[† ]A writer of amorous verses. — C.
[* ]The ensigns of the consular office. — C.
[* ]This whole paragraph refers to the lament of Achilles over Patroclus. Iliad, XIX. 315, etc. — H.
[* ]Clouds, I. 103. — H.
[* ]Happiness, the effect of virtue, is the mark which God hath set up for us to aim at. Our missing it is no work of His; nor so properly anything real, as a mere negative and failure of our own. — C.
[† ]This chapter, except some very trifling differences, is the same with the fifteenth of the third book of the Discourses, and therefore unnecessary to be repeated here. — C.
[* ]This refers to an anecdote given in full by Simplicius, in his commentary on this passage, of a man assaulted and killed, on his way to consult the oracle, while his companion, deserting him, took refuge in the temple, till cast out by the Deity. — H.
[* ]Cleanthes, in Diogenes Laertius, quoted also by Seneca, Epistle 107. — H.
[† ]Euripides, Fragments. — H.
[‡ ]Plato, Crito, § 17; Apology, § 18. — H.
[* ]Stobæus lived early in the fifth century, Maximus in the seventh, and Antonius, surnamed Melissa, or the Bee, in the eighth. Their collections are printed together. Many of these sayings are merely traditional. — H.
[* ]The first stage on his journey into banishment. See note, ante, p. 7. — H.
[* ]The ancients anointed the body every day. — C.
[* ]Stobæus de Diis. Serm. 211, p. 714, ed. Francof., 1581. — C.
[† ]Maximus, περὶ ϕιλοπονίας. Serm. 118, p. 374. — C.
[* ]Ant. and Max. de Disciplinâ. Serm. 210, p. 704. — C.
[† ]Ibid. — C.
[‡ ]Stobæus, Compar. Paupertatis et Divitiarum. Serm. 237, p. 778. — C.
[* ]Stobæus, Quod Eventus, &c., pp. 324, 329. — C.
13: Saint Paul, The Epistle of Paul the Apostle to the Romans (KJV) [1885]
Saint Paul, The Parallel Bible. The Holy Bible containing the Old and New Testaments translated out of the Original Tongues: being the Authorised Version arranged in parallel columns with the Revised Version (Oxford University Press, 1885). The Epistle of Paul the Apostle to the Romans.
Accessed from oll.libertyfund.org/title/1191 on 2011-05-14
The text is in the public domain.
THE EPISTLE OF PAUL THE APOSTLE TO THE ROMANS.
THE EPISTLE OF PAUL THE APOSTLE TO THE ROMANS. (A. V.)
1
1Paul, a servant of Jesus Christ, called to be an apostle, * separated unto the gospel of God,
2 (Which he had promised afore by his prophets in the holy scriptures,)
3 Concerning his Son Jesus Christ our Lord, which was made of the seed of David according to the flesh;
4 And † declared to be the Son of God with power, according to the spirit of holiness, by the resurrection from the dead:
5 By whom we have received grace and apostleship, ∥ for obedience to the faith among all nations, for his name:
6 Among whom are ye also the called of Jesus Christ:
7 To all that be in Rome, beloved of God, called to be saints: Grace to you and peace from God our Father, and the Lord Jesus Christ.
8 First, I thank my God through Jesus Christ for you all, that your faith is spoken of throughout the whole world.
9 For God is my witness, whom I serve ∥ with my spirit in the gospel of his Son, that without ceasing I make mention of you always in my prayers;
10 Making request, if by any means now at length I might have a prosperous journey by the will of God to come unto you.
11 For I long to see you, that I may impart unto you some spiritual gift, to the end ye may be established;
12 That is, that I may be comforted together ∥ with you by the mutual faith both of you and me.
13 Now I would not have you ignorant, brethren, that oftentimes I purposed to come unto you, (but was let hitherto,) that I might have some fruit ∥ among you also, even as among other Gentiles.
14 I am debtor both to the Greeks, and to the Barbarians; both to the wise, and to the unwise.
15 So, as much as in me is, I am ready to preach the gospel to you that are at Rome also.
16 For I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ: for it is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth; to the Jew first, and also to the Greek.
17 For therein is the righteousness of God revealed from faith to faith: as it is written, * The just shall live by faith.
18 For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who hold the truth in unrighteousness;
19 Because that which may be known of God is manifest ∥ in them; for God hath shewed it unto them.
20 For the invisible things of him from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even his eternal power and Godhead; ∥ so that they are without excuse:
21 Because that, when they knew God, they glorified him not as God, neither were thankful; but became vain in their imaginations, and their foolish heart was darkened.
22 Professing themselves to be wise, they became fools,
23 And changed the glory of the uncorruptible * God into an image made like to corruptible man, and to birds, and fourfooted beasts, and creeping things.
24 Wherefore God also gave them up to uncleanness through the lusts of their own hearts, to dishonour their own bodies between themselves:
25 Who changed the truth of God into a lie, and worshipped and served the creature more than the Creator, who is blessed for ever. Amen.
26 For this cause God gave them up unto vile affections: for even their women did change the natural use into that which is against nature:
27 And likewise also the men, leaving the natural use of the woman, burned in their lust one toward another; men with men working that which is unseemly, and receiving in themselves that recompence of their error which was meet.
28 And even as they did not like ∥ to retain God in their knowledge, God gave them over to ∥ a reprobate mind, to do those things which are not convenient;
29 Being filled with all unrighteousness, fornication, wickedness, covetousness, maliciousness; full of envy, murder, debate, deceit, malignity; whisperers,
30 Backbiters, haters of God, despiteful, proud, boasters, inventors of evil things, disobedient to parents,
31 Without understanding, covenantbreakers, ∥ without natural affection, implacable, unmerciful:
32 Who knowing the judgment of God, that they which commit such things are worthy of death, not only do the same, but ∥ have pleasure in them that do them.
2
1 Therefore thou art inexcusable, O man, whosoever thou art that judgest: for wherein thou judgest another, thou condemnest thyself; for thou that judgest doest the same things.
2 But we are sure that the judgment of God is according to truth against them which commit such things.
3 And thinkest thou this, O man, that judgest them which do such things, and doest the same, that thou shalt escape the judgment of God?
4 Or despisest thou the riches of his goodness and forbearance and longsuffering; not knowing that the goodness of God leadeth thee to repentance?
5 But after thy hardness and impenitent heart * treasurest up unto thyself wrath against the day of wrath and revelation of the righteous judgment of God;
6* Who will render to every man according to his deeds:
7 To them who by patient continuance in well doing seek for glory and honour and immortality, eternal life:
8 But unto them that are contentious, and do not obey the truth, but obey unrighteousness, indignation and wrath.
9 Tribulation and anguish, upon every soul of man that doeth evil, of the Jew first, and also of the † Gentile;
10 But glory, honour, and peace, to every man that worketh good, to the Jew first, and also to the † Gentile:
11 For there is no respect of persons with God.
12 For as many as have sinned without law shall also perish without law: and as many as have sinned in the law shall be judged by the law;
13 (For not the hearers of the law are just before God, but the doers of the law shall be justified.
14 For when the Gentiles, which have not the law, do by nature the things contained in the law, these, having not the law, are a law unto themselves:
15 Which shew the work of the law written in their hearts, ∥ their conscience also bearing witness, and their thoughts ∥ the mean while accusing or else excusing one another;)
16 In the day when God shall judge the secrets of men by Jesus Christ according to my gospel.
17 Behold, thou art called a Jew, and restest in the law, and makest thy boast of God,
18 And knowest his will, and ∥ approvest the things that are more excellent, being instructed out of the law;
19 And art confident that thou thyself art a guide of the blind, a light of them which are in darkness,
20 An instructor of the foolish, a teacher of babes, which hast the form of knowledge and of the truth in the law.
21 Thou therefore which teachest another, teachest thou not thyself? thou that preachest a man should not steal, dost thou steal?
22 Thou that sayest a man should not commit adultery, dost thou commit adultery? thou that abhorrest idols, dost thou commit sacrilege?
23 Thou that makest thy boast of the law, through breaking the law dishonourest thou God?
24 For the name of God is blasphemed among the Gentiles through you, as it is * written.
25 For circumcision verily profiteth, if thou keep the law: but if thou be a breaker of the law, thy circumcision is made uncircumcision.
26 Therefore if the uncircumcision keep the righteousness of the law, shall not his uncircumcision be counted for circumcision?
27 And shall not uncircumcision which is by nature, if it fulfil the law, judge thee, who by the letter and circumcision dost transgress the law?
28 For he is not a Jew, which is one outwardly; neither is that circumcision, which is outward in the flesh:
29 But he is a Jew, which is one inwardly; and circumcision is that of the heart, in the spirit, and not in the letter; whose praise is not of men, but of God.
3
1 What advantage then hath the Jew? or what profit is there of circumcision?
2 Much every way: chiefly, because that unto them were committed the oracles of God.
3 For what if some did not believe? shall their unbelief make the faith of God without effect?
4 God forbid: yea, let God be true, but every man a liar: as it is written, * That thou mightest be justified in thy sayings, and mightest overcome when thou art judged.
5 But if our unrighteousness commend the righteousness of God, what shall we say? Is God unrighteous who taketh vengeance? (I speak as a man)
6 God forbid: for then how shall God judge the world?
7 For if the truth of God hath more abounded through my lie unto his glory; why yet am I also judged as a sinner?
8 And not rather, (as we be slanderously reported, and as some affirm that we say,) Let us do evil, that good may come? whose damnation is just.
9 What then? are we better than they? No, in no wise: for we have before † proved both Jews and Gentiles, that they are all under sin;
10 As it is written, There is none righteous, no, not one:
11 There is none that understandeth, there is none that seeketh after God.
12 They are all gone out of the way, they are together become unprofitable; there is none that doeth good, no, not one.
13 Their throat is an open sepulchre; with their tongues they have used deceit; the poison of asps is under their lips:
14 Whose mouth is full of cursing and bitterness:
15 Their feet are swift to shed blood:
16 Destruction and misery are in their ways:
17 And the way of peace have they not known:
18 There is no fear of God before their eyes.
19 Now we know that what things soever the law saith, it saith to them who are under the law: that every mouth may be stopped, and all the world may become ∥ guilty before God.
20 Therefore by the deeds of the law there shall no flesh be justified in his sight: for by the law is the knowledge of sin.
21 But now the righteousness of God without the law is manifested, being witnessed by the law and the prophets;
22 Even the righteousness of God which is by faith of Jesus Christ unto all and upon all them that believe: for there is no difference:
23 For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God;
24 Being justified freely by his grace through the redemption that is in ‡ Christ Jesus:
25 Whom God hath ∥ set forth to be a propitiation through faith in his blood, to declare his righteousness for the ∥ remission of sins that are past, through the forbearance of God;
26 To declare, I say, at this time his righteousness: that he might be just, and the justifier of him which believeth in Jesus.
27 Where is boasting then? It is excluded. By what law? of works? Nay: but by the law of faith.
28 Therefore we conclude that a man is justified by faith without the deeds of the law.
29Is he the God of the Jews only? is he not also of the Gentiles? Yes, of the Gentiles also:
30 Seeing it is one God, which shall justify the circumcision by faith, and uncircumcision through faith.
31 Do we then make void the law through faith? God forbid: yea, we establish the law.
4
1 What shall we say then that Abraham our father, as pertaining to the flesh, hath found?
2 For if Abraham were justified by works, he hath whereof to glory; but not before God.
3 For what saith the scripture? Abraham believed God, and it was counted unto him for righteousness.
4 Now to him that worketh is the reward not reckoned of grace, but of debt.
5 But to him that worketh not, but believeth on him that justifieth the ungodly, his faith is counted for righteousness.
6 Even as David also describeth the blessedness of the man, unto whom God imputeth righteousness without works,
7Saying, Blessed are they whose iniquities are forgiven, and whose sins are covered.
8 Blessed is the man to whom the Lord will not impute sin.
9Cometh this blessedness then upon the circumcision only, or upon the uncircumcision also? for we say that faith was reckoned to Abraham for righteousness.
10 How was it then reckoned? when he was in circumcision, or in uncircumcision? Not in circumcision, but in uncircumcision.
11 And he received the sign of circumcision, a seal of the righteousness of the faith which he had yet being uncircumcised: that he might be the father of all them that believe, though they be not circumcised; that righteousness might be imputed unto them also:
12 And the father of circumcision to them who are not of the circumcision only, but ‡ who also walk in the steps of that faith of our father Abraham, which he had being yet uncircumcised.
13 For the promise, that he should be the heir of the world, was not to Abraham, or to his seed, through the law, but through the righteousness of faith.
14 For if they which are of the law be heirs, faith is made void, and the promise made of none effect:
15 Because the law worketh wrath: for where no law is, there is no transgression.
16 Therefore it is of faith, that it might be by grace; to the end the promise might be sure to all the seed; not to that only which is of the law, but to that also which is of the faith of Abraham; who is the father of us all,
17 (As it is written, * I have made thee a father of many nations,) ∥ before him whom he believed, even God, who quickeneth the dead, and calleth those things which be not as though they were.
18 Who against hope believed in hope, that he might become the father of many nations, according to that which was spoken, * So shall thy seed be.
19 And being not weak in faith, he considered not his own body now dead, when he was about an hundred years old, neither yet the deadness of Sarah’s womb:
20 He staggered not at the promise of God through unbelief; but was strong in faith, giving glory to God;
21 And being fully persuaded that, what he had promised, he was able also to perform.
22 And therefore it was imputed to him for righteousness.
23 Now it was not written for his sake alone, that it was imputed to him;
24 But for us also, to whom it shall be imputed, if we believe on him that raised up Jesus our Lord from the dead;
25 Who was delivered for our offences, and was raised again for our justification.
5
1 Therefore being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ:
2 By whom also we have access by faith into this grace wherein we stand, and rejoice in hope of the glory of God.
3 And not only so, but we glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience;
4 And patience, experience; and experience, hope:
5 And hope maketh not ashamed; because the love of God is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost which is given unto us.
6 For when we were yet without strength, ∥ in due time Christ died for the ungodly.
7 For scarcely for a righteous man will one die: yet peradventure for a good man some would even dare to die.
8 But God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.
9 Much more then, being now justified by his blood, we shall be saved from wrath through him.
10 For if, when we were enemies, we were reconciled to God by the death of his Son, much more, being reconciled, we shall be saved by his life.
11 And not only so, but we also joy in God through our Lord Jesus Christ, by whom we have now received the atonement.
12 Wherefore, as by one man sin entered into the world, and death by sin; and so death passed upon all men, ∥ for that all have sinned:
13 (For until the law sin was in the world: but sin is not imputed when there is no law.
14 Nevertheless death reigned from Adam to Moses, even over them that had not sinned after the similitude of Adam’s transgression, who is the figure of him that was to come.
15 But not as the offence, so also is the free gift. For if through the offence of one many be dead, much more the grace of God, and the gift by grace, which is by one man, Jesus Christ, hath abounded unto many.
16 And not as it was by one that sinned, so is the gift: for the judgment was by one to condemnation, but the free gift is of many offences unto justification.
17 For if ∥ by one man’s offence death reigned by one; much more they which receive abundance of grace and of the gift of righteousness shall reign in life by one, Jesus Christ.)
18 Therefore as ∥ by the offence of one judgment came upon all men to condemnation; even so ∥ by the righteousness of one the free gift came upon all men unto justification of life.
19 For as by one man’s disobedience many were made sinners, so by the obedience of one shall many be made righteous.
20 Moreover the law entered, that the offence might abound. But where sin abounded, grace did much more abound:
21 That as sin hath reigned unto death, even so might grace reign through righteousness unto eternal life by Jesus Christ our Lord.
6
1 What shall we say then? Shall we continue in sin, that grace may abound?
2 God forbid. How shall we, that are dead to sin, live any longer therein?
3 Know ye not, that so many of us as ∥ were baptized into Jesus Christ were baptized into his death?
4 Therefore we are buried with him by baptism into death: that like as Christ was raised up from the dead by the glory of the Father, even so we also should walk in newness of life.
5 For if we have been planted together in the likeness of his death, we shall be also in the likeness of his resurrection:
6 Knowing this, that our old man is crucified with him, that the body of sin might be destroyed, that henceforth we should not serve sin.
7 For he that is dead is † freed from sin.
8 Now if we be dead with Christ, we believe that we shall also live with him:
9 Knowing that Christ being raised from the dead dieth no more; death hath no more dominion over him.
10 For in that he died, he died unto sin once: but in that he liveth, he liveth unto God.
11 Likewise reckon ye also yourselves to be dead indeed unto sin, but alive unto God through Jesus Christ our Lord.
12 Let not sin ‡ therefore reign in your mortal body, that ye should obey it in the lusts thereof.
13 Neither yield ye your members as† instruments of unrighteousness unto sin: but yield yourselves unto God, as those that are alive from the dead, and your members as instruments of righteousness unto God.
14 For sin shall not have dominion over you: for ye are not under the law, but under grace.
15 What then? shall we sin, because we are not under the law, but under grace? God forbid.
16 Know ye not, that to whom ye yield yourselves servants to obey, his servants ye are to whom ye obey; whether of sin unto death, or of obedience unto righteousness?
17 But God be thanked, that ye were the servants of sin, but ye have obeyed from the heart that form of doctrine † which was delivered you.
18 Being then made free from sin, ye became the servants of righteousness.
19 I speak after the manner of men because of the infirmity of your flesh: for as ye have yielded your members servants to uncleanness and to iniquity unto iniquity; even so now yield your members servants to righteousness unto holiness.
20 For when ye were the servants of sin, ye were free † from righteousness.
21 What fruit had ye then in those things whereof ye are now ashamed? for the end of those things is death.
22 But now being made free from sin, and become servants to God, ye have your fruit unto holiness, and the end everlasting life.
23 For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.
7
1 Know ye not, brethren, (for I speak to them that know the law,) how that the law hath dominion over a man as long as he liveth?
2 For the woman which hath an husband is bound by the law to her husband so long as he liveth; but if the husband be dead, she is loosed from the law of ‡her husband.
3 So then if, while her husband liveth, she be married to another man, she shall be called an adulteress: but if her husband be dead, she is free from that law; so that she is no adulteress, though she be married to another man.
4 Wherefore, my brethren, ye also are become dead to the law by the body of Christ; that ye should be married to another, even to him who is raised from the dead, that we should bring forth fruit unto God.
5 For when we were in the flesh, the † motions of sins, which were by the law, did work in our members to bring forth fruit unto death.
6 But now we are delivered from the law, ∥ that being dead wherein we were held; that we should serve in newness of spirit, and not in the oldness of the letter.
7 What shall we say then? Is the law sin? God forbid. Nay, I had not known sin, but by the law: for I had not known ∥ lust, except the law had said, Thou shalt not covet.
8 But sin, taking occasion by the commandment, wrought in me all manner of concupiscence. For without the law sin was dead.
9 For I was alive without the law once: but when the commandment came, sin revived, and I died.
10 And the commandment, which was ordained to life, I found to be unto death.
11 For sin, taking occasion by the commandment, deceived me, and by it slew me.
12 Wherefore the law is holy, and the commandment holy, and just, and good.
13 Was ‡ then that which is good made death unto me? God forbid. But sin, that it might appear sin, working death in me by that which is good; that sin by the commandment might become exceeding sinful.
14 For we know that the law is spiritual: but I am carnal, sold under sin.
15 For that which I do I † allow not: for what I would, that do I not; but what I hate, that do I.
16 If then I do that which I would not, I consent unto the law that it is good.
17 Now then it is no more I that do it, but sin that dwelleth in me.
18 For I know that in me (that is, in my flesh,) dwelleth no good thing: for to will is present with me; but how to perform that which is good I find not.
19 For the good that I would I do not: but the evil which I would not, that I do.
20 Now if I do that I would not, it is no more I that do it, but sin that dwelleth in me.
21 I find then a law, that, when I would do good, evil is present with me.
22 For I delight in the law of God after the inward man:
23 But I see another law in my members, warring against the law of my mind, and bringing me into captivity to the law of sin which is in my members.
24 O wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from ∥ the body of this death?
25 I thank God through Jesus Christ our Lord. So then with the mind I myself serve the law of God; but with the flesh the law of sin.
8
1There is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus, who walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit.
2 For the law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus hath made me free from the law of sin and death.
3 For what the law could not do, in that it was weak through the flesh, God sending his own Son in the likeness of sinful flesh, and ∥ for sin, condemned sin in the flesh:
4 That the righteousness of the law might be fulfilled in us, who walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit.
5 For they that are after the flesh do mind the things of the flesh; but they that are after the Spirit the things of the Spirit.
6 For † to be carnally minded is death; but † to be spiritually minded is life and peace.
7 Because † the carnal mind is enmity against God: for it is not subject to the law of God, neither indeed can be.
8 So then they that are in the flesh cannot please God.
9 But ye are not in the flesh, but in the Spirit, if so be that the Spirit of God dwell in you. Now if any man have not the Spirit of Christ, he is none of his.
10 And if Christ be in you, the body is dead because of sin; but the Spirit is life because of righteousness.
11 But if the Spirit of him that raised up Jesus from the dead dwell in you, he that raised up Christ from the dead shall also quicken your mortal bodies ∥ by his Spirit that dwelleth in you.
12 Therefore, brethren, we are debtors, not to the flesh, to live after the flesh.
13 For if ye live after the flesh, ye shall die: but if ye through the Spirit do mortify the deeds of the body, ye shall live.
14 For as many as are led by the Spirit of God, they are the sons of God.
15 For ye have not received the spirit of bondage again to fear; but ye have received the Spirit of adoption, whereby we cry, Abba, Father.
16 The Spirit itself beareth witness with our spirit, that we are the children of God:
17 And if children, then heirs; heirs of God, and joint-heirs with Christ; if so be that we suffer with him, that we may be also glorified together.
18 For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.
19 For the earnest expectation of the creature waiteth for the manifestation of the sons of God.
20 For the creature was made subject of vanity, not willingly, but by reason of him who hath subjected the same in hope,
21 Because the creature itself also shall be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God.
22 For we know that ∥ the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now.
23 And not only they, but ourselves also, which have the firstfruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting for the adoption, to wit, the * redemption of our body.
24 For we are saved by hope: but hope that is seen is not hope: for what a man seeth, why doth he yet hope for?
25 But if we hope for that we see not, then do we with patience wait for it.
26 Likewise the Spirit also helpeth our infirmities: for we know not what we should pray for as we ought: but the Spirit itself maketh intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered.
27 And he that searcheth the hearts knoweth what is the mind of the Spirit, ∥ because he maketh intercession for the saints according to the will of God.
28 And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.
29 For whom he did foreknow, he also did predestinate to be conformed to the image of his Son, that he might be the firstborn among many brethren.
30 Moreover whom he did predestinate, them he also called: and whom he called, them he also justified: and whom he justified, them he also glorified.
31 What shall we then say to these things? If God be for us, who can be against us?
32 He that spared not his own Son, but delivered him up for us all, how shall he not with him also freely give us all things?
33 Who shall lay any thing to the charge of God’s elect? It is God that justifieth.
34 Who is he that condemneth? It is Christ that died, yea rather, that is risen again, who is even at the right hand of God, who also maketh intercession for us.
35 Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword?
36 As it is written, * For thy sake we are killed all the day long; we are accounted as sheep for the slaughter.
37 Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us.
38 For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come,
39 Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
9
1 I say the truth in Christ, I lie not, my conscience also bearing me witness in the Holy Ghost,
2 That I have great heaviness and continual sorrow in my heart.
3 For I could wish that myself were ∥ accursed from Christ for my brethren, my kinsmen according to the flesh:
4 Who are Israelites; to whom pertaineth the-adoption, and the glory, and the ∥ covenants, and the giving of the law, and the service of God, and the promises;
5 Whose are the fathers, and of whom as concerning the flesh Christ came, who is over all, God blessed for ever. Amen.
6 Not as though the word of God hath taken none effect. For they are not all Israel, which are of Israel:
7 Neither, because they are the seed of Abraham, are they all children: but, * In Isaac shall thy seed be called.
8 That is, They which are the children of the flesh, these are not the children of God: but the children of the promise are counted for the seed.
9 For this is the word of promise, * At this time will I come, and Sarah shall have a son.
10 And not only this; but when Rebecca also had conceived by one, even by our father Isaac;
11 (For the children being not yet born, neither having done any good or evil, that the purpose of God according to election might stand, not of works, but of him that calleth;)
12 It was said unto her, * The ∥ elder shall serve the ∥ younger.
13 As it is written, * Jacob have I loved, but Esau have I hated.
14 What shall we say then? Is there unrighteousness with God? God forbid.
15 For he saith to Moses, * I will have mercy on whom I will have mercy, and I will have compassion on whom I will have compassion.
16 So then it is not of him that willeth, nor of him that runneth, but of God that sheweth mercy.
17 For the scripture saith unto Pharaoh, * Even for this same purpose have I raised thee up, that I might shew my power in thee, and that my name might be declared throughout all the earth.
18 Therefore hath he mercy on whom he will have mercy, and whom he will he hardeneth.
19 Thou wilt say then unto me, Why doth he yet find fault? For who hath resisted his will?
20 Nay but, O man, who art thou that ∥ repliest against God? * Shall the thing formed say to him that formed it, Why hast thou made me thus?
21 Hath not the * potter power over the clay, of the same lump to make one vessel unto honour, and another unto dishonour?
22What if God, willing to shew his wrath, and to make his power known, endured with much longsuffering the vessels of wrath ∥ fitted to destruction:
23 And that he might make known the riches of his glory on the vessels of mercy, which he had afore prepared unto glory,
24 Even us, whom he hath called, not of the Jews only, but also of the Gentiles?
25 As he saith also in Osee, * I will call them my people, which were not my people; and her beloved, which was not beloved.
26* And it shall come to pass, that in the place where it was said unto them, Ye are not my people; there shall they be called the children of the living God.
27 Esaias also crieth concerning Israel, * Though the number of the children of Israel be as the sand of the sea, a remnant shall be saved:
28 For he will finish ∥ the work, and cut it short in righteousness: because a short work will the Lord make upon the earth.
29 And as Esaias said before, * Except the Lord of Sabaoth had left us a seed, we had been as Sodoma, and been made like unto Gomorrha.
30 What shall we say then? That the Gentiles, which followed not after righteousness, have attained to righteousness, even the righteousness which is of faith.
31 But Israel, which followed after the law of righteousness, hath not attained to the law of righteousness.
32 Wherefore? Because they sought it not by faith, but as it were by the works of the law. For they stumbled at that stumblingstone;
33 As it is written, * Behold, I lay in Sion a stumblingstone and rock of offence: and whosoever believeth on him shall not be ∥ ashamed.
10
1 Brethren, my heart’s desire and prayer to God for Israel is, that they might be saved.
2 For I bear them record that they have a zeal of God, but not according to knowledge.
3 For they being ignorant of God’s righteousness, and going about to establish their own righteousness, have not submitted themselves unto the righteousness of God.
4 For Christ is the end of the law for righteousness to every one that believeth.
5 For Moses describeth the righteousness which is of the law, * That the man which doeth those things shall live by them.
6 But the righteousness which is of faith speaketh on this wise, * Say not in thine heart, Who shall ascend into heaven? (that is, to bring Christ down from above:)
7 Or, Who shall descend into the deep? (that is, to bring up Christ again from the dead.)
8 But what saith it? * The word is nigh thee, even in thy mouth, and in thy heart: that is, the word of faith, which we preach;
9 That if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised him from the dead, thou shalt be saved.
10 For with the heart man believeth unto righteousness; and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation.
11 For the scripture saith, * Whosoever believeth on him shall not be ashamed.
12 For there is no difference between the Jew and the Greek: for the same Lord over all is rich unto all that call upon him.
13* For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved.
14 How then shall they call on him in whom they have not believed? and how shall they believe in him of whom they have not heard? and how shall they hear without a preacher?
15 And how shall they preach, except they be sent? as it is written, * How beautiful are the feet of them that preach the gospel of peace, and bring glad tidings of good things!
16 But they have not all obeyed the gospel. For Esaias saith, * Lord, who hath believed † our ∥ report?
17 So then faith cometh by hearing, and hearing by the word of God.
18 But I say, Have they not heard? Yes verily, * their sound went into all the earth, and their words unto the ends of the world.
19 But I say, Did not Israel know? First Moses saith, * I will provoke you to jealousy by them that are no people, and by a foolish nation I will anger you.
20 But Esaias is very bold, and saith, * I was found of them that sought me not; I was made manifest unto them that asked not after me.
21 But to Israel he saith, * All day long I have stretched forth my hands unto a disobedient and gainsaying people.
11
1 I say then, Hath God cast away his people? God forbid. For I also am an Israelite, of the seed of Abraham, of the tribe of Benjamin.
2 God hath not cast away his people which he foreknew. Wot ye not what the scripture saith of Elias? how he maketh intercession to God against Israel, saying,
3* Lord, they have killed thy prophets, and digged down thine altars; and I am left alone, and they seek my life.
4 But what saith the answer of God unto him? * I have reserved to myself seven thousand men, who have not bowed the knee to the image of Baal.
5 Even so then at this present time also there is a remnant according to the election of grace.
6 And if by grace, then is it no more of works: otherwise grace is no more grace. But if it be of works, then is it no more grace: otherwise work is no more work.
7 What then? Israel hath not obtained that which he seeketh for; but the election hath obtained it, and the rest were ∥ blinded
8 (According as it is written, * God hath given them the spirit of ∥ slumber, * eyes that they should not see, and ears that they should not hear;) unto this day.
9 And David saith, * Let their table be made a snare, and a trap, and a stumblingblock, and a recompence unto them:
10* Let their eyes be darkened, that they may not see, and bow down their back alway.
11 I say then, Have they stumbled that they should fall? God forbid: but rather through their fall salvation is come unto the Gentiles, for to provoke them to jealousy.
12 Now if the fall of them be the riches of the world, and the ∥ diminishing of them the riches of the Gentiles; how much more their fulness?
13 For I speak to you Gentiles, inasmuch as I am the apostle of the Gentiles, I magnify mine office:
14 If by any means I may provoke to emulation them which are my flesh, and might save some of them.
15 For if the casting away of them be the reconciling of the world, what shall the receiving of them be, but life from the dead?
16 For if the firstfruit be holy, the lump is also holy: and if the root be holy, so are the branches.
17 And if some of the branches be broken off, and thou, being a wild olive tree, wert graffed in ∥ among them, and with them partakest of the root and fatness of the olive tree;
18 Boast not against the branches. But if thou boast, thou bearest not the root, but the root thee.
19 Thou wilt say then, The branches were broken off, that I might be graffed in.
20 Well; because of unbelief they were broken off, and thou standest by faith. Be not highminded, but fear:
21 For if God spared not the natural branches, take heed lest he also spare not thee.
22 Behold therefore the goodness and severity of God: on them which fell, severity; but toward thee, goodness, if thou continue in his goodness: otherwise thou also shalt be cut off.
23 And they also, if they abide not still in unbelief, shall be graffed in: for God is able to graff them in again.
24 For if thou wert cut out of the olive tree which is wild by nature, and wert graffed contrary to nature into a good olive tree: how much more shall these, which be the natural branches, be graffed into their own olive tree?
25 For I would not, brethren, that ye should be ignorant of this mystery, lest ye should be wise in your own conceits; that ∥ blindness in part is happened to Israel, until the fulness of the Gentiles be come in.
26 And so all Israel shall be saved: as it is written, * There shall come out of Sion the Deliverer, and shall turn away ungodliness from Jacob:
27 For this is my covenant unto them, when I shall take away their sins.
28 As concerning the gospel, they are enemies for your sakes: but as touching the election, they are beloved for the fathers’ sakes.
29 For the gifts and calling of God are without repentance.
30 For as ye in times past have not ∥ believed God, yet have now obtained mercy through their unbelief:
31 Even so have these also now not ∥ believed, that through your mercy they also may obtain mercy.
32 For God hath ∥ concluded them all in unbelief, that he might have mercy upon all.
33 O the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God! how unsearchable are his judgments, and his ways past finding out!
34* For who hath known the mind of the Lord? or who hath been his counsellor?
35 Or who hath first given to him, and it shall be recompensed unto him again?
36 For of him, and through him, and to him, are all things: to whom be glory for ever. Amen.
12
1 I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service.
2 And be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good, ‡ and acceptable, and perfect, will of God.
3 For I say, through the grace given unto me, to every man that is among you, not to think of himself more highly than he ought to think; but to think † soberly, according as God hath dealt to every man the measure of faith.
4 For as we have many members in one body, and all members have not the same office:
5 So we, being many, are one body in Christ, and every one members one of another.
6 Having then gifts differing according to the grace that is given to us, whether prophecy, let us prophesy according to the proportion of faith;
7 Or ministry, let us wait on our ministering: or he that teacheth, on teaching;
8 Or he that exhorteth, on exhortation: he that ∥ giveth, let him do it∥ with simplicity; he that ruleth, with diligence; he that sheweth mercy, with cheerfulness.
9Let love be without dissimulation. Abhor that which is evil; cleave to that which is good.
10Be kindly affectioned one to another ∥ with brotherly love; in honour preferring one another;
11 Not slothful in business; fervent in spirit; serving the Lord;
12 Rejoicing in hope; patient in tribulation; continuing instant in prayer;
13 Distributing to the necessity of saints; given to hospitality.
14 Bless them which persecute you: bless, and curse not.
15 Rejoice with them that do rejoice, and weep with them that weep.
16Be of the same mind one toward another. Mind not high things, but ∥ condescend to men of low estate. Be not wise in your own conceits.
17 Recompense to no man evil for evil. Provide things honest in the sight of all men.
18 If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men.
19 Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, * Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.
20* Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head.
21 Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.
13
1 Let every soul be subject unto the higher powers. For there is no power but of God: the powers that be are ∥ ordained of God.
2 Whosoever therefore resisteth the power, resisteth the ordinance of God: and they that resist shall receive to themselves damnation.
3 For rulers are not a terror to good works, but to the evil. Wilt thou then not be afraid of the power? do that which is good, and thou shalt have praise of the same:
4 For he is the minister of God to thee for good. But if thou do that which is evil, be afraid; for he beareth not the sword in vain: for he is the minister of God, a revenger to execute wrath upon him that doeth evil.
5 Wherefore ye must needs be subject, not only for wrath, but also for conscience sake.
6 For for this cause pay ye tribute also: for they are God’s ministers, attending continually upon this very thing.
7 Render therefore to all their dues: tribute to whom tribute is due; custom to whom custom; fear to whom fear; honour to whom honour.
8 Owe no man any thing, but to love one another: for he that loveth another hath fulfilled the law.
9 For this, Thou shalt not commit adultery, Thou shalt not kill, Thou shalt not steal, Thou shalt not bear false witness, Thou shalt not covet; and if there be any other commandment, it is briefly comprehended in this saying, namely, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.
10 Love worketh no ill to his neighbour: therefore love is the fulfilling of the law.
11 And that, knowing the time, that now it is high time to awake out of sleep: for now is our salvation nearer than when we believed.
12 The night is far spent, the day is at hand: let us therefore cast off the works of darkness, and let us put on the armour of light.
13 Let us walk ∥ honestly, as in the day; not in rioting and drunkenness, not in chambering and wantonness, not in strife and envying.
14 But put ye on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make not provision for the flesh, to fulfil the lusts thereof.
14
1 Him that is weak in the faith receive ye, but∥ not to doubtful disputations.
2 For one believeth that he may eat all things: another, who is weak, eateth herbs.
3 Let not him that eateth despise him that eateth not; and let not him which eateth not judge him that eateth: for God hath received him.
4 Who art thou that judgest another man’s servant? to his own master he standeth or falleth. Yea, he shall be holden up: for God is able to make him stand.
5 One man esteemeth one day above another: another esteemeth every day alike. Let every man be ∥ fully persuaded in his own mind.
6 He that ∥ regardeth ‡ the day, regardeth it unto the Lord; and he that regardeth not the day, to the Lord he doth not regard it. He that eateth, eateth to the Lord, for he giveth God thanks; and he that eateth not, to the Lord he eateth not, and giveth God thanks.
7 For none of us liveth to himself, and no man dieth to himself.
8 For whether we live, we live unto the Lord; and whether we die, we die unto the Lord: whether we live therefore, or die, we are the Lord’s.
9 For to this end Christ both died, and rose, and revived, that he might be Lord both of the dead and living.
10 But why dost thou judge thy brother? or why dost thou set at nought thy brother? ‡ for * we shall all stand before the judgment seat of Christ.
11 For it is written, *As I live, saith the Lord, every knee shall bow to me, and every tongue shall confess to God.
12 So then every one of us shall give account of himself to God.
13 Let us not therefore judge one another any more: but judge this rather, that no man put a stumblingblock or an occasion to fall in his brother’s way.
14 I know, and am persuaded by the Lord Jesus, that there is nothing † unclean of itself: but to him that esteemeth any thing to be † unclean, to him it is unclean.
15 But if thy brother be grieved with thy meat, now walkest thou not † charitably. * Destroy not him with thy meat, for whom Christ died.
16 Let not then your good be evil spoken of:
17 For the kingdom of God is not meat and drink; but righteousness, and peace, and joy in the Holy Ghost.
18 For he that in these things serveth Christ is acceptable to God, and approved of men.
19 Let us therefore follow after the things which make for peace, and things wherewith one may edify another.
20 For meat destroy not the work of God. * All things indeed are pure; but it is evil for that man who eateth with offence.
21It is good neither to eat * flesh, nor to drink wine, nor any thing whereby thy brother stumbleth, or is offended, or is made weak.
22 Hast thou faith? have it to thyself before God. Happy is he that condemneth not himself in that thing which he alloweth.
23 And he that ∥ doubteth is damned if he eat, because he eateth not of faith: for whatsoever is not of faith is sin.
15
1 We then that are strong ought to bear the infirmities of the weak, and not to please ourselves.
2 Let every one of us please his neighbour for his good to edification.
3 For even Christ pleased not himself; but, as it is written, * The reproaches of them that reproached thee fell on me.
4 For whatsoever things were written aforetime were written for our learning, that we through patience and comfort of the scriptures might have hope.
5* Now the God of patience and consolation grant you to be likeminded one toward another ∥ according to Christ Jesus:
6 That ye may with one mind and one mouth glorify God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ.
7 Wherefore receive ye one another, as Christ also received us to the glory of God.
8 Now I say that Jesus Christ was a minister of the circumcision for the truth of God, to confirm the promises made unto the fathers:
9 And that the Gentiles might glorify God for his mercy; as it is written, * For this cause I will confess to thee among the Gentiles, and sing unto thy name.
10 And again he saith, * Rejoice, ye Gentiles, with his people.
11 And again, * Praise the Lord, all ye Gentiles; and laud him, all ye people.
12 And again, Esaias saith, * There shall be a root of Jesse, and he that shall rise to reign over the Gentiles; in him shall the Gentiles trust.
13 Now the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, that ye may abound in hope, through the power of the Holy Ghost.
14 And I myself also am persuaded of you, my brethren, that ye also are full of goodness, filled with all knowledge, able also to admonish one another.
15 Nevertheless, brethren, I have written the more boldly unto you in some sort, as putting you in mind, because of the grace that is given to me of God,
16 That I should be the minister of Jesus Christ to the Gentiles, ministering the gospel of God, that the ∥ offering up of the Gentiles might be acceptable, being sanctified by the Holy Ghost.
17 I have therefore whereof I may glory through Jesus Christ in those things which pertain to God.
18 For I will not dare to speak of any of those things which Christ hath not wrought by me, to make the Gentiles obedient, by word and deed,
19 Through mighty signs and wonders, by the power of the Spirit of God; so that from Jerusalem, and round about unto Illyricum, I have fully preached the gospel of Christ.
20 Yea, so have I strived to preach the gospel, not where Christ was named, lest I should build upon another man’s foundation:
21 But as it is written, * To whom he was not spoken of, they shall see: and they that have not heard shall understand.
22 For which cause also I have been ∥ much hindered from coming to you.
23 But now having no more place in these parts, and having a great desire these many years to come unto you;
24 Whensoever I take my journey into Spain, I will come to you: for I trust to see you in my journey, and to be brought on my way thitherward by you, if first I be somewhat filled † with your company.
25 But now I go unto Jerusalem to minister unto the saints.
26 For it hath pleased them of Macedonia and Achaia to make a certain contribution for the poor saints which are at Jerusalem.
27 It hath pleased them verily; and their debtors they are. For if the Gentiles have been made partakers of their spiritual things, their duty is also to minister unto them in carnal things.
28 When therefore I have performed this, and have sealed to them this fruit, I will come by you into Spain.
29 And I am sure that, when I come unto you, I shall come in the fulness of the blessing of the gospel of Christ.
30 Now I beseech you, brethren, for the Lord Jesus Christ’s sake, and for the love of the Spirit, that ye strive together with me in your prayers to God for me;
31 That I may be delivered from them that ∥ do not believe in Judæa; and that my service which I have for Jerusalem may be accepted of the saints;
32 That I may come unto you with joy by the will of God, and may with you be refreshed.
33 Now the God of peace be with you all. Amen.
16
1 I commend unto you Phebe our sister, which is a servant of the church which is at Cenchrea:
2 That ye receive her in the Lord, as becometh saints, and that ye assist her in whatsoever business she hath need of you: for she hath been a succourer of many, and of myself also.
3 Greet Priscilla and Aquila my helpers in Christ Jesus:
4 Who have for my life laid down their own necks: unto whom not only I give thanks, but also all the churches of the Gentiles.
5 Likewise greet the church that is in their house. Salute my wellbeloved Epænetus, who is the firstfruits of Achaia unto Christ.
6 Greet Mary, who bestowed much labour on us.
7 Salute Andronicus and Junia, my kinsmen, and my fellowprisoners, who are of note among the apostles, who also were in Christ before me.
8 Greet Amplias my beloved in the Lord.
9 Salute Urbane, our helper in Christ, and Stachys my beloved.
10 Salute Apelles approved in Christ. Salute them which are of Aristobulus’ ∥household.
11 Salute Herodion my kinsman. Greet them that be of the ∥household of Narcissus, which are in the Lord.
12 Salute Tryphena and Tryphosa, who labour in the Lord. Salute the beloved Persis, which laboured much in the Lord.
13 Salute Rufus chosen in the Lord, and his mother and mine.
14 Salute Asyncritus, Phlegon, Hermas, Patrobas, Hermes, and the brethren which are with them.
15 Salute Philologus, and Julia, Nereus, and his sister, and Olympas, and all the saints which are with them.
16 Salute one another with an holy kiss. The churches of Christ salute you.
17 Now I beseech you, brethren, mark them which cause divisions and offences contrary to the doctrine which ye have learned; and avoid them.
18 For they that are such serve not our Lord Jesus Christ, but their own belly; and by good words and fair speeches deceive the hearts of the simple.
19 For your obedience is come abroad unto all men. I am glad therefore on your behalf: but yet I would have you wise unto that which is good, and ∥ simple concerning evil.
20 And the God of peace shall ∥ bruise Satan under your feet shortly. The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you. Amen.
21 Timotheus my workfellow, and Lucius, and Jason, and Sosipater, my kinsmen, salute you.
22 I Tertius, who wrote this epistle, salute you in the Lord.
23 Gaius mine host, and of the whole church, saluteth you. Erastus the chamberlain of the city saluteth you, and Quartus a brother.
24 The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all. Amen.
25 Now to him that is of power to stablish you according to my gospel, and the preaching of Jesus Christ, according to the revelation of the mystery, which was kept secret since the world began,
26 But now is made manifest, and by the scriptures of the prophets, according to the commandment of the everlasting God, made known to all nations for the obedience of faith:
27 To God only wise, be glory through Jesus Christ for ever. Amen.
¶ Written to the Romans from Corinthus, and sent by Phebe servant of the church at Cenchrea.
[* ] Acts 13. 2.
[† ] Gr. determined.
[∥ ] Or, to the obedience of faith.
[∥ ] Or, in my spirit.
[∥ ] Or, in you.
[∥ ] Or, in you.
[* ] Hab. 2. 4.
[∥ ] Or, to them.
[∥ ] Or, that they may be.
[* ] Ps. 106. 20.
[∥ ] Or, to acknowledge.
[∥ ] Or, a mind void of judgment.
[∥ ] Or, unsociable.
[∥ ] Or, consent with them.
[* ] Jam. 5. 3.
[* ] Ps. 62. 12. Matt. 16. 27. Rev. 22. 12.
[† ] Gr. Greek.
[† ] Gr. Greek.
[∥ ] Or, the conscience witnessing with them.
[∥ ] Or, between themselves.
[∥ ] Or, triest the things that differ.
[* ] Is. 52. 5. Ezek. 36. 20, 23.
[* ] Ps. 51. 4.
[† ] Gr. charged.
[∥ ] Or, subject to the judgment of God.
[‡ ] [1611 Jesus Christ]
[∥ ] Or, foreordained.
[∥ ] Or, passing over.
[‡ ] [1611 omits who]
[* ] Gen. 17. 5.
[∥ ] Or, like unto him.
[* ] Gen. 15. 5.
[∥ ] Or, according to the time.
[∥ ] Or, in whom.
[∥ ] Or, by one offence.
[∥ ] Or, by one offence.
[∥ ] Or, by one righteousness.
[∥ ] Or, are.
[† ] Gr. justified.
[‡ ] [1611 reign therefore]
[† ] Gr. arms, or, weapons.
[† ] Gr. whereto ye were delivered.
[† ] Gr. to righteousness.
[‡ ] [1611 the husband]
[† ] Gr. passions.
[∥ ] Or, being dead to that.
[∥ ] Or, concupiscence.
[‡ ] [1611 that then]
[† ] Gr. know.
[∥ ] Or, this body of death.
[∥ ] Or, by a sacrifice for sin.
[† ] Gr. the minding of the flesh.
[† ] Gr. the minding of the Spirit.
[† ] Gr. the minding of the flesh.
[∥ ] Or, because of his Spirit.
[∥ ] Or, every creature.
[* ] Luke 21. 28.
[∥ ] Or, that.
[* ] Ps. 41. 22.
[∥ ] Or, separated.
[∥ ] Or, testaments.
[* ] Gen. 21. 12.
[* ] Gen. 18. 10.
[* ] Gen. 25. 23.
[∥ ] Or, greater.
[∥ ] Or, lesser.
[* ] Mal. 1. 2, 3.
[* ] Ex. 33. 19.
[* ] Ex. 9. 16.
[∥ ] Or, answerest again, or, disputest with God?
[* ] Is. 45. 9.
[* ] Jer 18. 6 Wis. 15. 7.
[∥ ] Or, made up
[* ] Hos. 2. 23 1 Pet. 2. 10.
[* ] Hos. 1. 10.
[* ] Is. 10. 22, 23.
[∥ ] Or, the account.
[* ] Is. 1. 9.
[* ] Is. 8. 14. & 28. 16 1 Pet. 2. 6.
[∥ ] Or, confounded.
[* ] Lev. 18. 5. Ezek. 20. 11. Gal. 8. 12.
[* ] Deut. 30. 12.
[* ] Deut. 30. 14.
[* ] Is. 28. 16.
[* ] Joel 2. 32 Acts 2. 21.
[* ] Is. 52. 7. Nah. 1. 15.
[* ] Is. 53. 1. John 12. 38.
[† ] Gr. the hearing of us.
[∥ ] Or, preaching.
[* ] Ps. 19. 4.
[* ] Deut. 32. 21.
[* ] Is. 65. 1.
[* ] Is. 65. 2.
[* ] 1 Kin. 19. 10, 14.
[* ] 1 Kin. 19. 18.
[∥ ] Or, hardened.
[* ] Is. 29. 10.
[∥ ] Or, remorse.
[* ] Is. 6. 9.
[* ] Ps. 69. 22.
[* ] Ps. 69. 23.
[∥ ] Or, decay, or, loss.
[∥ ] Or, for them.
[∥ ] Or, hardness.
[* ] Is. 59. 20.
[∥ ] Or, obeyed.
[∥ ] Or, obeyed.
[∥ ] Or, shut them all up together.
[* ] Is. 40. 13. Wisd. 9. 13 1 Cor. 2. 16.
[‡ ] [1611 that acceptable]
[† ] Gr to sobriety.
[∥ ] Or, imparteth.
[∥ ] Or, liberally.
[∥ ] Or, in the love of the brethren.
[∥ ] Or, be contented with mean things.
[* ] Deut. 32. 35.
[* ] Prov. 25. 21.
[∥ ] Or, ordered.
[∥ ] Or, decently.
[∥ ] Or, not to judge his doubtful thoughts.
[∥ ] Or, fully assured.
[∥ ] Or, observeth.
[‡ ] [1611 a day]
[‡ ] [1611 omits for]
[* ] 2 Cor. 5. 10.
[* ] Is. 45. 23.
[† ] Gr. common.
[† ] Gr. common.
[† ] Gr. according to charity.
[* ] 1 Cor. 8. 11.
[* ] Tit. 1. 15.
[* ] 1 Cor. 8. 13.
[∥ ] Or, discerneth and putteth a difference between meats.
[* ] Ps. 69. 9.
[* ] 1 Cor. 1. 10.
[∥ ] Or, after the example of.
[* ] Ps. 18. 49.
[* ] Deut. 32 43.
[* ] Ps. 117. 1.
[* ] Is. 11. 10.
[∥ ] Or, sacrificing.
[* ] Is. 52. 15.
[∥ ] Or, many ways, or, oftentimes,
[† ] Gr. with you, ver. 32.
[∥ ] Or, are disobedient.
[∥ ] Or, friends.
[∥ ] Or, friends.
[∥ ] Or, harmless.
[∥ ] Or, tread.
14: Philip Schaff, A Select Library of the Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers of the Christian Church, Vol. 1 (The Confessions and Letters of St. Augustine) [1886]
Philip Schaff, A Select Library of the Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers of the Christian Church, ed. Philip Schaff, LL.D. (Buffalo: The Christian Literature Co., 1886). Vol. 1 The Confessions and Letters of St. Augustin, with a Sketch of his Life and Work.
Accessed from oll.libertyfund.org/title/1903 on 2011-05-14
The text is in the public domain.
PREFACE.
Encouraged by the assured co-operation of competent Patristic scholars of Great Britain and the United States, I have undertaken the general editorship of a Select Library of the Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers of the Christian Church. It is to embrace in about twenty-five large volumes the most important works of the Greek Fathers from Eusebius to Photius, and of the Latin Fathers from Ambrose to Gregory the Great.
The series opens with St. Augustin, the greatest and most influential of all the Christian Fathers. Protestants and Catholics are equally interested in his writings, and most of all in his Confessions, which are contained in this volume. They will be followed by the works of St. Chrysostom, and the Church History of Eusebius.
A few words are necessary to define the object of this Library, and its relation to similar collections.
My purpose is to furnish ministers and intelligent laymen who have no access to the original texts, or are not sufficiently familiar with ecclesiastical Greek and Latin, with a complete apparatus for the study of ancient Christianity. Whatever may be the estimate we put upon the opinions of the Fathers, their historical value is beyond all dispute. They are to this day and will continue to be the chief authorities for the doctrines and usages of the Greek and Roman Churches, and the sources for the knowledge of ancient Christianity down to the age of Charlemagne. But very few can afford to buy, or are able to use such collections as Migne’s Greek Patrology, which embraces 167 quarto volumes, and Migne’s Latin Patrology which embraces 222 volumes.
The three leaders of the now historic Anglo-Catholic movement of Oxford, Drs. Pusey, Newman, and Keble, began, in 1837, the publication of “A Library of Fathers of the Holy Catholic Church, anterior to the Division of the East and West. Translated by Members of the English Church,” Oxford (John Henry Parker) and London (J. G. F. & J. Rivington). It is dedicated to “William Lord Archbishop of Canterbury, Primate of all England.” The editors were aided by a number of able classical and ecclesiastical scholars. Dr. Pusey, the chief editor and proprietor, and Dr. Keble died in the communion of the church of their fathers to which they were loyally attached; Dr. Newman alone remains, though no more an Anglican, but a Cardinal of the Church of Rome. His connection with the enterprise ceased with his secession (1845).
The Oxford Library was undertaken not so much for an historical, as for an apologetic and dogmatic purpose. It was to furnish authentic proof for the supposed or real agreement of the Anglo-Catholic school with the faith and practice of the ancient church before the Greek schism. The selection was made accordingly. The series embraces 48 vols. It is very valuable as far as it goes, but incomplete and unequal. Volume followed volume as it happened to get ready. An undue proportion is given to exegetical works; six volumes are taken up with Augustin’s Commentary on the Psalms, six with Gregory’s Commentary on Job, sixteen with Commentaries of Chrysostom; while many of the most important doctrinal, ethical, and historical works of the Fathers, as Eusebius, Basil, the two Gregorys, Theodoret, Maximus Confessor, John of Damascus, Hilary, Jerome, Leo the Great, were never reached.
In 1866, Mr. T. Clark, Lord Provost of Edinburgh, and an Elder in the Free Church of Scotland, who has done more than any publisher for the introduction of German and other foreign theological literature to the English reading community, began to issue the valuable “Ante-Nicene Christian Library,” edited by Rev. Alexander Roberts, D. D., and James Donaldson, LL. D., which was completed in 1872 in 24 volumes, and is now being republished, by arrangement with Mr. Clark, in America in 8 volumes under the editorship of Bishop A. Cleveland Coxe, D. D. (1884-1886). Mr. Clark, in 1871, undertook also the publication of a translation of select works of St. Augustin under the editorial care of Rev. Marcus Dods, D. D., of Glasgow, which was completed in 15 volumes. The projected translation of Chrysostom was abandoned from want of encouragement.
Thus Episcopal divines of England, and Presbyterian divines of Scotland have prepared the way for our American enterprise, and made it possible.
We must also briefly mention a similar collection which was prepared by Roman Catholic scholars of Germany in the interest of their Church, namely the Bibliothek der Kirchenväter. Auswahl der vorzuglichsten patristischen Werke in deutscher Uebersetsung, herausgegeben unter der Oberleitung von Dr. Valentin Thalhofer (Domdekan und Prof. der Theol. in Eichstatt, formerly Professor in Munich). Kempten., Koselsche Buchhandlung. 1869-1886. Published in over 400 small numbers, three or four of which make a volume. An alphabetical Index vol. is now in course of preparation by Ulrich Uhle (Nos. 405 sqq). The series was begun in 1869 by Dr. Fr. X. Reithmayr, Prof. of Theol. in Munich, who died in 1872. It embraces select writings of most of the Fathers. Seven volumes are devoted to Letters of the Popes from Linus to Pelagius II. ( 67-590).
“The Christian Literature Company,” who republish Clark’s “Ante-Nicene Library,” asked me to undertake the editorship of a Nicene and Post-Nicene Library to complete the scheme. Satisfactory arrangements have been made with Mr. Clark and with Mr. Walter Smith, representing Dr. Pusey’s heirs, for the use of their translations, as far as our plan will permit. Without such a preliminary arrangement I would not have considered the proposal for a moment.
I have invited surviving authors of older translations to revise and edit their work for the American series, and I am happy to state that I received favorable replies. Some of them are among the list of contributors, others (including Cardinal Newman) have, at least, expressed a kindly interest in the enterprise, and wish it success.
The Nicene and Post-Nicene Library will be more complete and more systematic as well as much cheaper than any which has yet appeared in the English language. By omitting the voluminous Patristic commentaries on the Old Testament we shall gain room for more important and interesting works not embraced in the Oxford or Edinburgh series; and by condensing three or more of these volumes into one, and counting upon a large number of subscribers, the publishers think themselves justified in offering the Library on terms which are exceedingly liberal, considering the great expense and risk. It will be published in the same handsome style and at the same price per volume ($3) as their Ante-Nicene Library.
For further particulars, I beg leave to refer the reader to the prospectus which is annexed to this volume.
May the blessing of the Great Head of the Church accompany and crown this work.
PHILIP SCHAFF.
New York,October, 1886.
AUTHORIZATION OF MESSRS. T. & T. CLARK.
AUTHORIZATION OF MR. WALTER SMITH.
- 34, KING STREET.
- COVENT GARDEN.
- LONDON.
PROLEGOMENA.
ST. AUGUSTIN’S LIFE AND WORK.FROM SCHAFF’S CHURCH HISTORY, REVISED EDITION.
New York 1884. Vol. III. 988-1028.
Revised and enlarged with additions to literature till 1886.
CHAPTER I.—
Literature.
I.
SOURCES.
Augustin’s Works. S. Aurelii AugustiniHipponensis episcopi Opera . . . Post Lovaniensium theologorum recensionem [which appeared at Antwerp in 1577 in 11 vols.], castigatus [referring to tomus primus, etc.] denuo ad MSS. codd. Gallicanos, etc. Opera et studio monachorum ordinis S. Benedicti e congregatione S. Mauri [Fr. Delfau, Th. Blampin, P. Coustant, and Cl. Guesnié]. Paris, 1679-1700, 11 tom. in 8 fol. vols. The same edition reprinted, with additions, at Antwerp, 1700-1703, 12 parts in 9 fol.; and at Venice, 1729-’34, in 11 tom. in 8 fol. (this edition is not to be confounded with another Venice edition of 1756-’69 in 18 vols. 4to, which is full of printing errors); also at Bassano, 1807, in 18 vols.; by Gaume fratres, Paris, 1836-’39, in 11 tom. in 22 parts (a very elegant edition); and lastly by J. P. Migne, Petit-Montrouge, 1841-’49, in 12. tom. (“Patrol Lat.” tom. xxxii.-xlvii.). Migne’s edition gives, in a supplementary volume (tom. xii.), the valuable Notitia literaria de vita, scriptis et editionibus Aug. from Schonemann’s “Bibliotheca historico-literaria Patrum Lat” vol. ii. Lips. 1794, the Vindiciæ Augustinianæ of Cardinal Noris (Norisius), and the writings of Augustin first published by Fontanini and Angelo Mai. So far the most complete and convenient edition.
But a thoroughly reliable critical edition of Augustin is still a desideratum and will be issued before long by a number of scholars under the direction of the Imperial Academy of Vienna in the “Corpus Scriptorum ecclesiasticorum Latinorum.”
On the controversies relating to the merits of the Bened. edition, which was sharply criticized by Richard Simon, and the Jesuits, but is still the best and defended by the Benedictines, see the supplementary volume of Migne, xii. p. 40 sqq., and Thuillier:Histoire de la nouvelle éd. de S. Aug. par les PP. Bénédictins, Par. 1736.
The first printed edition of Augustin appeared at Basle, 1489-’95; another, in 1509, in 11 vols.; then the edition of Erasmus published by Frobenius, Bas. 1528-’29, in 10 vols., fol.; the Editio Lovaniensis, of sixteen divines of Louvain, Antw. 1577, in 11 vols. and often reprinted at Paris, Geneva, and Cologne.
Several works of Augustin have been often separately edited, especially the Confessions and the City of God. Compare a full list of the editions down to 1794 in Schönemann’sBibliotheca, vol. ii. p. 73 sqq.; for later editions see Brunet,Manuel du libraire, Paris 1860, tom. 1. vols. 557-567. Since then William Bright (Prof. of Ecclesiast. Hist. at Oxford) has published the Latin text of Select Anti-Pelagian Treatises of St. Aug. and the Acts of the Second Council of Orange. Oxford (Clarendon Press) 1880. With a valuable Introduction of 68 pages.
English translations of select works of Augustin are found in the “Oxford Library of the Fathers,” ed. by Drs. Pusey, Keble, and Newman, viz.: The Confessions, vol. i., 1838, 4th ed., 1853; Sermons on the N. T., vol. xvi., 1844, and vol. xx. 1845; Short Treatises, vol. xxii., 1847; Exposition of the Psalms, vols. xxiv., xxv., xxx., xxxii., xxxvii., xxxix., 1847, 1849, 1850, 1853, 1854; Homilies on John, vols. xxvi. and xxix., 1848 and 1849. Another translation by Marcus Dods and others, Edinb. (T. & T. Clark), 1871-’76, 15 vols., containing the City of God, the Anti-Donatist, the Anti-Pelagian, the Anti-Manichaean writings, Letters, On the Trinity, On Christian Doctrine, the Euchiridion, On Catechising, On Faith and the Creed, Commentaries on the Sermon on the Mount, and the Harmony of the Gospels, Lectures on John, and Confessions. There are several separate translations and editions of the Confessions: the first by Sir Tobias Matthews (a Roman Catholic), 1624, said, by Dr. Pusey, to be very inaccurate and subservient to Romanism; a second by Rev. W. Watts, D. D., 1631, 1650; a third by Abr. Woodhead (only the first 9 books). Dr. Pusey, in the first vol. of the Oxford Library of the Fathers, 1838 (new ed. 1883), republished the translation of Watts, with improvements and explanatory notes, mostly borrowed from Dubois’s Latin ed. Dr. Shedd’s edition, Andover, 1860, is a reprint of Watts (as republished in Boston in 1843), preceded by a thoughtful introduction, pp. v.-xxxvi. H. de Romestin translated minor doctrinal tracts in Saint Augustin. Oxford 1885.
German translations of select writings of Aug. in the Kempten Bibliothek der Kirchenväter, 1871-79, 8 vols. There are also separate translations and editions of the Confessions (by Silbert, 5th ed., Vienna, 1861; by Kautz, Arnsberg, 1840; by Gröninger, 4th ed., Munster, 1859; by Wilden, Schaffhausen, 1865; by Rapp, 7th ed., Gotha, 1878), of the Enchiridion, the Meditations, and the City of God (Die Stadt Gottes, by Silbert, Vienna, 1827, 2 vols.).
French translations: Les Confessions, by Dubois, Paris, 1688, 1715, 1758, 1776, and by Janet, Paris, 1857; a new translation with a preface by Abbé de la Mennais, Paris, 1822, 2 vols.; another by L. Moreau, Paris, 1854. La Cité de Dieu, by Emile Saisset, Paris, 1855, with introd. and notes, 4 vols.; older translations by Raoul de Præsles, Abbeville, 1486; Savetier, Par. 1531; P. Lombert, Par. 1675, and 1701; Abbé Goujet, Par. 1736 and 1764, reprinted at Bourges 1818; L. Moreau, with the Latin text, Par. 1846, 3 vols. Les Soliloques, by Pélissier, Paris, 1853. Les Lettres, by Poujoular, Paris, 1858, 4 vols. Le Manuel, by d’Avenel, Rennes, 1861.
II.
BIOGRAPHIES.
Possidius (Calamensis episcopus, a pupil and friend of Aug.): Vita Augustini (brief, but authentic, written 432, two years after his death, in tom. x. Append. 257-280, ed. Bened., and in nearly all other editions).
Benedictini Editores:Vita Augustini ex ejus potissimum scriptis concinnata, in 8 books (very elaborate and extensive), in tom. xi. 1-492, ed. Bened (in Migne’s reprint, tom. i. col. 66-578).
The biographies of Aug. by Tillemont (Mém. tom. xiii.); Ellies Dupin (in “Nouvelle bibliothèque des auteurs ecclésiastiques,” tom. ii. and iii.); P. Bayle (in his “Dictionnaire historique et critique,” art Augustin); Remi Ceillier (in “Histoire générale des auteurs sacrés et ecclés,” vol. xi. and xii.), Cave (in “Lives of the Fathers,” vol. ii.); Kloth (Der heil Aug., Aachen, 1840, 2 vols.); Böhringer (Kirchengeschichte in Biographien, vol. i. P. iii. p. 99 sqq., revised ed. Leipzig, 1877-’78, 2 parts); Poujoulat (Histoire de S. Aug. Par. 1843 and 1852, 2 vols.; the same in German by Fr. Hurter, Schaffh. 1847, 2 vols.); Eisenbarth (Stuttg. 1853); C. Bindemann (Der heil. Aug. Berlin, 1844, ’55, ’69, 3 vols., the best work in German); Edw. L. Cutts (St. Augustin, London, 1880); E. de Pressensé (in Smith and Wace, “Dictionary of Christ. Biogr.” I. 216-225); Ph. Schaff (St. Augustin, Berlin, 1854; English ed. New York and London, 1854, revised and enlarged in St. Augustin, Melanchthon and Neander; three biographies, New York, and London, 1886, pp. 1-106). On Monnica see Braune:Monnica und Augustin. Grimma, 1846.
III.
SPECIAL TREATISES ON THE SYSTEM OF AUGUSTIN.
(1) The Theology of Augustin. The Church Histories of Neander, Baur, Hase (his large work, 1885, vol. I. 514 sqq.), and the Doctrine Histories of Neander, Gieseler, Baur, Hagenbach, Shedd, Nitzsch, Schwane, Bach, Harnack (in preparation, first vol., 1886).
The voluminous literature on the Pelagian controversy embraces works of G. J. Voss, Garnier, Jansen (died 1638; Augustinus, 1640, 3 vols.; he read Aug. twenty times and revived his system in the R. Cath. Church, but was condemned by the Pope), Cardinal Noris (Historia Pelagiana, Florence, 1673), Walch (Ketzergeschichte, vols. IV. and V., 1768 and 1770), Wiggers (Augustinismus und Pelagianismus, 1821 and 1833), Bersot (Doctr. de St. Aug. sur la libertè et la Providence, Paris, 1843), Jacobi (Lehre des Pelagius, 1842), Jul. Müller (Lehre von der Sünde, 5th ed. 1866, Engl. transl. by Urwick, 1868), Mozley (Augustinian Doctrine of Predestination, London, 1855, very able), W. Bright (Introduction to his ed. of the Anti-Pelag. writings of Aug. Oxford 1880), and others. See Schaff, vol. III. 783-785.
Van Goens:De Aur. August. apologeta, sec. l. de Civitate Dei. Amstel. 1838.
Nirschl (Rom. Cath.). Ursprung und Wesen des Bösen nach der Lehre des heil. Augustin. 1854.
F. Ribbeck:Donatus und Augustinus, oder der erste entscheidende Kampf zwischen Separatismus und Kirche. Elberfeld, 1858, 2 vols.
Fr. Nitzsch:Augustin’s Lehre vom Wunder. Berlin, 1865.
Gangauf:Des heil. August. Lehre von Gott dem dreieinigen. Augsburg, 1866. Emil Feuerlein:Ueber die Stellung Augustin’s in der Kirchen = und Kulturgeschichte, in Sybel’s “Histor. Zeitschrift” for 1869, vol. XI. 270-313. Naville:Saint Augustin, Etude sur le développement de sa pensée. Genève, 1872. Ernst:Die Werke und Tugenden der Ungläubigen nach Augustin. Freiburg, 1872. Aug. Dorner (son of Is. ): Augustinus, sein theol. System und seine religionsphilosophische Anschauung. Berlin, 1873 (comp. his art. in Herzog’s “Encycl.” 2d ed. I. 781-795, abridged in Schaff-Herzog I. 174 sqq.). Ch. H. Collett:St. Aug., a Sketch of his Life and Writings as affecting the controversy with Rome. London, 1883. H. Reuter (Prof. of Church History in Göttingen): Augustinische Studien, in Brieger’s “Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte,” for 1880-’86 (several articles on Aug.’s doctrine of the church, of predestination, the kingdom of God, etc.,—very valuable).
(2) The Philosophy of Augustin is discussed in the larger Histories of Philosophy by Brucker, Tennemann, Rixner, H. Ritter (vol. vi. pp. 153-443), Erdmann (Grundriss der Gesch der Philos. I. 231 sqq.), Ueberweg (Hist. of Philos., transl. by Morris, New York, vol. I. 333-346); Prantl (Geschichte der Logik im Abendlande, Leipzig, 1853, I. 665-672); Huber (Philosophie der Kirchenväter, München, 1859), and in the following special works:
Theod. Gangauf:Metaphysische Psychologie des heil. Augustinus. 1ste Abtheilung, Augsburg, 1852. T. Théry:Le génie philosophique et littéraire de saint Augustin. Par. 1861. Abbé Flottes:Études sur saint Aug., son génie, son âme, sa philosophie. Montpèllier, 1861. Nourrisson:La philosophie de saint Augustin (ouvrage couronné par l’Institut de France), deuxiéme éd. Par. 1866, 2 vols. Reinkens:Geschichtsphilosophie des Aug. Schaff hausen, 1866. Ferraz:De la psychologie de S. Augustin, 2d ed. Paris, 1869. Schütz:Augustinum non esse ontologum. Monast. 1867. A. F. Hewitt:The Problems of the Age, with Studies in St. Augustin. New York, 1868. G. Loesche:De Augustino Plotinizante. Jenae, 1880 (68 pages).
(3) On Aug. as a Latin author see Bähr:Geschichte der röm Literatur, Suppl. II. Ebert:Geschichte der latein. Literatur (Leipzig, 1874, I. 203 sqq.). Villemain:Tableau de l’éloquence chrétienne au IVesiècle (Paris, 1849).
CHAPTER II.—
A Sketch of the Life of St. Augustin.
It is a venturesome and delicate undertaking to write one’s own life, even though that life be a masterpiece of nature and the grace of God, and therefore most worthy to be described. Of all autobiographies none has so happily avoided the reef of vanity and self-praise, and none has won so much esteem and love through its honesty and humility as that of St. Augustin.
The “Confessions,” which he wrote in the forty-fourth year of his life, still burning in the ardor of his first love, are full of the fire and unction of the Holy Spirit. They are a sublime composition, in which Augustin, like David in the fifty-first Psalm, confesses to God, in view of his own and of succeeding generations, without reserve the sins of his youth; and they are at the same time a hymn of praise to the grace of God, which led him out of darkness into light, and called him to service in the kingdom of Christ.1 Here we see the great church teacher of all times “prostrate in the dust, conversing with God, basking in his love; his readers hovering before him only as a shadow.” He puts away from himself all honor, all greatness, all merit, and lays them gratefully at the feet of the All-merciful. The reader feels on every hand that Christianity is no dream nor illusion, but truth and life, and he is carried along in adoration of the wonderful grace of God.
Aurelius Augustinus, born on the 13th of November, 354,2 at Tagaste, an unimportant village of the fertile province of Numidia in North Africa, not far from Hippo Regius, inherited from his heathen father, Patricius,3 a passionate sensibility, from his Christian mother, Monnica (one of the noblest women in the history of Christianity, of a highly intellectual and spiritual cast, of fervent piety, most tender affection, and all-conquering love), the deep yearning towards God so grandly expressed in his sentence: “Thou hast made us for Thyself, and our heart is restless till it rests in Thee.”4 This yearning, and his reverence for the sweet and holy name of Jesus, though crowded into the background, attended him in his studies at the schools of Madaura and Carthage, on his journeys to Rome and Milan, and on his tedious wanderings through the labyrinth of carnal pleasures, Manichæan mock-wisdom, Academic skepticism, and Platonic idealism; till at last the prayers of his mother, the sermons of Ambrose, the biography of St. Anthony, and, above all, the Epistles of Paul, as so many instruments in the hand of the Holy Spirit, wrought in the man of three and thirty years that wonderful changing which made him an incalculable blessing to the whole Christian world, and brought even the sins and errors of his youth into the service of the truth.1
A son of so many prayers and tears could not be lost, and the faithful mother who travailed with him in spirit with greater pain than her body had in bringing him into the world,2 was permitted, for the encouragement of future mothers, to receive shortly before her death an answer to her prayers and expectations, and was able to leave this world with joy without revisiting her earthly home. For Monnica died on a homeward journey, in Ostia at the mouth of the Tiber, in her fifty-sixth year, in the arms of her son, after enjoying with him a glorious conversation that soared above the confines of space and time, and was a foretaste of the eternal Sabbath-rest of the saints. If those moments, he says, could be prolonged for ever, they would more than suffice for his happiness in heaven. She regretted not to die in a foreign land, because she was not far from God, who would raise her up at the last day. “Bury my body anywhere,” was her last request, “and trouble not yourselves for it; only this one thing I ask, that you remember me at the altar of my God, wherever you may be.”3 Augustin, in his Confessions, has erected to Monnica a noble monument that can never perish.
If ever there was a thorough and fruitful conversion, next to that of Paul on the way to Damascus, it was that of Augustin, when, in a garden of the Villa Cassiciacum, not far from Milan, in September of the year 386, amidst the most violent struggles of mind and heart—the birth-throes of the new life—he heard that divine voice of a child: “Take, read!” and he “put on the Lord Jesus Christ” (Rom. xiii. 14). It is a touching lamentation of his: “I have loved Thee late, Thou Beauty, so old and so new; I have loved Thee late! And lo! Thou wast within, but I was without, and was seeking Thee there. And into Thy fair creation I plunged myself in my ugliness; for Thou wast with me, and I was not with Thee! Those things kept me away from Thee, which had not been, except they had been in Thee! Thou didst call, and didst cry aloud, and break through my deafness. Thou didst glimmer, Thou didst shine, and didst drive away my blindness. Thou didst breathe, and I drew breath, and breathed in Thee. I tasted Thee, and I hunger and thirst. Thou didst touch me, and I burn for Thy peace. If I, with all that is within me, may once live in Thee, then shall pain and trouble forsake me; entirely filled with Thee, all shall be life to me.”
He received baptism from Ambrose in Milan on Easter Sunday, 387, in company with his friend and fellow-convert Alypius, and his natural son Adeodatus (given by God). It impressed the divine seal upon the inward transformation. He broke radically with the world; abandoned the brilliant and lucrative vocation of a teacher of rhetoric, which he had followed in Rome and Milan; sold his goods for the benefit of the poor; and thenceforth devoted his rare gifts exclusively to the service of Christ, and to that service he continued faithful to his latest breath. After the death of his mother, whom he revered and loved with the most tender affection, he went a second time to Rome for several months, and wrote books in defence of true Christianity against false philosophy and against the Manichæan heresy. Returning to Africa, he spent three years, with his friends Alypius and Evodius, on an estate in his native Tagaste, in contemplative and literary retirement.
Then, in 391, he was chosen presbyter against his will, by the voice of the people, which, as in the similar cases of Cyprian and Ambrose, proved to be the voice of God, in the Numidian maritime city of Hippo Regius (now Bona); and in 395 he was elected bishop in the same city. For eight and thirty years, until his death, he labored in this place, and made it the intellectual centre of Western Christendom.1
His outward mode of life was extremely simple, and mildly ascetic. He lived with his clergy in one house in an apostolic community of goods, and made this house a seminary of theology, out of which ten bishops and many lower clergy went forth. Females, even his sister, were excluded from his house, and could see him only in the presence of others. But he founded religious societies of women; and over one of these his sister, a saintly widow, presided.2 He once said in a sermon, that he had nowhere found better men, and he had nowhere found worse, than in monasteries. Combining, as he did, the clerical life with the monastic, he became unwittingly the founder of the Augustinian order, which gave the reformer Luther to the world. He wore the black dress of the Eastern cœnobites, with a cowl and a leathern girdle. He lived almost entirely on vegetables, and seasoned the common meal with reading or free conversation, in which it was a rule that the character of an absent person should never be touched. He had this couplet engraved on the table:
- “Quisquis amat dictis absentum rodere vitam,
- Hanc mensam vetitam noverit esse sibi.”
He often preached five days in succession, sometimes twice a day, and set it as the object of his preaching, that all might live with him, and he with all, in Christ. Wherever he went in Africa, he was begged to preach the word of salvation.3 He faithfully administered the external affairs connected with his office, though he found his chief delight in comtemplation. He was specially devoted to the poor, and, like Ambrose, upon exigency, caused the church vessels to be melted down to redeem prisoners. But he refused legacies by which injustice was done to natural heirs, and commended the bishop Aurelius of Carthage for giving back unasked some property which a man had bequeathed to the church, when his wife unexpectedly bore him children.
Augustin’s labors extended far beyond his little diocese. He was the intellectual head of the North African and the entire Western church of his time. He took active interest in all theological and ecclesiastical questions. He was the champion of the orthodox doctrine against Manichæan, Donatist, and Pelagian. In him was concentrated the whole polemic power of the catholic church of the time against heresy and schism; and in him it won the victory over them.
In his last years he took a critical review of his literary productions, and gave them a thorough sifting in his Retractations. His latest controversial works, against the Semi-Pelagians, written in a gentle spirit, date from the same period. He bore the duties of his office alone till his seventy-second year, when his people unanimously elected his friend Heraclius to be his assistant.
The evening of his life was troubled by increasing infirmities of body and by the unspeakable wretchedness which the barbarian Vandals spread over his country in their victorious invasion, destroying cities, villages, and churches, without mercy, and even besieging the fortified city of Hippo.1 Yet he faithfully persevered in his work. The last ten days of his life he spent in close retirement, in prayers and tears and repeated reading of the penitential Psalms, which he had caused to be written on the wall over his bed, that he might have them always before his eyes. Thus with an act of penitence he closed his life. In the midst of the terrors of the siege and the despair of his people he could not suspect what abundant seed he had sown for the future.
In the third month of the siege of Hippo, on the 28th of August, 430, in the seventy-sixth year of his age, in full possession of his faculties, and in the presence of many friends and pupils, he past gently and peacefully into that eternity to which he had so long aspired. “O how wonderful,” wrote he in his Meditations,2 “how beautiful and lovely are the dwellings of Thy house, Almighty God! I burn with longing to behold Thy beauty in Thy bridal-chamber. . . . O Jerusalem, holy city of God, dear bride of Christ, my heart loves thee, my soul has already long sighed for thy beauty! . . . The King of kings Himself is in the midst of thee, and His children are within thy walls. There are the hymning choirs of angels, the fellowship of heavenly citizens. There is the wedding-feast of all who from this sad earthly pilgrimage have reached thy joys. There is the far-seeing choir of the prophets; there the company of the twelve apostles; there the triumphant army of innumerable martyrs and holy confessors. Full and perfect love there reigns, for God is all in all. They love and praise, they praise and love Him evermore. . . . Blessed, perfectly and forever blessed, shall I too be, if, when my poor body shall be dissolved, . . . I may stand before my King and God, and see Him in His glory, as He Himself hath deigned to promise: ‘Father, I will that they also whom Thou hast given Me be with Me where I am; that they may behold My glory which I had with Thee before the world was.’ ” This aspiration after the heavenly Jerusalem found grand expression in the hymn De gloria et gaudiis Paradisi:
“Ad perennis vitæ fontem mens sativit arida.”
It is incorporated in the Meditations of Augustin, and the ideas originated in part with him, but were not brought into poetical form till long afterwards by Peter Damiani.3
He left no will, for in his voluntary poverty he had no earthly property to dispose of, except his library; this he bequeathed to the church, and it was fortunately preserved from the depredations of the Arian barbarians.4
Soon after his death Hippo was taken and destroyed by the Vandals.5 Africa was lost to the Romans. A few decades later the whole West-Roman empire fell in ruins. The culmination of the African church was the beginning of its decline. But the work of Augustin could not perish. His ideas fell like living seed into the soil of Europe, and produced abundant fruits in nations and countries of which he had never heard.6
CHAPTER III.—
Estimate of St. Augustin.
Augustin, the man with upturned eye, with pen in the left hand, and a burning heart in the right (as he is usually represented), is a philosophical and theological genius of the first order, towering like a pyramid above his age, and looking down commandingly upon succeeding centuries. He had a mind uncommonly fertile and deep, bold and soaring; and with it, what is better, a heart full of Christian love and humility. He stands of right by the side of the greatest philosophers of antiquity and of modern times. We meet him alike on the broad highways and the narrow footpaths, on the giddy Alpine heights and in the awful depths of speculation, wherever philosophical thinkers before him or after him have trod. As a theologian he is facile princeps, at least surpassed by no church father, schoolman, or reformer. With royal munificence he scattered ideas in passing, which have set in mighty motion other lands and later times. He combined the creative power of Tertullian with the churchly spirit of Cyprian, the speculative intellect of the Greek church with the practical tact of the Latin. He was a Christian philosopher and a philosophical theologian to the full. It was his need and his delight to wrestle again and again with the hardest problems of thought, and to comprehend to the utmost the divinely revealed matter of the faith.1 He always asserted, indeed, the primacy of faith, according to his maxim: Fides præcedit intellectum; appealing, with theologians before him, to the well known passage of Isaiah vii. 9 (in the LXX.): “Nisi credideritis, non intelligetis.”2 But to him faith itself was an acting of reason, and from faith to knowledge, therefore, there was a necessary transition.3 He constantly looked below the surface to the hidden motives of actions and to the universal laws of diverse events. The Metaphysician and the Christian believer coalesced in him. His meditatio passes with the utmost ease into oratio, and his oratio into meditatio. With profundity he combined an equal clearness and sharpness of thought. He was an extremely skilful and a successful dialectician, inexhaustible in arguments and in answers to the objections of his adversaries.
He has enriched Latin literature with a greater store of beautiful, original, and pregnant proverbial sayings, than any classic author, or any other teacher of the church.4
He had a creative and decisive hand in almost every dogma of the Latin church, completing some, and advancing others. The centre of his system is the free redeeming grace of God in Christ, operating through the actual, historical church. He is evangelical or Pauline in his doctrine of sin and grace, but catholic (that is, old-catholic, not Roman Catholic) in his doctrine of the church. The Pauline element comes forward mainly in the Pelagian controversy, the catholic-churchly in the Donatist; but each is modified by the other.
Dr. Baur incorrectly makes freedom the fundamental idea of the Augustinian system. But this much better suits the Pelagian; while Augustin started (like Calvin and Schleiermacher) from the idea of the absolute dependence of man upon God. He changed his idea of freedom during the Pelagian controversy. Baur draws an ingenious and suggestive comparison between Augustin and Origen, the two greatest intellects among the church fathers. “There is no church teacher of the ancient period,” says he,1 “who, in intellect and in grandeur and consistency of view, can more justly be placed by the side of Origen than Augustin; none who, with all the difference in individuality and in mode of thought, so closely resembles him. How far both towered above their times, is most clearly manifest in the very fact that they alone, of all the theologians of the first six centuries, became the creators of distinct systems, each proceeding from a definite idea, and each completely carried out; and this fact proves also how much the one system has that is analogous to the other. The one system, like the other, is founded upon the idea of freedom; in both there is a specific act, by which the entire development of human life is determined; and in both this is an act which lies far outside of the temporal consciousness of the individual; with this difference alone, that in one system the act belongs to each separate individual himself, and only falls outside of his temporal life and consciousness; in the other, it lies within the sphere of the temporal history of man, but is only the act of one individual. If in the system of Origen nothing gives greater offence than the idea of the pre-existence and fall of souls, which seems to adopt heathen ideas into the Christian faith, there is in the system of Augustin the same overleaping of individual life and consciousness, in order to explain from an act in the past the present sinful condition of man; but the pagan Platonic point of view is exchanged for one taken from the Old Testament. . . . What therefore essentially distinguishes the system of Augustin from that of Origen, is only this: the fall of Adam is substituted for the pre-temporal fall of souls, and what in Origen still wears a heathen garb, puts on in Augustin a purely Old Testament form.”
The learning of Augustin was not equal to his genius, nor as extensive as that of Origen and Eusebius, but still considerable for his time, and superior to that of any of the Latin fathers, with the single exception of Jerome. He had received in the schools of Madaura and Carthage the usual philosophical and rhetorical preparation for the forum, which stood him in good stead also in theology. He was familiar with Latin literature, and was by no means blind to the excellencies of the classics, though he placed them far below the higher beauty of the Holy Scriptures. The Hortensius of Cicero (a lost work) inspired him during his university course with enthusiasm for philosophy and for the knowledge of truth for its own sake; the study of Platonic and Neo-Platonic works (in the Latin version of the rhetorician Victorinus) kindled in him an incredible fire;2 though in both he missed the holy name of Jesus and the cardinal virtues of love and humility, and found in them only beautiful ideals without power to conform him to them. His City of God, his book on heresies, and other writings, show an extensive knowledge of ancient philosophy, poetry, and history, sacred and secular. He refers to the most distinguished persons of Greece and Rome; he often alludes to Pythagoras, Plato, Aristotle, Plotin, Porphyry, Cicero, Seneca, Horace, Vergil, to the earlier Greek and Latin fathers, to Eastern and Western heretics. But his knowledge of Greek literature was mostly derived from Latin translations. With the Greek language, as he himself frankly and modestly confesses, he had, in comparison with Jerome, but a superficial acquaintance.1 Hebrew he did not understand at all. Hence, with all his extraordinary familiarity with the Latin Bible, he made many mistakes in exposition. He was rather a thinker than a scholar, and depended mainly on his own resources, which were always abundant.
Notes.—We note some of the most intelligent and appreciative estimates of Augustin. Erasmus (Ep. dedicat. ad Alfons. archiep. Tolet. 1529) says, with an ingenious play upon the name Aurelius Augustinus: “Quid habet orbis christianus hoc scriptore magis aureum vel augustius? ut ipsa vocabula nequaquam fortuito, sed numinis providentia videantur indita viro. Auro sapientiæ nihil pretiosius: fulgore eloquentiæ cum sapientia conjunctæ nihil mirabilius. . . . Non arbitror alium esse doctorem, in quem opulentus ille ac benignus Spiritus dotes suas omnes largius effuderit, quam in Augustinum.” The great philosopher Leibnitz (Præfat. ad Theodic. 34) calls him “virum sane magnum et ingenii stupendi,” and “vastissimo ingenio præditum.” Dr. Baur, without sympathy with his views, speaks enthusiastically of the man and his genius. Among other things he says (Vorlesungen über Dogmengeschichte, i. 1 p. 61): “There is scarcely another theological author so fertile and withal so able as Augustin. His scholarship was not equal to his intellect; yet even that is sometimes set too low, when it is asserted that he had no acquaintance at all with the Greek language; for this is incorrect, though he had attained no great proficiency in Greek.” C. Bindemann (a Lutheran divine) begins his thorough monograph (vol. i. preface) with the well-deserved eulogium: “St. Augustin is one of the greatest personages in the church. He is second in importance to none of the teachers who have wrought most in the church since the apostolic time; and it can well be said that among the church fathers the first place is due to him, and in the time of the Reformation a Luther alone, for fulness and depth of thought and grandeur of character, may stand by his side. He is the summit of the development of the mediæval Western church; from him descended the mysticism, no less than the scholasticism, of the middle age; he was one of the strongest pillars of the Roman Catholicism, and from his works, next to the Holy Scriptures, especially the Epistles of Paul, the leaders of the Reformation drew most of that conviction by which a new age was introduced.” Staudenmaier, a Roman Catholic theologian, counts Augustin among those minds in which an hundred others dwell (Scotus Erigena, i. p. 274). The Roman Catholic philosophers A Gunther and Th. Gangauf, put him on an equality with the greatest philosophers, and discern in him a providential personage endowed by the Spirit of God for the instruction of all ages. A striking characterization is that of the Old Catholic Dr. Huber (in his instructive work: Die Philosophie der Kirchenvāter, Munich, 1859, p. 312 sq.): “Augustin is a unique phenomenon in Christian history. No one of the other fathers has left so luminous traces of his existence. Though we find among them many rich and powerful minds, yet we find in none the forces of personal character, mind, heart, and will, so largely developed and so harmoniously working. No one surpasses him in wealth of perceptions and dialectical sharpness of thoughts, in depth and fervour of religious sensibility, in greatness of aims and energy of action. He therefore also marks the culmination of the patristic age, and has been elevated by the acknowledgment of succeeding times as the first and the universal church father.—His whole character reminds us in many respects of Paul, with whom he has also in common the experience of being called from manifold errors to the service of the gospel, and like whom he could boast that he had laboured in it more abundantly than all the others. And as Paul among the Apostles pre-eminently determined the development of Christianity, and became, more than all others, the expression of the Christian mind, to which men ever afterwards return, as often as in the life of the church that mind becomes turbid, to draw from him, as the purest fountain, a fresh understanding of the gospel doctrine,—so has Augustin turned the Christian nations since his time for the most part into his paths, and become pre-eminently their trainer and teacher, in the study of whom they always gain a renewal and deepening of their Christian consciousness. Not the middle age alone, but the Reformation also, was ruled by him, and whatever to this day boasts of the Christian spirit, is connected at least in part with Augustin.” Villemain, in his able and eloquent “Tableau de l’éloquence Chrétienne au IVesiècle” (Paris, 1849, p. 373), commences his sketch of Augustin as follows: “Nous arrivons a l’homme le plus ètonnant de l’Eglise latine, à celui qui portat le plus d’imagination dans la théologie, le plus d’éloquence et même sensibilité dans la scholastique; ce fut saint Augustin. Donnez-lui un autre siècle, placez-le dans meillèure civilisation; et jamais homme n’aura paru doué d’un génie plus vaste et plus facile. Métaphysique, histoire, antiquités, science des moers, connaissance des arts, Augustin avait tout embrassé. Il écrit sur la musique comme sur le libre arbitre; il explique le phénomène intellectual la de mémoire, comme il raisonne sur la décadence de l’empire romain. Son esprit subtil et vigoureux a souvent consumé dans des problèmes mystiques une force de sagacité qui suffirait aux plus sublimes conceptions.” Frédéric Ozanam, in his “La civilisation au cinquième siècle” (translated by A. C. Glyn, 1868, Vol. I. p. 272), counts Augustin among the three or four great metaphysicians of modern times, and says that his task was “to clear the two roads open to Christian philosophy and to inaugurate its two methods of mysticism and dogmatism.” Nourrisson, whose work on Augustin is clothed with the authority of the Institute of France, assigns to him the first rank among the masters of human thought, alongside of Plato and Leibnitz, Thomas Aquinas and Bossuet. “Si une critique toujours respectueuse, mais d’une inviolable sincérité, est une des formes les plus hautes de l’admiration, j’estime, au contraire, n’avoir fait qu’exalter ce grand coeur, ce psychologue consolant et ému, ce métaphysicien subtil et sublime, en un mot, cet attachant et poétique génie, dont la place reste marquée, au premier rang, parmi les maîtres de la pensée humaine, à côté de Platon et de Descartes, d’Aristote et de saint Thomas, de Leibnitz et de Bossuet.” (La philosophie de saint Augustin, Par. 1866, tom. i. p. vii.). Pressensé (in art. Aug., in Smith & Wace, Dict. of Christ. Biography, I. 222): “Aug. still claims the honour of having brought out in all its light the fundamental doctrine of Christianity; despite the errors of his system, he has opened to the church the path of every progress and of every reform, by stating with the utmost vigour the scheme of free salvation which he had learnt in the school of St. Paul.” Among English and American writers, Dr. Shedd, in the Introduction to his edition of the Confessions (1860), has furnished a truthful and forcible description of the mind and heart of St. Augustin. I add the striking judgment of the octogenarian historian Dr. Karl Hase (Kirschengeschichte auf der Grundlage akademischer Vorlesungen, Leipzig 1885, vol. I. 522): “The full significance of Augustin as an author can be measured only from the consideration of the fact that in the middle ages both scholasticism and mysticism lived of his riches, and that afterwards Luther and Calvin drew out of his fulness. We find in him both the sharp understanding which makes salvation depend on the clearly defined dogma of the church, and the loving absorption of the heart in God which scarcely needs any more the aid of the church. His writings reflect all kinds of Christian thoughts, which lie a thousand years apart and appear to be contradictions. How were they possible in so systematic a thinker? Just as much as they were possible in Christianity, of which he was a microcosmus. From the dogmatic abyss of his hardest and most illiberal doctrines arise such liberal sentences as these: ‘Him I shall not condemn in whom I find any thing of Christ;’ ‘Let us not forget that in the very enemies are concealed the future citizens.’ ”
CHAPTER IV.—
The Writings of St. Augustin.
The numerous writings of Augustin, the composition of which extended through four and forty years, are a mine of Christian knowledge, and experience. They abound in lofty ideas, noble sentiments, devout effusions, clear statements of truth, strong arguments against error, and passages of fervid eloquence and undying beauty, but also in innumerable repetitions, fanciful opinions, and playful conjectures of his uncommonly fertile brain.1
His style is full of life and vigour and ingenious plays on words, but deficient in simplicity, purity and elegance, and by no means free from the vices of a degenerate rhetoric, wearisome prolixity, and from that vagabunda loquacitas, with which his adroit opponent, Julian of Eclanum, charged him. He would rather, as he said, be blamed by grammarians, than not understood by the people; and he bestowed little care upon his style, though he many a time rises in lofty poetic flight. He made no point of literary renown, but, impelled by love to God and to the church, he wrote from the fulness of his mind and heart.1 The writings before his conversion, a treatise on the Beautiful (De Pulchro et Apto), the orations and eulogies which he delivered as rhetorician at Carthage, Rome, and Milan, are lost. The professor of eloquence, the heathen philosopher, the Manichæan heretic, the sceptic and free thinker, are known to us only from his regrets and recantations in the Confessions and other works. His literary career for us commences in his pious retreat at Cassiciacum where he prepared himself for a public profession of his faith. He appears first, in the works composed at Cassiciacum, Rome, and near Tagaste, as a Christian philosopher, after his ordination to the priesthood as a theologian. Yet even in his theological works he everywhere manifests the metaphysical and speculative bent of his mind. He never abandoned or depreciated reason, he only subordinated it to faith and made it subservient to the defence of revealed truth. Faith is the pioneer of reason, and discovers the territory which reason explores.
The following is a classified view of his most important works.2
I. Autobiographical works. To these belong the Confessions and the Retractations: the former acknowledging his sins, the latter retracting his theoretical errors. In the one he subjects his life, in the other his writings, to close criticism; and these productions therefore furnish the best standard for judging of his entire labours.3
The Confessions are the most profitable, at least the most edifying, product of his pen; indeed, we may say, the most edifying book in all the patristic literature. They were accordingly the most read even during his lifetime,4 and they have been the most frequently published since.5 A more sincere and more earnest book was never written. The historical part, to the tenth book, is one of the devotional classics of all creeds, and second in popularity only to the “Imitation of Christ,” by Thomas a Kempis, and Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress.” Certainly no autobiography is superior to it in true humility, spiritual depth, and universal interest. Augustin records his own experience, as a heathen sensualist, a Manichæan heretic, an anxious inquirer, a sincere penitent, and a grateful convert. He finds a response in every human soul that struggles through the temptations of nature and the labyrinth of error to the knowledge of truth and the beauty of holiness, and after many sighs and tears finds rest and peace in the arms of a merciful Saviour. The style is not free from the faults of an artificial rhetoric, involved periods and far-fetched paronomasias; but these defects are more than atoned for by passages of unfading beauty, the devout spirit and psalm-like tone of the book. It is the incense of a sacred mysticism of the heart which rises to the throne on high. The wisdom of some parts of the Confessions may be doubted.1 The world would never have known Augustin’s sins, if he had not told them; nor were they of such a nature as to destroy his respectability in the best heathen society of his age; but we must all the more admire his honesty and humility.
Rousseau’s “Confessions,” and Goethe’s “Truth and Fiction,” may be compared with Augustin’s Confessions as works of rare genius and of absorbing psychological interest, but they are written in a radically different spirit, and by attempting to exalt human nature in its unsanctified state, they tend as much to expose its vanity and weakness, as the work of the bishop of Hippo, being written with a single eye to the glory of God, raises man from the dust of repentance to a new and imperishable life of the Spirit.2
Augustin composed the Confessions about the year 397, ten years after his conversion. The first nine books contain, in the form of a continuous prayer and confession before God, a general sketch of his earlier life, of his conversion, and of his return to Africa in the thirty-fourth year of his age. The salient points in these books are the engaging history of his conversion in Milan, and the story of the last days of his noble mother in Ostia, spent as it were at the very gate of heaven and in full assurance of a blessed reunion at the throne of glory. The last three books and a part of the tenth are devoted to speculative philosophy; they treat, partly in tacit opposition to Manichæism, of the metaphysical questions of the possibility of knowing God, and the nature of time and space; and they give an interpretation of the Mosaic cosmogony in the style of the typical allegorical exegesis usual with the fathers, but foreign to our age; they are therefore of little value to the general reader, except as showing that even abstract metaphysical subjects may be devotionally treated.
The Retractations were produced in the evening of his life (427 and 428), when, mindful of the proverb: “In the multitude of words there wanteth not transgression,”3 and remembering that we must give account for every idle word,4 he judged himself, that he might not be judged.5 He revised in chronological order the numerous works he had written before and during his episcopate, and retracted or corrected whatever in them seemed to his riper knowledge false or obscure, or not fully agreed with the orthodox catholic faith. Some of his changes were reactionary and no improvements, especially those on the freedom of the will, and on religious toleration. In all essential points, nevertheless, his theological system remained the same from his conversion to this time. The Retractations give beautiful evidence of his love of truth, his conscientiousness, and his humility.6
To this same class should be added the Letters of Augustin, of which the Benedictine editors, in their second volume, give two hundred and seventy (including letters to Augustin) in chronological order from 386 to 429. These letters treat, sometimes very minutely, of all the important questions of his time, and give us an insight of his cares, his official fidelity, his large heart, and his effort to become, like Paul, all things to all men.
When the questions of friends and pupils accumulated, he answered them in special works; and in this way he produced various collections of Quæstiones and Responsiones, dogmatical, exegetical, and miscellaneous ( 390, 397, &c.).
II. Philosophical treatises, in dialogue; almost all composed in his earlier life; either during his residence on the country-seat Cassiciacum in the vicinity of Milan, where he spent half a year before his baptism in instructive and stimulating conversation, in a sort of academy or Christian Platonic banquet with Monnica, his son Adeodatus, his brother Navigius, his friend Alypius, and some cousins and pupils; or during his second residence in Rome; or soon after his return to Africa.1
To this class belong the works; Contra Academicos libri très (386), in which he combats the skepticism and probabilism of the New Academy,—the doctrine that man can never reach the truth, but can at best attain only probability; De vita beata (386), in which he makes true blessedness to consist in the perfect knowledge of God; De ordine,—on the relation of evil to the divine order of the world2 (386); Soliloquia (387), communings with his own soul concerning God, the highest good, the knowledge of truth, and immortality; De immortalitate animæ (387), a continuation of the Soliloquies; De quantitate animæ (387), discussing sundry questions of the size, the origin, the incorporeity of the soul; De musica libri vi (387-389); De magistro (389), in which, in a dialogue with his son Adeodatus, a pious and promising, but precocious youth, who died soon after his return to Africa (389), he treats on the importance and virtue of the word of God, and on Christ as the infallible Master.3 To these may be added the later work, De anima et ejus origine (419). Other philosophical works on grammar, dialectics (or ars bene disputandi), rhetoric, geometry, and arithmetic, are lost.4
These works exhibit as yet little that is specifically Christian and churchly; but they show a Platonism seized and consecrated by the spirit of Christianity, full of high thoughts, ideal views, and discriminating argument. They were designed to present the different stages of human thought by which he himself had reached the knowledge of the truth, and to serve others as steps to the sanctuary. They form an elementary introduction to his theology. He afterwards, in his Retractations, withdrew many things contained in them, like the Platonic view of the pre-existence of the soul, and the Platonic idea that the acquisition of knowledge is a recollection or excavation of the knowledge hidden in the mind.1 The philosopher in him afterwards yielded more and more to the theologian, and his views became more positive and empirical, though in some cases narrower also and more exclusive. Yet he could never cease to philosophise, and even his later works, especially De Trinitate, and De Civitate Dei, are full of profound speculations. Before his conversion he followed a particular system of philosophy, first the Manichæan, then the Platonic; after his conversion he embraced the Christian philosophy, which is based on the divine revelation of the Scriptures, and is the handmaid of theology and religion; but at the same time he prepared the way for the catholic ecclesiastical philosophy, which rests on the authority of the church, and became complete in the scholasticism of the middle age.
In the history of philosophy he deserves a place in the highest rank, and has done greater service to the science of sciences than any other father, Clement of Alexandria and Origen not excepted. He attacked and refuted the pagan philosophy as pantheistic or dualistic at heart; he shook the superstitions of astrology and magic; he expelled from philosophy the doctrine of emanation, and the idea that God is the soul of the world; he substantially advanced psychology; he solved the question of the origin and the nature of evil more nearly than any of his predecessors, and as nearly as most of his successors; he was the first to investigate thoroughly the relation of divine omnipotence and omniscience to human freedom, and to construct a theodicy; in short, he is properly the founder of a Christian philosophy, and not only divided with Aristotle the empire of the mediæval scholasticism, but furnished also living germs for new systems of philosophy, and will always be consulted in the speculative discussions of Christian doctrines.
The philosophical opinions of Augustin are ably and clearly summed up by Ueberweg as follows:2
“Against the skepticism of the Academics Augustin urges that man needs the knowledge of truth for his happiness, that it is not enough merely to inquire and to doubt, and he finds a foundation for all our knowledge, a foundation invulnerable against every doubt, in the consciousness we have of our sensations, feelings, our willing, and thinking, in short, of all our psychical processes. From the undeniable existence and possession by man of some truth, he concludes to the existence of God as the truth per se; but our conviction of the existence of the material world he regards as only an irresistible belief. Combating heathen religion and philosophy, Augustin defends the doctrines and institutions peculiar to Christianity, and maintains, in particular, against the Neo-Platoniste, whom he rates most highly among all the ancient philosophers, the Christian these that salvation is to be found in Christ alone, that divine worship is due to no other being beside the triune God, since he created all things himself, and did not commission inferior beings, gods, demons, or angels to create the material world; that the soul with its body will rise again to eternal salvation or damnation, but will not return periodically to renewed life upon the earth; that the soul does not exist before the body, and that the latter is not the prison of the former, but that the soul begins to exist at the same time with the body; that the world both had a beginning and is perishable, and that only God and the souls of angels and men are eternal.—Against the dualism of the Manichæans, who regarded good and evil as equally primitive, and represented a portion of the divine substance as having entered into the region of evil, in order to war against and conquer it, Augustin defends the monism of the good principle, or of the purely spiritual God, explaining evil as a mere negation or privation, and seeking to show from the finiteness of the things in the world, and from their differing degrees of perfection, that the evils in the world are necessary, and not in contradiction with the idea of creation; he also defends in opposition to Manichæism, and Gnosticism in general, the Catholic doctrine of the essential harmony between the Old and New Testaments. Against the Donatists, Augustin maintains the unity of the Church. In opposition to Pelagius and the Pelagians, he asserts that divine grace is not conditioned on human worthiness, and maintains the doctrine of absolute predestination, or, that from the mass of men who, through the disobedience of Adam (in whom all mankind were present potentially), have sunk into corruption and sin, some are chosen by the free election of God to be monuments of his grace, and are brought to believe and be saved, while the greater number, as monuments of his justice, are left to eternal damnation.”
III. Apologetic works against Pagans and Jews. Among these the twenty-two books, De Civitate Dei, are still well worth reading. They form the deepest and richest apologetic work of antiquity; begun in 413, after the occupation of Rome by the Gothic king Alaric, finished in 426, and often separately published. They condense his entire theory of the world and of man, and are the first attempt at a comprehensive philosophy of universal history under the dualistic view of two antagonistic currents or organized forces, a kingdom of this world which is doomed to final destruction, and a kingdom of God which will last forever.1
This work has controlled catholic historiography ever since, and received the official approval of Pope Leo XIII., who, in his famous Encyclical Immortale Dei (Nov. 1, 1885), incidentally alludes to it in these words: “Augustin, in his work, De Civitate Dei, set forth so clearly the efficacy of Christian wisdom and the way in which it is bound up with the well-being of civil society, that he seems not only to have pleaded the cause of the Christians at his own time, but to have triumphantly refuted the calumnies against Christianity for all time.”
From the Protestant point of view Augustin erred in identifying the kingdom of God with the visible Catholic Church, which is only a part of it.
IV. Religious-Theological works of a general nature (in part anti-Manichæan): De utilitate credendi, against the Gnostic exaltation of knowledge (392); De fide et symbolo, a discourse which, though only presbyter, he delivered on the Apostles’ Creed before the council at Hippo at the request of the bishops in 393; De doctrina Christiana iv libri (397; the fourth book added in 426), a compend of exegetical theology for instruction in the interpretation of the Scriptures according to the analogy of the faith; De catechizandis rudibus likewise for catechetical purposes (400); Enchiridon, or De fide, spe et caritate, a brief compend of the doctrine of faith and morals, which he wrote in 421, or later, at the request of Laurentius; hence also called Manuale ad Laurentium.2
V. Polemic-Thfological works. These are the most copious sources of the history of Christian doctrine in the patristic age. The heresies collectively are reviewed in the book De hæresibus ad Quodvultdeum, written between 428 and 430 to a friend and deacon in Carthage, and give a survey of eighty-eight heresies, from the Simonians to the Pelagians.3 In the work De vera religione (390), Augustin proposed to show that the true religion is to be found not with the heretics and schismatics, but only in the catholic church of that time.
The other controversial works are directed against the particular heresies of Manichæism, Donatism, Arianism, Pelagianism and Semi-Pelagianism. Augustin, with all the firmness of his convictions, was free from personal antipathy, and used the pen of controversy in the genuine Christian spirit, fortiter in re, suaviter in modo. He understood Paul’s ἀληϑεύειν ἐν ὰγάπῃ, and forms in this respect a pleasing contrast to Jerome, who had by nature no more fiery temperament than he, but was less able to control it. “Let those,” he very beautifully says to the Manichæans, “burn with hatred against you, who do not know how much pains it costs to find the truth, how hard it is to guard against error;—but I, who after so great and long wavering came to know the truth, must bear myself towards you with the same patience which my fellow-believers showed towards me while I was wandering in blind madness in your opinions.”4
1. The anti-Manichæan works date mostly from his earlier life, and in time and matter follow immediately upon his philosophical writings.1 In them he afterwards found most to retract, because he advocated the freedom of the will against the Manichæan fatalism. The most important are: De moribus ecclesiæ catholicæ, et de moribus Manichæorum, two books (written during his second residence in Rome, 388); De vera religione (390); Unde malum, et de libero arbitrio, usually simply De libero arbitrio, in three books, against the Manichæan doctrine of evil as a substance, and as having its seat in matter instead of free will (begun in 388, finished in 395); De Genesi contra Manichæos, a defence of the biblical doctrine of creation (389); De duabus animabus, against the psychological dualism of the Manichæans (392); Disputatio contra Fortunatum (a triumphant refutation of this Manichæan priest of Hippo in August, 392); Contra Epistolam Manichæi quam vocant fundamenti (397); Contra Faustum Manichæum, in thirty-three books (400-404); De natura boni (404), &c.
These works treat of the origin of evil; of free will; of the harmony of the Old and New Testaments, and of revelation and nature; of creation out of nothing, in opposition to dualism and hylozoism; of the supremacy of faith over knowledge; of the authority of the Scriptures and the Church; of the true and the false asceticism, and other disputed points; and they are the chief source of our knowledge of the Manichæan Gnosticism and of the arguments against it.
Having himself belonged for nine years to this sect, Augustin was the better fitted for the task of refuting it, as Paul was peculiarly prepared for the confutation of the Pharisaic Judaism. His doctrine of the nature of evil is particularly valuable. He has triumphantly demonstrated for all time, that evil is not a corporeal thing, nor in any way substantial, but a product of the free will of the creature, a perversion of substance in itself good, a corruption of the nature created by God.
2. Against the Priscillianists, a sect in Spain built on Manichæan principles, are directed the book Ad Paulum Orosium contra Priscillianistas et Origenistas (411);2 the book Contra mendacium, addressed to Consentius (420); and in part the 190th Epistle (alias Ep. 157), to the Bishop Optatus, on the origin of the soul (418), and two other letters, in which he refutes erroneous views on the nature of the soul, the limitation of future punishment, and the lawfulness of fraud for supposed good purposes.
3. The anti-Donatistic works, composed between the years 393 and 420, argue against separatism, and contain Augustin’s doctrine of the church and church-discipline, and of the sacraments. To these belong: Psalmus contra partem Donati ( 393), a polemic popular song without regular metre, intended to offset the songs of the Donatists; Contra epistolam Parmeniani, written in 400 against the Carthaginian bishop of the Donatists, the successor of Donatus; De baptismo contra Donastistas, in favor of the validity of heretical baptism (400); Contra literas Petiliani (about 400), against the view of Cyprian and the Donatists, that the efficacy of the sacraments depends on the personal worthiness and the ecclesiastical status of the officiating priest; Ad Catholicos Epistola contra Donatistas, or De unitate ecclesiæ (402); Contra Cresconium grammaticum Donastistam (406); Breviculus Collationis cum Donatistis, a short account of the three days’ religious conference with the Donatists (411); De correctione Donatistarum (417); Contra Gaudentium, Donat. Episcopum, the last anti-Donatistic work (420).3
These works are the chief patristic authority of the Roman Catholic doctrine of the Church and against the sects. They are thoroughly Romanizing in spirit and aim, and least satisfactory to Protestant readers. Augustin defended in his later years even the principle of forcible coërcion and persecution against heretics and schismatics by a false exegesis of the words in the parable “Compel them to come in” (Luke xiv. 23). The result of persecution was that both Catholics and Donatists in North Africa were overwhelmed in ruin first by the barbarous Vandals, who were Arian heretics, and afterwards by the Mohammedan conquerors.
4. The anti-Arian works have to do with the deity of Christ and of the Holy Spirit, and with the Holy Trinity. By far the most important of these are the fifteen books De Trinitate (400-416);—the most profound and discriminating production of the ancient church on the Trinity, in no respect inferior to the kindred works of Athanasius and the two Gregories, and for centuries final to the dogma.1 This may also be counted among the positive didactic works, for it is not directly controversial. The Collatio cum Maximino Ariano, an obscure babbler, belongs to the year 428.
5. The numerous anti-Pelagian works of Augustin are his most influential and most valuable, at least for Protestants. They were written between the years 412 and 429. In them Augustin, in his intellectual and spiritual prime, develops his system of anthropology and soteriology, and most nearly approaches the position of Evangelical Protestantism: On the Guilt and the Remission of Sins, and Infant Baptism (412); On the Spirit and the Letter (413); On Nature and Grace (415); On the Acts of Pelagius (417); On the Grace of Christ, and Original Sin (418); On Marriage and Concupiscence (419); On Grace and Free Will (426); On Discipline and Grace (427); Against Julian of Eclanum (two large works, written between 421 and 429, the second unfinished, and hence called Opus imperfectum); On the Predestination of the Saints (428); On the Gift of Perseverance (429); &c.2
These anti-Pelagian writings contain what is technically called the Augustinian system of theology, which was substantially adopted by the Lutheran Church, yet without the decree of reprobation, and in a more rigorous logical form by the Calvinistic Confessions. The system gives all glory to God, does full justice to the sovereignty of divine grace, effectually humbles and yet elevates and fortifies man, and furnishes the strongest stimulus to gratitude and the firmest foundation of comfort. It makes all bright and lovely in the circle of the elect. But it is gloomy and repulsive in its negative aspect towards the non-elect. It teaches a universal damnation and only a partial redemption, and confines the offer of salvation to the minority of the elect; it ignores the general benevolence of God to all his creatures; it weakens or perverts the passages which clearly teach that “God would have all men to be saved”; it suspends their eternal fate upon one single act of disobedience; it assumes an unconscious, and yet responsible pre-existence of Adam’s posterity and their participation in his sin and guilt; it reflects upon the wisdom of God in creating countless millions of beings with the eternal foreknowledge of their everlasting misery; and it does violence to the sense of individual responsibility for accepting or rejecting the gospel-offer of salvation. And yet this Augustinian system, especially in its severest Calvinistic form, has promoted civil and religious liberty, and trained the most virtuous, independent, and heroic types of Christians, as the Huguenots, the Puritans, the Covenanters, and the Pilgrim Fathers. It is still a mighty moral power, and will not lose its hold upon earnest characters until some great theological genius produces from the inexhaustible mine of the Scriptures a more satisfactory solution of the awful problem which the universal reign of sin and death presents to the thinking mind.
In Augustin the anti-Pelagian system was checked and moderated by his churchly and sacramental views, and we cannot understand him without keeping both in view. The same apparent contradiction we find in Luther, but he broke entirely with the sacerdotal system of Rome, and made the doctrine of justification by faith the chief article of his creed, which Augustin never could have done. Calvin was more logical than either, and went back beyond justification and Adam’s fall, yea, beyond time itself, to the eternal counsel of God which preordains, directs and controls the whole history of mankind to a certain end, the triumph of his mercy and justice.
VI. Exegetical works. The best of these are: De Genesi ad literam (The Genesis word for word), in twelve books, an extended exposition of the first three chapters of Genesis, particularly the history of the creation literally interpreted, though with many mystical and allegorical interpretations also (written between 401 and 415);1Enarrationes in Psalmos (mostly sermons);2 hundred and twenty-four Homilies on the Gospel of John (416 and 417);3 ten Homilies on the First Epistle of John (417); the Exposition of the Sermon on the Mount (393); the Harmony of the Gospels (De consensu evangelistarum, 400); the Epistle to the Galatians (394); and an unfinished commentary on the Epistle to the Romans.4
Augustin deals more in lively, profound, and edifying thoughts on the Scriptures than in proper grammatical and historical exposition, for which neither he nor his readers had the necessary linguistic knowledge, disposition, or taste. He grounded his theology less upon exegesis than upon his Christian and churchly mind saturated with Scriptural truths. He excels in spiritual insight, and is suggestive even when he misses the natural meaning.
VII. Ethical and Ascetic works. Among these belong three hundred and ninety-six Sermones (mostly very short) de Scripturis (on texts of Scripture), de tempore (festival sermons), de sanctis (in memory of apostles, martyrs, and saints), and de diversis (on various occasions), some of them dictated by Augustin, some taken down by hearers.5 Also various moral treatises: De continentia (395); De mendaico (395), against deception (not to be confounded with the similar work already mentioned Contra mendacium, against the fraud-theory of the Priscillianists, written in 420); De agone Christiano (396); De opere monachorum, against monastic idleness (400); De bono conjugali adv. Jovinianum (400); De virginitate (401); De fide et operibus (413); De adulterinis conjugiis, on 1 Cor. vii. 10 sqq. (419); De bono viduitatis (418); De patientia (418); De cura pro mortuis gerenda, to Paulinus of Nola (421); De utilitate jejunii; De diligendo Deo; Meditationes;6 &c.
As we survey this enormous literary labor, augmented by many other treatises and letters now lost, and as we consider his episcopal labors, his many journeys, and his adjudications of controversies among the faithful, which often robbed him of whole days, we must be really astounded at the fidelity, exuberance, energy, and perseverance of this father of the church. Surely, such a life was worth the living.
CHAPTER V.—
The Influence of St. Augustin upon Posterity, and his Relation to Catholicism and Protestantism.
In conclusion we must add some observations respecting the influence of Augustin on the Church and the world since his time, and his position with reference to the great antagonism of Catholicism and Protestantism. All the church fathers are, indeed, the common inheritance of both parties; but no other of them has produced so permanent effects on both, and no other stands in so high regard with both, as Augustin. Upon the Greek Church alone has he exercised little or no influence; for this Church stopped with the undeveloped synergistic anthropology of the previous age, and rejects most decidedly, as a Latin heresy, the doctrine of the double procession of the Holy Spirit (the Filioque) for which Augustin is chiefly responsible.1
1. Augustin, in the first place, contributed much to the development of the doctrinal basis which Catholicism and Protestantism hold in common against such radical heresies of antiquity as Manichæism, Arianism, and Pelagianism. In all these great intellectual conflicts he was in general the champion of the cause of Christian truth against dangerous errors. Through his influence the canon of Holy Scripture (including, indeed, the Old Testament Apocrypha) was fixed in its present form by the councils of Hippo (393) and Carthage (397). He conquered the Manichæan dualism, hylozoism, and fatalism, and saved the biblical idea of God and of creation, and the biblical doctrine of the nature of sin and its origin in the free will of man. He developed the Nicene dogma of the Trinity, in opposition to tritheism on the one hand, and Sabellianism on the other, but also with the doubtful addition of the Filioque, and in opposition to the Greek, gave it the form in which it has ever since prevailed in the West. In this form the dogma received classical expression from his school in the falsely so called Athanasian Creed, which is not recognized by the Greek Church, and which better deserves the name of the Augustinian Creed.
In Christology, on the contrary, he added nothing new, and he died shortly before the great Christological conflicts opened, which reached their œcumenical settlement at the council of Chalcedon, twenty years after his death. Yet he anticipated Leo in giving currency in the West to the important formula: “Two natures in one person.”2
2. Augustin is also the principal theological creator of the Latin-Catholic system as distinct from the Greek Catholicism on the one hand, and from evangelical Protestantism on the other. He ruled the entire theology of the middle age, and became the father of scholasticism in virtue of his dialectic mind, and the father of mysticism in virtue of his devout heart, without being responsible for the excesses of either system. For scholasticism thought to comprehend the divine with the understanding, and lost itself at last in empty dialectics; and mysticism endeavoured to grasp the divine with feeling, and easily strayed into misty sentimentalism; Augustin sought to apprehend the divine with the united power of mind and heart, of bold thought and humble faith.1 Anselm, Bernard of Clairvaux, Thomas Aquinas, and Bonaventura, are his nearest of kin in this respect. Even now, since the Catholic Church has become a Roman Church, he enjoys greater consideration in it than Ambrose, Hilary, Jerome, or Gregory the Great. All this cannot possibly be explained without an interior affinity.2
His very conversion, in which, besides the Scriptures, the personal intercourse of the hierarchical Ambrose and the life of the ascetic Anthony had great influence, was a transition not from heathenism to Christianity (for he was already a Manichæan Christian), but from heresy to the historical, orthodox, episcopally organized church, as, for the time, the sole authorized vehicle of the apostolic Christianity in conflict with those sects and parties which more or less assailed the foundations of the Gospel. It was, indeed, a full and unconditional surrender of his mind and heart to God, but it was at the same time a submission of his private judgment to the authority of the church which led him to the faith of the gospel.3 In the same spirit he embraced the ascetic life, without which, according to the Catholic principle, no high religion is possible. He did not indeed enter a cloister, like Luther, whose conversion in Erfurt was likewise essentially catholic, but he lived in his house in the simplicity of a monk, and made and kept the vow of voluntary poverty and celibacy.4
He adopted Cyprian’s doctrine of the church, and completed it in the conflict with Donatism by transferring the predicates of unity, holiness, universality, exclusiveness, and maternity, directly to the actual church of the time, which, with a firm episcopal organization, an unbroken succession, and the Apostles’ Creed, triumphantly withstood the eighty or the hundred opposing sects in the heretical catalogue of the day, and had its visible centre in Rome. In this church he had found rescue from the shipwreck of his life, the home of true Christianity, firm ground for his thinking, satisfaction for his heart, and a commensurate field for the wide range of his powers.5 The predicate of infallibility alone he does not plainly bring forward; he assumes a progressive correction of earlier councils by later; and in the Pelagian controversy he asserts the same independence towards pope Zosimus, which Cyprian before him had shown towards pope Stephen in the controversy on heretical baptism, with the advantage of having the right on his side, so that Zosimus found himself compelled to yield to the African church. But after the condemnation of the Pelagian errors by the Roman see (418), he declared that “the case is finished, if only the error were also finished.”1
He was the first to give a clear and fixed definition of the sacrament, as a visible sign of invisible grace, resting on divine appointment; but he knows nothing of the number seven; this was a much later enactment. In the doctrine of baptism he is entirely Catholic, though in logical contradiction with his dogma of predestination; he maintained the necessity of baptism for salvation on the ground of John iii. 5 and Mark xvi. 16, and derived from it the horrible dogma of the eternal damnation of all unbaptized infants, though he reduced their condition to a mere absence of bliss, without actual suffering.2 In the doctrine of the holy communion he stands, like his predecessors, Tertullian and Cyprian, nearer to the Calvinistic than any other theory of a spiritual presence and fruition of Christ’s body and blood. He certainly can not be quoted in favor of transubstantiation. He was the chief authority of Ratramnus and Berengar in their opposition to this dogma.
He contributed to promote, at least in his later writings, the Catholic faith of miracles,3 and the worship of Mary;4 though he exempts the Virgin only from actual sin, not from original, and, with all his reverence for her, never calls her “mother of God.”5
At first an advocate of religious liberty and of purely spiritual methods of opposing error, he afterwards asserted the fatal principle of forcible coërcion, and lent the great weight of his authority to the system of civil persecution, at the bloody fruits of which in the middle age he himself would have shuddered; for he was always at heart a man of love and gentleness, and personally acted on the glorious principle: “Nothing conquers but truth, and the victory of truth is love.”6
Thus even truly great and good men have unintentionally, through mistaken zeal, become the authors of incalculable mischief.
3. But, on the other hand, Augustin is, of all the fathers, nearest to evangelical Protestantism, and may be called, in respect of his doctrine of sin and grace, the first forerunner of the Reformation. The Lutheran and Reformed churches have ever conceded to him, without scruple, the cognomen of Saint, and claimed him as one of the most enlightened witnesses of the truth and most striking examples of the marvellous power of divine grace in the transformation of a sinner. It is worthy of mark, that his Pauline doctrines, which are most nearly akin to Protestantism, are the later and more mature parts of his system, and that just these found great acceptance with the laity. The Pelagian controversy, in which he developed his anthropology, marks the culmination of his theological and ecclesiastical career, and his latest writings were directed against the Pelagian Julian and the Semi-Pelagians in Gaul, who were brought to his notice by two friendly laymen, Prosper and Hilary. These anti-Pelagian works have wrought mightily, it is most true, upon the Catholic church, and have held in check the Pelagianizing tendencies of the hierarchical and monastic system, but they have never passed into its blood and marrow. They waited for a favourable future, and nourished in silence an opposition to the prevailing system.
In the middle age the better sects, which attempted to simplify, purify, and spiritualize the reigning Christianity by return to the Holy Scriptures, and the Reformers before the Reformation, such as Wiclif, Hus, Wessel, resorted most, after the apostle Paul, to the bishop of Hippo as the representative of the doctrine of free grace.
The Reformers were led by his writings into a deeper understanding of Paul, and so prepared for their great vocation. No church teacher did so much to mould Luther and Calvin; none furnished them so powerful weapons against the dominant Pelagianism and formalism; none is so often quoted by them with esteem and love.1
All the Reformers in the outset, Melanchthon and Zwingle among them, adopted his denial of free will and his doctrine of predestination, and sometimes even went beyond him into the abyss of supralapsarianism, to cut out the last roots of human merit and boasting. In this point Augustin holds the same relation to the Catholic church, as Luther to the Lutheran; that is, he is a heretic of unimpeachable authority, who is more admired than censured even in his extravagances; yet his doctrine of predestination was indirectly condemned by the pope in Jansenism, as Luther’s view was rejected as Calvinism by the Formula of Concord.2 For Jansenism was nothing but a revival of Augustinianism in the bosom of the Roman Catholic church.3
The excess of Augustin and the Reformers in this direction is due to the earnestness and energy of their sense of sin and grace. The Pelagian looseness could never beget a reformer. It was only the unshaken conviction of man’s own inability, of unconditional dependence on God, and of the almighty power of his grace to give us strength for every good work, which could do this. He who would give others the conviction that he has a divine vocation for the church and for mankind, must himself be penetrated with the faith of an eternal, unalterable decree of God, and must cling to it in the darkest hours.
In great men, and only in great men, great opposites and apparently antagonistic truths live together. Small minds cannot hold them. The catholic, churchly, sacramental, and sacerdotal system stands in conflict with the evangelical Protestant Christianity of subjective, personal experience. The doctrine of universal baptismal regeneration, in particular, which presupposes a universal call (at least within the church), can on principles of logic hardly be united with the doctrine of an absolute predestination, which limits the decree of redemption to a portion of the baptized. Augustin supposes, on the one hand, that every baptized person, through the inward operation of the Holy Ghost, which accompanies the outward act of the sacrament, receives the forgiveness of sins, and is translated from the state of nature into the state of grace, and thus, qua baptizatus, is also a child of God and an heir of eternal life; and yet, on the other hand, he makes all these benefits dependent on the absolute will of God, who saves only a certain number out of the “mass of perdition,” and preserves these to the end. Regeneration and election, with him, do not, as with Calvin, coincide. The former may exist without the latter, but the latter cannot exist without the former. Augustin assumes that many are actually born into the kingdom of grace only to perish again; Calvin holds that in the case of the non-elect baptism is an unmeaning ceremony; the one putting the delusion in the inward effect, the other in the outward form. The sacramental, churchly system throws the main stress upon the baptismal regeneration, to the injury of the eternal election; the Calvinistic or Puritan system sacrifices the virtue of the sacrament to the election; the Lutheran and high Anglican systems seek a middle ground, without being able to give a satisfactory theological solution of the problem. The Anglican Church, however, allows the two opposite views, and sanctions the one in the baptismal service of the Book of Common Prayer, the other in her Thirty-nine Articles, and other standards, as interpreted by the low church or evangelical party in a moderately Calvinistic sense.
It was an evident ordering of God, that Augustin’s theology, like the Latin Bible of Jerome, appeared just in that transitional period of history, in which the old civilization was passing away before the flood of barbarism, and a new order of things, under the guidance of the Christian religion, was in preparation. The church, with her strong, imposing organization and her firm system of doctrine, must save Christianity amidst the chaotic turmoil of the great migration, and must become a training-school for the barbarian nations of the middle age.1
In this process of training, next to the Holy Scriptures, the scholarship of Jerome and the theology and fertile ideas of Augustin were the most important intellectual agents.
Augustin was held in so universal esteem that he could exert influence in all directions, and even in his excesses gave no offence. He was sufficiently catholic for the principle of church authority, and yet at the same time so free and evangelical that he modified its hierarchical and sacramental character, reacted against its tendencies to outward, mechanical ritualism, and kept alive a deep consciousness of sin and grace, and a spirit of fervent and truly Christian piety, until that spirit grew strong enough to break the shell of hierarchical tutelage, and enter a new stage of its development. No other father could have acted more beneficently on the Catholicism of the middle age, and more successfully provided for the evangelical Reformation than St. Augustin, the worthy successor of Paul, and the precursor of Luther and Calvin.
He had lived at the time of the Reformation, he would in all probability have taken the lead of the evangelical movement against the prevailing Pelagianism of the Roman Church, though he would not have gone so far as Luther or Calvin. For we must not forget that, notwithstanding their strong affinity, there is an important difference between Catholicism and Romanism or Popery. They sustain a similar relation to each other as the Judaism of the Old Testament dispensation, which looked to, and prepared the way for, Christianity, and the Judaism after the crucifixion and after the destruction of Jerusalem, which is antagonistic to Christianity. Catholicism covers the entire ancient and mediæval history of the church, and includes the Pauline, Augustinian, or evangelical tendencies which increased with the corruptions of the papacy and the growing sense of the necessity of a “reformatio in capite et membris.” Romanism proper dates from the council of Trent, which gave it symbolical expression and anathematized the doctrines of the Reformation. Catholicism is the strength of Romanism, Romanism is the weakness of Catholicism. Catholicism produced Jansenism, Popery condemned it. Popery never forgets and never learns anything, and can allow no change in doctrine (except by way of addition), without sacrificing its fundamental principle of infallibility, and thus committing suicide. But Catholicism may ultimately burst the chains of Popery which have so long kept it confined, and may assume new life and vigour.
Such a personage as Augustin, still holding a mediating place between the two great divisions of Christendom, revered alike by both, and of equal influence with both, is furthermore a welcome pledge of the elevating prospect of a future reconciliation of Catholicism and Protestantism in a higher unity, conserving all the truths, losing all the errors, forgiving all the sins, forgetting all the enmities of both. After all, the contradiction between authority and freedom, the objective and the subjective, the churchly and the personal, the organic and the individual, the sacramental and the experimental in religion, is not absolute, but relative and temporary, and arises not so much from the nature of things, as from the deficiencies of man’s knowledge and piety in this world. These elements admit of an ultimate harmony in the perfect state of the church, corresponding to the union of the divine and human natures, which transcends the limits of finite thought and logical comprehension, and is yet completely realized in the person of Christ. They are in fact united in the theological system of St. Paul, who had the highest view of the church, as the mystical “body of Christ,” and “the pillar and ground of the truth,” and who was at the same time the great champion of evangelical freedom, individual responsibility, and personal union of the believer with his Saviour. We believe in and hope for one holy catholic apostolic church, one communion of saints, one flock, one Shepherd. The more the different churches become truly Christian, the nearer they draw to Christ, and the more they labor for His kingdom which rises above them all, the nearer will they come to one another. For Christ is the common head and vital centre of all believers, and the divine harmony of all discordant human sects and creeds. In Christ, says Pascal, one of the greatest and noblest disciples of Augustin, In Christ all contradictions are solved.
CHIEF EVENTS IN THE LIFE OF ST. AUGUSTIN,
(AS GIVEN, NEARLY, IN THE BENEDICTINE EDITION).354. Augustin born at Tagaste, Nov. 13; his parents, Patricius and Monnica; shortly afterwards enrolled among the Catechumens. 370. Returns home from studying Rhetoric at Madaura, after an idle childhood, and from idleness falls into dissipation and sin. 371. Patricius dies; Augustin supported at Carthage by his mother, and his friend Romanianus; forms an illicit connection. 372. Birth of his son Adeodatus. 373. Cicero’s Hortensius awakens in him a strong desire for true wisdom. 374. He falls into the Manichæan heresy, and seduces several of his acquaintances into it. His mother’s earnest prayers for him; she is assured of his recovery. 376. Teaches Grammar at Tagaste; but soon returns to Carthage to teach Rhetoric—gains a prize. 379. Is recovered from study of Astrology—writes his books De pulchro et apto. 382. Discovers the Manichæans to be in error, but falls into scepticism. Goes to Rome to teach Rhetoric. 385. Removes to Milan; his errors gradually removed through the teaching of Ambrose, but he is held back by the flesh; becomes again a Catechumen. 386. Studies St. Paul; converted through a voice from heaven; gives up his profession; writes against the Academics; prepares for Baptism. 387. Is baptized by Bishop Ambrose, with his son Adeodatus. Death of his mother, Monnica, in her fifty-sixth year, at Ostia. 388. Aug. revisits Rome, and then returns to Africa. Adeodatus, full of promise, dies. 389. Aug. against his will ordained Presbyter at Hippo by Valerius, its Bishop. 392. Writes against the Manichæans. 394. Writes against the Donatists. 395. Ordained Assistant Bishop to Valerius, toward the end of the year. 396. Death of Bishop Valerius. Augustin elected his successor. 397. Aug. writes the Confessions, and the De Tinitate against the Arians. 398. Is present at the fourth Council of Carthage. 402. Refutes the Epistle of Petilianus, a Donatist. 404. Applies to Cæcilianus for protection against the savageness of the Donatists. 408. Writes De urbis Romæ obsidione. 411. Takes a prominent part in a conference between the Catholic Bishops and the Donatists. 413. Begins the composition of his great work De Civitate Dei, completed in 426. 417. Writes De gestis Palæstinæ synodi circa Pelagium. 420. Writes against the Priscillianists. 424. Writes against the Semipelagians. 426. Appoints Heraclius his successor. 428. Writes the Retractations. 429. Answers the Epistles of Prosper and Hilary. 430. Dies Aug. 28, in the third month of the siege of Hippo by the Vandals. THE CONFESSIONS OF ST. AUGUSTIN.
vicar of st. mark’s, west hackney; and sometime clerical secretary of the bishop of london’s fund.
“Thou hast formed us for Thyself, and our hearts are restless till they find rest in Thee.”
—Confessions, i. 1.
“The joy of the solemn service of Thy house constraineth to tears, when it is read of Thy younger son [Luke xv. 24] ‘that he was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.’ ”
—Ibid. viii. 6.
TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE.
“If St. Augustin,” says Nourrisson,1 “had left nothing but his Confessions and the City of God, one could readily understand the respectful sympathy that surrounds his memory. How, indeed, could one fail to admire in the City of God the flight of genius, and in the Confessions, what is better still, the effusions of a great soul?” It may be safely predicted, that while the mind of man yearns for knowledge, and his heart seeks rest, the Confessions will retain that foremost place in the world’s literature which it has secured by its sublime outpourings of devotion and profound philosophical spirit. There is in the book a wonderful combination of childlike piety and intellectual power. Desjardins’ idea,2 that, while in Augustin’s other works we see the philosopher or the controversialist, here we see the man, is only to be accepted as a comparative statement of Augustin’s attitude in the Confessions; for philosophy and piety are in many of his reflections as it were molten into one homogeneous whole. In his highest intellectual flights we find the breathings of faith and love, and, amid the profoundest expressions of penitential sorrow, gleams of his metaphysical genius appear.
It may, indeed, be from the man’s showing himself so little, as distinguished from the philosopher, that some readers are a little disappointed in the book. They have expected to meet with a copiousness of biographic details, and have found, commingled with such as are given, long disquisitions on Manichæanism, Time, Creation, and Memory. To avoid such disappointment we must ascertain the author’s design. The book is emphatically not an autobiography. There is in it an outline of the author’s life up to his mother’s death; but only so much of detail is given as may subserve his main purpose. That purpose is clearly explained in the fourth section of his Tenth Book. It was that the impenitent on reading it might not say, “I cannot,” and “sleep in despair,” but rather that, looking to that God who had raised the writer from his low estate of pride and sin to be a pillar of the Church, he might take courage, and “awake in the sweetness of His grace, by which he that is weak is made strong;” and that those no longer in sin might rejoice and praise God as they heard of the past lusts of him who was now freed from them.3 This, his design of encouraging penitence and stimulating praise, is referred to in his Retractations,4 and in his Letter to Darius.5
These two main ideas are embodied in the very meaning of the title of the book, the word confession having, as Augustin constantly urges, two meanings. In his exposition of the Psalms we read: “Confession is understood in two senses, of our sins, and of God’s praise. Confession of our sins is well known, so well known to all the people, that whenever they hear the name of confession in the lessons, whether it is said in praise or of sin, they beat their breasts.”6 Again: “Confession of sin all know, but confession of praise few attend to.”7 “The former but showeth the wound to the physician, the latter giveth thanks for health.”8 He would therefore have his hearers make the sacrifice of praise their ideal, since, in the City of God, even in the New Jerusalem, there will be no longer confession of sin, but there will be confession of praise.9 It is not surprising, that with this view of confession he should hinge on the incidents of his life such considerations as tend to elevate the mind and heart of the reader. When, for example, he speaks of his youthful sins,10 he diverges into a disquisition on the motives to sin; when his friend dies,11 he moralizes on death; and—to give one example of a reverse process—his profound psychological review of memory12 recalls his former sin (which at times haunts him in his dreams), and leads up to devout reflections on God’s power to cleanse from sin. This undertone of penitence and praise which pervades the Confessions in all its episodes, like the golden threads which run through the texture of an Eastern garment, presents one of its peculiar charms.
It would not be right to overlook a charge that has been brought against the book by Lord Byron. He says, “Augustin in his fine Confessions makes the reader envy his transgressions.” Nothing could be more reckless or further from the truth than this charge. There is here no dwelling on his sin, or painting it so as to satisfy a prurient imagination. As we have already remarked, Augustin’s manner is not to go into detail further than to find a position from which to “edify” the reader, and he treats this episode in his life with his characteristic delicacy and reticence. His sin was dead; and he had carried it to its burial with tears of repentance. And when, ten years after his baptism, he sets himself, at the request of some, to a consideration of what he then was at the moment of making his confessions,1 he refers hardly at all to this sin of his youth; and such allusions as he does make are of the most casual kind. Instead of enlarging upon it, he treats it as past, and only speaks of temptation and sin as they are common to all men. Many of the French writers on the Confessions2 institute a comparison in this matter between the confessions of Augustin and those of Rousseau. Pressensé3 draws attention to the delicacy and reserve which characterise the one, and the arrogant defiance of God and man manifested in the other. The confessions of the one he speaks of as “un grand acte de repentir et d’amour;” and eloquently says, “In it he seems, like the Magdalen, to have spread his box of perfumes at the foot of the Saviour; from his stricken heart there exhales the incense most agreeable to God—the homage of true penitence.” The other he truly describes as uttering “a cry of triumph in the very midst of his sin, and robing his shame in a royal purple.” Well may Desjardins4 express surprise at a book of such foulness coming from a genius so great; and perhaps his solution of the enigma is not far from the truth, when he attributes it to an overweening vanity and egotism.5
It is right to point out, in connection with this part of our subject, that in regard to some at least of Augustin’s self-accusations,6 there may be a little of that pious exaggeration of his sinfulness which, as Lord Macaulay points out in his essays on Bunyan,7 frequently characterises deep penitence. But however this may be, justice requires us to remember, in considering his transgression, that from his very childhood he had been surrounded by a condition of civilisation presenting manifold temptations. Carthage, where he spent a large part of his life, had become, since its restoration and colonization under Augustus Cæsar, an “exceeding great city,” in wealth and importance next to Rome.8 “African Paganism,” says Pressensé,9 “was half Asiatic; the ancient worship of nature, the adoration of Astarte, had full licence in the city of Carthage; Dido had become a mythological being, whom this dissolute city had made its protecting divinity, and it is easy to recognise in her the great goddess of Phœnicia under a new name.” The luxury of the period is described by Jerome and Tertullian, when they denounce the custom of painting the face and tiring the head, and the prodigality that would give 25,000 golden crowns for a veil, immense revenues for a pair of ear-rings, and the value of a forest or an island for a head-dress.10 And Jerome, in one of his epistles, gives an illustration of the Church’s relation to the Pagan world at that time, when he represents an old priest of Jupiter with his grand-daughter, a catechumen, on his knee, who responds to his caresses by singing canticles.11 It was a time when we can imagine one of Augustin’s parents going to the Colosseum, and enjoying the lasciviousness of its displays, and its gladiatorial shows, with their contempt of human life; while the other carefully shunned such scenes, as being under the ban of the teachers of the Church.12 It was an age in which there was action and reaction between religion and philosophy; but in which the power of Christianity was so great in its influences on Paganism, that some received the Christian Scriptures only to embody in their phraseology the ideas of heathenism. Of this last point Manichæanism presents an illustration. Now all these influences left their mark on Augustin. In his youth he plunged deep into the pleasures of his day; and we know how he endeavoured to find in Manichæanism a solution of those speculations which haunted his subtle and inquiring mind. Augustin at this time, then, is not to be taken as a type of what Christianity produced. He is to a great extent the outgrowth of the Pagan influences of the time. Considerations such as these may enable us to judge of his early sin more justly than if we measured it by our own privileges and opportunities.
The style of Augustin is sometimes criticised as not having the refinement of Virgil, Horace, or Cicero. But it should be remembered that he wrote in a time of national decay; and further, as Desjardins has remarked in the introduction to his essay, he had no time “to cut his phrases.” From the period of his conversion to that of his death, he was constantly engaged in controversy with this or that heresy; and if he did not write with classical accuracy, he so inspired the language with his genius, and moulded it by his fire,13 that it appears almost to pulsate with the throbbings of his brain. He seems likewise to have despised mere elegance, for in his Confessions,14 when speaking of the style of Faustus, he says, “What profit to me was the elegance of my cup-bearer, since he offered me not the more precious draught for which I thirsted?” In this connection the remarks of Collenges1 are worthy of note. He says, when anticipating objections that might be made to his own style: “It was the last of my study; my opinion always was what Augustin calls diligens negligentia was the best diligence as to that; while I was yet a very young man I had learned out of him that it was no solecism in a preacher to use ossum for os, for (saith he) an iron key is better than one made of gold if it will better open the door, for that is all the use of the key. I had learned out of Hierom that a gaudry of phrases and words in a pulpit is but signum insipientiæ. The words of a preacher, saith he, ought pungere, non palpare, to prick the heart, not to smooth and coax. The work of anorat or is too precarious for a minister of the gospel. Gregory observed that our Saviour had not styled us the sugar but the salt of the earth, and Augustin observeth, that through Cyprian in one epistle showed much of a florid orator, to show he could do it, yet he never would do so any more, to show he would not.”
There are several features in the Confessions deserving of remark, as being of special interest to the philosopher, the historian or the divine.
1. Chiefest amongst these is the intense desire for knowledge and the love of truth which characterised Augustin. This was noticeable before his conversion in his hungering after such knowledge as Manichæanism and the philosophy of the time could afford.2 It is none the less observable in that better time, when, in his quiet retreat at Cassiciacum, he sought to strengthen the foundations of his faith, and resolved to give himself up to the acquisition of divine knowledge.3 It was seen, too, in the many conflicts in which he was engaged with Donatists, Manichæans, Arians, and Pelagians, and in his earnest study of the deep things of God. This love of knowledge is perhaps conveyed in the beautiful legend quoted by Nourisson,4 of the monk wrapped in spirit, who expressed astonishment at not seeing Augustin among the elect in heaven. “He is higher up,” he was answered, “he is standing before the Holy Trinity disputing thereon for all eternity.”
While from the time of his conversion we find him holding on to the fundamental doctrines of the faith with the tenacity of one who had experienced the hollowness of the teachings of philosophy,5 this passion for truth led him to handle most freely subjects of speculation in things non-essential.6 But whether viewed as a controversialist, a student of Scripture, or a bishop of the Church of God, he ever manifests those qualities of mind and heart that gained for him not only the affection of the Church, but the esteem of his unorthodox opponents. To quote Guizot’s discriminating words, there was in him “ce mélange de passion et de douceur, d’autorité et de sympathie, d’étendue d’esprit et de rigueur logique, qui lui donnait un si rare pouvoir.”7
2. It is to this eager desire for truth in his many-sided mind that we owe those trains of thought that read like forecasts of modern opinion. We have called attention to some such anticipations of modern thought as they recur in the notes throughout the book; but the speculations on Memory, Time, and Creation, which occupy so large a space in Books Ten and Eleven, deserve more particular notice. The French essayists have entered very fully into these questions. M. Saisset, in his admirable introduction to the De Civitate Dei,8 reviews Augustin’s theories as to the mysterious problems connected with the idea of Creation. He says, that in his subtle analysis of Time, and in his attempt at reconciling “the eternity of creative action with the dependence of things created, . . . he has touched with a bold and delicate hand one of the deepest mysteries of the human mind, and that to all his glorious titles he has added another, that of an ingenious psychologist and an eminent metaphysician.” Desjardins likewise commends the depth of Augustin’s speculations as to Time,9 and maintains that no one’s teaching as to Creation has shown more clearness, boldness, and vigor—avoiding the perils of dualism on the one hand, and atheism on the other.10 In his remarks on Augustin’s disquisitions on the phenomena of Memory, his praise is of a more qualified character. He compares his theories with those of Malebranche, and, while recognising the practical and animated character of his descriptions, thinks him obscure in his delineation of the manner in which absent realities reproduce themselves on the memory.11
We have had occasion in the notes to refer to the Unseen Universe. The authors of this powerful “Apologia” for Christianity propose it chiefly as an antidote to the materialistic disbelief in the immortality of the soul amongst scientific men, which has resulted in this age from the recent advance in physical science; just as in the last century English deism had its rise in a similar influence. It is curious, in connection with this part of our subject, to note that in leading up to the conclusion at which he arrives, M. Saisset quotes a passage from the City of God,1 which contains an adumbration of the theory of the above work in regard to the eternity of the invisible universe.2 Verily, the saying of the wise man is true: “The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done, is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.”3
3. We have already, in a previous paragraph, briefly adverted to the influence Christianity and Paganism had one on the other. The history of Christianity has been a steady advance on Paganism and Pagan philosophy; but it can hardly be denied that in this advance there has been an absorption—and in some periods in no small degree—of some of their elements. As these matters have been examined in the notes, we need not do more than refer the reader to the Index of Subjects for the evidence to be obtained in this respect from the Confessions on such matters as Baptism, False Miracles, and Prayers for the Dead.
4. There is one feature in the Confessions which we should not like to pass unnoticed. A reference to the Retractations4 will show that Augustin highly appreciated the spiritual use to which the book might be put in the edification of the brethren. We believe that it will prove most useful in this way; and spiritual benefit will accrue in proportion to the steadiness of its use. We would venture to suggest that Book X., from section 37 to the end, may be profitably used as a manual of self-examination. We have pointed out in a note, that in his comment on the 8th Psalm he makes our Lord’s three temptations to be types of all the temptations to which man can be subjected; and makes them correspond in their order, as given by St. Matthew, to “the Lust of the Flesh, the Lust of the Eyes, and the Pride of Life,” mentioned by St. John.5 Under each of these heads we have, in this part of the Confessions, a most severe examination of conscience; and the impression is deepened by his allegorically likening the three divisions of temptation to the beasts of the field, the fish of the sea, and the birds of the air.6 We have already remarked, in adverting to allegorical interpretation,7 that where “the strict use of the history is not disregarded,” to use Augustin’s expression, allegorizing, by way of spiritual meditation, may be profitable. Those who employ it with this idea will find their interpretations greatly aided, and made more systematic, by realizing Augustin’s methods here and in the last two books of the Confessions,—as when he makes the sea to represent the wicked world, and the fruitful earth the Church.8
It only remains to call attention to the principles on which this translation and its annotations have been made. The text of the Benedictine edition has been followed; but the head-lines of the chapters are taken from the edition of Bruder, as being the more definite and full. After carefully translating the whole of the book, it has been compared, line by line, with the translation of Watts9 (one of the most nervous translations of the seventeenth century), and that of Dr. Pusey, which is confessedly founded upon that of Watts. Reference has also been made, in the case of obscure passages, to the French translation of Du Bois, and the English translation of the first Ten Books alluded to in the note on Bk. ix. ch. 12. The references to Scripture are in the words of the Authorized Version wherever the sense will bear it; and whenever noteworthy variations from our version occur, they are indicated by references to the old Italic version, or to the Vulgate. In some cases, where Augustin has clearly referred to the LXX. in order to amend his version thereby, such variations are indicated.10 The annotations are, for the most part, such as have been derived from the translator’s own reading. Two exceptions, however, must be made. Out of upwards of four hundred notes, some forty are taken from the annotations in Pusey and Watts, but in every case these have been indicated by the initials E. B. P. or W. W. Dr. Pusey’s annotations (which will be found chiefly in the earlier part of this work) consist almost entirely of quotations from other works of Augustin. These annotations are very copious, and Dr. Pusey explains that he resorted to this method “partly because this plan of illustrating St. Augustin out of himself had been already adopted by M. Du Bois in his Latin edition . . . and it seemed a pity not to use valuable materials ready collected to one’s hand. The far greater part of these illustrations are taken from that edition.” It seemed the most proper course, in using such notes of Du Bois as appeared suitable for this edition, to take them from Dr. Pusey’s edition, and, as above stated, to indicate their source by his initials. A Textual Index has been added, for the first time, to this edition, and both it and the Index of Subjects have been prepared with the greatest possible care.
J. G. P.
St. Mark’s Vicarage, West Hackney, 1876.
THE OPINION OF ST. AUGUSTIN
CONCERNING HIS CONFESSIONS, AS EMBODIED IN HIS RETRACTATIONS,ii. 61. “The Thirteen Books of my Confessions whether they refer to my evil or good, praise the just and good God, and stimulate the heart and mind of man to approach unto Him. And, as far as pertaineth unto me, they wrought this in me when they were written, and this they work when they are read. What some think of them they may have seen, but that they have given much pleasure, and do give pleasure, to many brethren I know. From the First to the Tenth they have been written of myself; in the remaining three, of the Sacred Scriptures, from the text, ‘In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth,’ even to the rest of the Sabbath (Gen. i. 1, ii. 2).”
2. “In the Fourth Book, when I acknowledged the distress of my mind at the death of a friend, saying, that our soul, though one, had been in some manner made out of two; and therefore, I say, perchance was I afraid to die lest he should die wholly whom I had so much loved (chap. vi.);—this seems to me as if it were a light declamation rather than a grave confession, although this folly may in some sort be tempered by that ‘perchance’ which follows. And in the Thirteenth Book (chap. xxxii.) what I said, viz.: that the ‘firmament was made between the spiritual upper waters, and the corporeal lower waters,’ was said without due consideration; but the thing is very obscure.”
[In Ep. ad Darium, Ep. ccxxxi. c. 6, written 429, Augustin says: “Accept, my son, the books containing my Confessions which you desired to have. In these behold me that you may not praise me more than I deserve; there believe what is said of me, not by others, but by myself; there mark me, and see what I have been in myself, by myself; and if anything in me please you, join me in praising Him to whom, and not to myself, I desired praise to be given. For ‘He hath made us, and not we ourselves’ (Ps. l. 3). Indeed, we had destroyed ourselves, but He who made us has made us anew (qui fecit, refecit). When, however, you find me in these books, pray for me that I may not fail, but be perfected (ne deficiam, sed perficiar). Pray, my son, pray. I feel what I say; I know what I ask.”—P. S.]
[De Dono Perseverantiæ, c. 20 (53): “Which of my smaller works could be more widely known or give greater pleasure than my Confessions? And although I published them before the Pelagian heresy had come into existence, certainly in them I said to my God, and said it frequently, ‘Give what Thou commandest, and command what Thou willest’ (Conf. x. 19, 31, 37). Which words of mine, Pelagius at Rome, when they were mentioned in his presence by a certain brother and fellow-bishop of mine, could not bear. . . . Moreover in those same books . . . I showed that I was granted to the faithful and daily tears of my mother, that I should not perish. There certainly I declared that God by His grace converted the will of men to the true faith, not only when they had been turned away from it, but even when they were opposed to it.”—P. S.]
THE THIRTEEN BOOKS OF THE CONFESSIONS OF ST. AUR. AUGUSTIN, BISHOP OF HIPPO.
BOOK I.
COMMENCING WITH THE INVOCATION OF GOD, AUGUSTIN RELATES IN DETAIL THE BEGINNING OF HIS LIFE, HIS INFANCY AND BOYHOOD, UP TO HIS FIFTEENTH YEAR; AT WHICH AGE HE ACKNOWLEDGES THAT HE WAS MORE INCLINED TO ALL YOUTHFUL PLEASURES AND VICES THAN TO THE STUDY OF LETTERS.
CHAP. I.—
HE PROCLAIMS THE GREATNESS OF GOD, WHOM HE DESIRES TO SEEK AND INVOKE, BEING AWAKENED BY HIM.
1. Great art Thou, O Lord, and greatly to be praised; great is Thy power, and of Thy wisdom there is no end.1 And man, being a part of Thy creation, desires to praise Thee,—man, who bears about with him his mortality, the witness of his sin, even the witness that Thou “resistest the proud,”2 —yet man, this part of Thy creation, desires to praise Thee.3 Thou movest us to delight in praising Thee; for Thou has formed us for Thyself, and our hearts are restless till they find rest in Thee.4 Lord, teach me to know and understand which of these should be first, to call on Thee, or to praise Thee; and likewise to know Thee, or to call upon Thee. But who is there that calls upon Thee without knowing Thee? For he that knows Thee not may call upon Thee as other than Thou art. Or perhaps we call on Thee that we may know Thee. “But how shall they call on Him in whom they have not believed? or how shall they believe without a preacher?”5 And those who seek the Lord shall praise Him.6 For those who seek shall find Him,7 and those who find Him shall praise Him. Let me seek Thee, Lord, in calling on Thee, and call on Thee in believing in Thee; for Thou hast been preached unto us. O Lord, my faith calls on Thee,—that faith which Thou hast imparted to me, which Thou hast breathed into me through the incarnation of Thy Son, through the ministry of Thy preacher.8
CHAP. II.—
THAT THE GOD WHOM WE INVOKE IS IN US, AND WE IN HIM.
2. And how shall I call upon my God—my God and my Lord? For when I call on Him I ask Him to come into me. And what place is there in me into which my God can come—into which God can come, even He who made heaven and earth? Is there anything in me, O Lord my God, that can contain Thee? Do indeed the very heaven and the earth, which Thou hast made, and in which Thou hast made me, contain Thee? Or, as nothing could exist without Thee, doth whatever exists contain Thee? Why, then, do I ask Thee to come into me, since I indeed exist, and could not exist if Thou wert not in me? Because I am not yet in hell, though Thou art even there; for “if I go down into hell Thou art there.”1 I could not therefore exist, could not exist at all, O my God, unless Thou wert in me. Or should I not rather say, that I could not exist unless I were in Thee from whom are all things, by whom are all things, in whom are all things?2 Even so, Lord; even so. Where do I call Thee to, since Thou art in me, or whence canst Thou come into me? For where outside heaven and earth can I go that from thence my God may come into me who has said, I fill heaven and earth”?3
CHAP. III.—
EVERYWHERE GOD WHOLLY FILLETH ALL THINGS, BUT NEITHER HEAVEN NOR EARTH CONTAINETH HIM.
3. Since, then, Thou fillest heaven and earth, do they contain Thee? Or, as they contain Thee not, dost Thou fill them, and yet there remains something over? And where dost Thou pour forth that which remaineth of Thee when the heaven and earth are filled? Or, indeed, is there no need that Thou who containest all things shouldest be contained of any, since those things which Thou fillest Thou fillest by containing them? For the vessels which Thou fillest do not sustain Thee, since should they even be broken Thou wilt not be poured forth. And when Thou art poured forth on us,4 Thou art not cast down, but we are uplifted; nor art Thou dissipated, but we are drawn together. But, as Thou fillest all things, dost Thou fill them with Thy whole self, or, as even all things cannot altogether contain Thee, do they contain a part, and do all at once contain the same part? Or has each its own proper part—the greater more, the smaller less? Is, then, one part of Thee greater, another less? Or is it that Thou art wholly everywhere whilst nothing altogether contains Thee?5
CHAP. IV.—
THE MAJESTY OF GOD IS SUPREME, AND HIS VIRTUES INEXPLICABLE.
4. What, then, art Thou, O my God—what, I ask, but the Lord God? For who is Lord but the Lord? or who is God save our God?6 Most high, most excellent, most potent, most omnipotent; most piteous and most just; most hidden and most near; most beauteous and most strong, stable, yet contained of none; unchangeable, yet changing all things; never new, never old; making all things new, yet bringing old age upon the proud and they know it not; always working, yet ever at rest; gathering, yet needing nothing; sustaining, pervading, and protecting; creating, nourishing, and developing; seeking, and yet possessing all things. Thou lovest, and burnest not; art jealous, yet free from care; repentest, and hast no sorrow; art angry, yet serene; changest Thy ways, leaving unchanged Thy plans; recoverest what Thou findest, having yet never lost; art never in want, whilst Thou rejoicest in gain; never covetous, though requiring usury.7 That Thou mayest owe, more than enough is given to Thee;8 yet who hath anything that is not Thine? Thou payest debts while owing nothing; and when Thou forgivest debts, losest nothing. Yet, O my God, my life, my holy joy, what is this that I have said? And what saith any man when He speaks of Thee? Yet woe to them that keep silence, seeing that even they who say most are as the dumb.9
CHAP. V.—
HE SEEKS REST IN GOD, AND PARDON OF HIS SINS.
5. Oh! how shall I find rest in Thee? Who will send Thee into my heart to inebriate it, so that I may forget my woes, and embrace Thee, my only good? What art Thou to me? Have compassion on me, that I may speak. What am I to Thee that Thou demandest my love, and unless I give it Thee art angry, and threatenest me with great sorrows? Is it, then, a light sorrow not to love Thee? Alas! alas! tell me of Thy compassion, O Lord my God, what Thou art to me. “Say unto my soul, I am thy salvation.”10 So speak that I may hear. Behold, Lord, the ears of my heart are before Thee; open Thou them, and “say unto my soul, I am thy salvation.” When I hear, may I run and lay hold on Thee. Hide not Thy face from me. Let me die, lest I die, if only I may see Thy face.11
6. Cramped is the dwelling of my soul; do Thou expand it, that Thou mayest enter in. It is in ruins, restore Thou it. There is that about it which must offend Thine eyes; I confess and know it, but who will cleanse it? or to whom shall I cry but to Thee? Cleanse me from my secret sins,1 O Lord, and keep Thy servant from those of other men. I believe, and therefore do I speak;2 Lord, Thou knowest. Have I not confessed my transgressions unto Thee, O my God; and Thou hast put away the iniquity of my heart?3 I do not contend in judgment with Thee,4 who art the Truth; and I would not deceive myself, lest my iniquity lie against itself.5 I do not, therefore, contend in judgment with Thee, for “if Thou, Lord, shouldest mark iniquities, O Lord, who shall stand?”6
CHAP. VI.—
HE DESCRIBES HIS INFANCY, AND LAUDS THE PROTECTION AND ETERNAL PROVIDENCE OF GOD.
7. Still suffer me to speak before Thy mercy—me, “dust and ashes.”7 Suffer me to speak, for, behold, it is Thy mercy I address, and not derisive man. Yet perhaps even Thou deridest me; but when Thou art turned to me Thou wilt have compassion on me.8 For what do I wish to say, O Lord my God, but that I know not whence I came hither into this—shall I call it dying life or living death? Yet, as I have heard from my parents, from whose substance Thou didst form me,—for I myself cannot remember it,—Thy merciful comforts sustained me. Thus it was that the comforts of a woman’s milk entertained me; for neither my mother nor my nurses filled their own breasts, but Thou by them didst give me the nourishment of infancy according to Thy ordinance and that bounty of Thine which underlieth all things. For Thou didst cause me not to want more than Thou gavest, and those who nourished me willingly to give me what Thou gavest them. For they, by an instinctive affection, were anxious to give me what Thou hadst abundantly supplied. It was, in truth, good for them that my good should come from them, though, indeed, it was not from them, but by them; for from Thee, O God, are all good things, and from my God is all my safety.9 This is what I have since discovered, as Thou hast declared Thyself to me by the blessings both within me and without me which Thou hast bestowed upon me. For at that time I knew how to suck, to be satisfied when comfortable, and to cry when in pain—nothing beyond.
8. Afterwards I began to laugh,—at first in sleep, then when waking. For this I have heard mentioned of myself, and I believe it (though I cannot remember it), for we see the same in other infants. And now little by little I realized where I was, and wished to tell my wishes to those who might satisfy them, but I could not; for my wants were within me, while they were without, and could not by any faculty of theirs enter into my soul. So I cast about limbs and voice, making the few and feeble signs I could, like, though indeed not much like, unto what I wished; and when I was not satisfied—either not being understood, or because it would have been injurious to me—I grew indignant that my elders were not subject unto me, and that those on whom I had no claim did not wait on me, and avenged myself on them by tears. That infants are such I have been able to learn by watching them; and they, though unknowing, have better shown me that I was such an one than my nurses who knew it.
9. And, behold, my infancy died long ago, and I live. But Thou, O Lord, who ever livest, and in whom nothing dies (since before the world was, and indeed before all that can be called “before,” Thou existest, and art the God and Lord of all Thy creatures; and with Thee fixedly abide the causes of all unstable things, the unchanging sources of all things changeable, and the eternal reasons of all things unreasoning and temporal), tell me, Thy suppliant, O God; tell, O merciful One, Thy miserable servant10 —tell me whether my infancy succeeded another age of mine which had at that time perished. Was it that which I passed in my mother’s womb? For of that something has been made known to me, and I have myself seen women with child. And what, O God, my joy, preceded that life? Was I, indeed, anywhere, or anybody? For no one can tell me these things, neither father nor mother, nor the experience of others, nor my own memory. Dost Thou laugh at me for asking such things, and command me to praise and confess Thee for what I know?
10. I give thanks to Thee, Lord of heaven and earth, giving praise to Thee for that my first being and infancy, of which I have no memory; for Thou hast granted to man that from others he should come to conclusions as to himself, and that he should believe many things concerning himself on the authority of feeble women. Even then I had life and being; and as my infancy closed I was already seeking for signs by which my feelings might be made known to others. Whence could such a creature come but from Thee, O Lord? Or shall any man be skilful enough to fashion himself? Or is there any other vein by which being and life runs into us save this, that “Thou, O Lord, hast made us,”1 with whom being and life are one, because Thou Thyself art being and life in the highest? Thou art the highest, “Thou changest not,”2 neither in Thee doth this present day come to an end, though it doth end in Thee, since in Thee all such things are; for they would have no way of passing away unless Thou sustainedst them. And since “Thy years shall have no end,”3 Thy years are an ever present day. And how many of ours and our fathers’ days have passed through this Thy day, and received from it their measure and fashion of being, and others yet to come shall so receive and pass away! “But Thou art the same;”4 and all the things of to-morrow and the days yet to come, and all of yesterday and the days that are past, Thou wilt do to-day, Thou hast done to-day. What is it to me if any understand not? Let him still rejoice and say, “What is this?”5 Let him rejoice even so, and rather love to discover in failing to discover, than in discovering not to discover Thee.
CHAP. VII.—
HE SHOWS BY EXAMPLE THAT EVEN INFANCY IS PRONE TO SIN.
11. Hearken, O God! Alas for the sins of men! Man saith this, and Thou dost compassionate him; for Thou didst create him, but didst not create the sin that is in him. Who bringeth to my remembrance the sin of my infancy? For before Thee none is free from sin, not even the infant which has lived but a day upon the earth. Who bringeth this to my remembrance? Doth not each little one, in whom I behold that which I do not remember of myself? In what, then, did I sin? Is it that I cried for the breast? If I should now so cry,—not indeed for the breast, but for the food suitable to my years,—I should be most justly laughed at and rebuked. What I then did deserved rebuke; but as I could not understand those who rebuked me, neither custom nor reason suffered me to be rebuked. For as we grow we root out and cast from us such habits. I have not seen any one who is wise, when “purging”6 anything cast away the good. Or was it good, even for a time, to strive to get by crying that which, if given, would be hurtful—to be bitterly indignant that those who were free and its elders, and those to whom it owed its being, besides many others wiser than it, who would not give way to the nod of its good pleasure, were not subject unto it—to endeavour to harm, by struggling as much as it could, because those commands were not obeyed which only could have been obeyed to its hurt? Then, in the weakness of the infant’s limbs, and not in its will, lies its innocency. I myself have seen and known an infant to be jealous though it could not speak. It became pale, and cast bitter looks on its foster-brother. Who is ignorant of this? Mothers and nurses tell us that they appease these things by I know not what remedies; and may this be taken for innocence, that when the fountain of milk is flowing fresh and abundant, one who has need should not be allowed to share it, though needing that nourishment to sustain life? Yet we look leniently on these things, not because they are not faults, nor because the faults are small, but because they will vanish as age increases. For although you may allow these things now, you could not bear them with equanimity if found in an older person.
12. Thou, therefore, O Lord my God, who gavest life to the infant, and a frame which, as we see, Thou hast endowed with senses, compacted with limbs, beautified with form, and, for its general good and safety, hast introduced all vital energies—Thou commandest me to praise Thee for these things, “to give thanks unto the Lord, and to sing praise unto Thy name, O Most High;”7 for Thou art a God omnipotent and good, though Thou hadst done nought but these things, which none other can do but Thou, who alone madest all things, O Thou most fair, who madest all things fair, and orderest all according to Thy law. This period, then, of my life, O Lord, of which I have no remembrance, which I believe on the word of others, and which I guess from other infants, it chagrins me—true though the guess be—to reckon in this life of mine which I lead in this world; inasmuch as, in the darkness of my forgetfulness, it is like to that which I passed in my mother’s womb. But if “I was shapen in iniquity, and in sin did my mother conceive me,”1 where, I pray thee, O my God, where, Lord, or when was I, Thy servant, innocent? But behold, I pass by that time, for what have I to do with that, the memories of which I cannot recall?
CHAP. VIII.—
THAT WHEN A BOY HE LEARNED TO SPEAK, NOT BY ANY SET METHOD, BUT FROM THE ACTS AND WORDS OF HIS PARENTS.
13. Did I not, then, growing out of the state of infancy, come to boyhood, or rather did it not come to me, and succeed to infancy? Nor did my infancy depart (for whither went it?); and yet it did no longer abide, for I was no longer an infant that could not speak, but a chattering boy. I remember this, and I afterwards observed how I first learned to speak, for my elders did not teach me words in any set method, as they did letters afterwards; but I myself, when I was unable to say all I wished and to whomsoever I desired, by means of the whimperings and broken utterances and various motions of my limbs, which I used to enforce my wishes, repeated the sounds in my memory by the mind, O my God, which Thou gavest me. When they called anything by name, and moved the body towards it while they spoke, I saw and gathered that the thing they wished to point out was called by the name they then uttered; and that they did mean this was made plain by the motion of the body, even by the natural language of all nations expressed by the countenance, glance of the eye, movement of other members, and by the sound of the voice indicating the affections of the mind, as it seeks, possesses, rejects, or avoids. So it was that by frequently hearing words, in duly placed sentences, I gradually gathered what things they were the signs of; and having formed my mouth to the utterance of these signs, I thereby expressed my will.2 Thus I exchanged with those about me the signs by which we express our wishes, and advanced deeper into the stormy fellowship of human life, depending the while on the authority of parents, and the beck of elders.
CHAP. IX.—
CONCERNING THE HATRED OF LEARNING, THE LOVE OF PLAY, AND THE FEAR OF BEING WHIPPED NOTICEABLE IN BOYS: AND OF THE FOLLY OF OUR ELDERS AND MASTERS.
14. O my God! what miseries and mockeries did I then experience, when obedience to my teachers was set before me as proper to my boyhood, that I might flourish in this world, and distinguish myself in the science of speech, which should get me honour amongst men, and deceitful riches! After that I was put to school to get learning, of which I (worthless as I was) knew not what use there was; and yet, if slow to learn, I was flogged! For this was deemed praiseworthy by our forefathers; and many before us, passing the same course, had appointed beforehand for us these troublesome ways by which we were compelled to pass, multiplying labour and sorrow upon the sons of Adam. But we found, O Lord, men praying to Thee, and we learned from them to conceive of Thee, according to our ability, to be some Great One, who was able (though not visible to our senses) to hear and help us. For as a boy I began to pray to Thee, my “help” and my “refuge,”3 and in invoking Thee broke the bands of my tongue, and entreated Thee though little, with no little earnestness, that I might not be beaten at school. And when Thou heardedst me not, giving me not over to folly thereby,4 my elders, yea, and my own parents too, who wished me no ill, laughed at my stripes, my then great and grievous ill.
15. Is there any one, Lord, with so high a spirit, cleaving to Thee with so strong an affection—for even a kind of obtuseness may do that much—but is there, I say, any one who, by cleaving devoutly to Thee, is endowed with so great a courage that he can esteem lightly those racks and hooks, and varied tortures of the same sort, against which, throughout the whole world, men supplicate Thee with great fear, deriding those who most bitterly fear them, just as our parents derided the torments with which our masters punished us when we were boys? For we were no less afraid of our pains, nor did we pray less to Thee to avoid them; and yet we sinned, in writing, or reading, or reflecting upon our lessons less than was required of us. For we wanted not, O Lord, memory or capacity,—of which, by Thy will, we possessed enough for our age,—but we delighted only in play; and we were punished for this by those who were doing the same things themselves. But the idleness of our elders they call business, whilst boys who do the like are punished by those same elders, and yet neither boys nor men find any pity. For will any one of good sense approve of my being whipped because, as a boy, I played ball, and so was hindered from learning quickly those lessons by means of which, as a man, I should play more unbecomingly? And did he by whom I was beaten do other than this, who, when he was overcome in any little controversy with a co-tutor, was more tormented by anger and envy than I when beaten by a playfellow in a match at ball?
CHAP. X.—
THROUGH A LOVE OF BALL-PLAYING AND SHOWS, HE NEGLECTS HIS STUDIES AND THE INJUNCTIONS OF HIS PARENTS.
16. And yet I erred, O Lord God, the Creator and Disposer of all things in Nature,—but of sin the Disposer only,—I erred, O Lord my God, in doing contrary to the wishes of my parents and of those masters; for this learning which they (no matter for what motive) wished me to acquire, I might have put to good account afterwards. For I disobeyed them not because I had chosen a better way, but from a fondness for play, loving the honour of victory in the matches, and to have my ears tickled with lying fables, in order that they might itch the more furiously—the same curiosity beaming more and more in my eyes for the shows and sports of my elders. Yet those who give these entertainments are held in such high repute, that almost all desire the same for their children, whom they are still willing should be beaten, if so be these same games keep them from the studies by which they desire them to arrive at being the givers of them. Look down upon these things, O Lord, with compassion, and deliver us who now call upon Thee; deliver those also who do not call upon Thee, that they may call upon Thee, and that Thou mayest deliver them.
CHAP. XI.—
SEIZED BY DISEASE, HIS MOTHER BEING TROUBLED, HE EARNESTLY DEMANDS BAPTISM, WHICH ON RECOVERY IS POSTPONED—HIS FATHER NOT AS YET BELIEVING IN CHRIST.
17. Even as a boy I had heard of eternal life promised to us through the humility of the Lord our God condescending to our pride, and I was signed with the sign of the cross, and was seasoned with His salt1 even from the womb of my mother, who greatly trusted in Thee. Thou sawest, O Lord, how at one time, while yet a boy, being suddenly seized with pains in the stomach, and being at the point of death—Thou sawest, O my God, for even then Thou wast my keeper, with what emotion of mind and with what faith I solicited from the piety of my mother, and of Thy Church, the mother of us all, the baptism of Thy Christ, my Lord and my God. On which, the mother of my flesh being much troubled,—since she, with a heart pure in Thy faith, travailed in birth2 more lovingly for my eternal salvation,—would, had I not quickly recovered, have without delay provided for my initiation and washing by Thy life-giving sacraments, confessing Thee, O Lord Jesus, for the remission of sins. So my cleansing was deferred, as if I must needs, should I live, be further polluted; because, indeed, the guilt contracted by sin would, after baptism, be greater and more perilous.3 Thus I at that time believed with my mother and the whole house, except my father; yet he did not overcome the influence of my mother’s piety in me so as to prevent my believing in Christ, as he had not yet believed in Him. For she was desirous that Thou, O my God, shouldst be my Father rather than he; and in this Thou didst aid her to overcome her husband, to whom, though the better of the two, she yielded obedience, because in this she yielded obedience to Thee, who dost so command.
18. I beseech Thee, my God, I would gladly know, if it be Thy will, to what end my baptism was then deferred? Was it for my good that the reins were slackened, as it were, upon me for me to sin? Or were they not slackened? If not, whence comes it that it is still dinned into our ears on all sides, “Let him alone, let him act as he likes, for he is not yet baptized”? But as regards bodily health, no one exclaims, “Let him be more seriously wounded, for he is not yet cured!” How much better, then, had it been for me to have been cured at once; and then, by my own and my friends’ diligence, my soul’s restored health had been kept safe in Thy keeping, who gavest it! Better, in truth. But how numerous and great waves of temptation appeared to hang over me after my childhood! These were foreseen by my mother; and she preferred that the unformed clay should be exposed to them rather than the image itself.
CHAP. XII.—
BEING COMPELLED, HE GAVE HIS ATTENTION TO LEARNING; BUT FULLY ACKNOWLEDGES THAT THIS WAS THE WORK OF GOD.
19. But in this my childhood (which was far less dreaded for me than youth) I had no love of learning, and hated to be forced to it, yet was I forced to it notwithstanding; and this was well done towards me, but I did not well, for I would not have learned had I not been compelled. For no man doth well against his will, even if that which he doth be well. Neither did they who forced me do well, but the good that was done to me came from Thee, my God. For they considered not in what way I should employ what they forced me to learn, unless to satisfy the inordinate desires of a rich beggary and a shameful glory. But Thou, by whom the very hairs of our heads are numbered,1 didst use for my good the error of all who pressed me to learn; and my own error in willing not to learn, didst Thou make use of for my punishment—of which I, being so small a boy and so great a sinner, was not unworthy. Thus by the instrumentality of those who did not well didst Thou well for me; and by my own sin didst Thou justly punish me. For it is even as Thou hast appointed, that every inordinate affection should bring its own punishment.2
CHAP. XIII.—
HE DELIGHTED IN LATIN STUDIES AND THE EMPTY FABLES OF THE POETS, BUT HATED THE ELEMENTS OF LITERATURE AND THE GREEK LANGUAGE.
20. But what was the cause of my dislike of Greek literature, which I studied from my boyhood, I cannot even now understand. For the Latin I loved exceedingly—not what our first masters, but what the grammarians teach; for those primary lessons of reading, writing, and ciphering, I considered no less of a burden and a punishment than Greek. Yet whence was this unless from the sin and vanity of this life? for I was “but flesh, a wind that passeth away and cometh not again.”3 For those primary lessons were better, assuredly, because more certain; seeing that by their agency I acquired, and still retain, the power of reading what I find written, and writing myself what I will; whilst in the others I was compelled to learn about the wanderings of a certain Æneas, oblivious of my own, and to weep for Dido dead, because she slew herself for love; while at the same time I brooked with dry eyes my wretched self dying far from Thee, in the midst of those things, O God, my life.
21. For what can be more wretched than the wretch who pities not himself shedding tears over the death of Dido for love of Æneas, but shedding no tears over his own death in not loving Thee, O God, light of my heart, and bread of the inner mouth of my soul, and the power that weddest my mind with my innermost thoughts? I did not love Thee, and committed fornication against Thee; and those around me thus sinning cried, “Well done! Well done!” For the friendship of this world is fornication against Thee;4 and “Well done! Well done!” is cried until one feels ashamed not to be such a man. And for this I shed no tears, though I wept for Dido, who sought death at the sword’s point,5 myself the while seeking the lowest of Thy creatures—having forsaken Thee—earth tending to the earth; and if forbidden to read these things, how grieved would I feel that I was not permitted to read what grieved me. This sort of madness is considered a more honourable and more fruitful learning than that by which I learned to read and write.
22. But now, O my God, cry unto my soul; and let Thy Truth say unto me, “It is not so; it is not so; better much was that first teaching.” For behold, I would rather forget the wanderings of Æneas, and all such things, than how to write and read. But it is true that over the entrance of the grammar school there hangs a vail;6 but this is not so much a sign of the majesty of the mystery, as of a covering for error. Let not them exclaim against me of whom I am no longer in fear, whilst I confess to Thee, my God, that which my soul desires, and acquiesce in reprehending my evil ways, that I may love Thy good ways. Neither let those cry out against me who buy or sell grammar-learning. For if I ask them whether it be true, as the poet says, that Æneas once came to Carthage, the unlearned will reply that they do not know, the learned will deny it to be true. But if I ask with what letters the name Æneas is written, all who have learnt this will answer truly, in accordance with the conventional understanding men have arrived at as to these signs. Again, if I should ask which, if forgotten, would cause the greatest inconvenience in our life, reading and writing, or these poetical fictions, who does not see what every one would answer who had not entirely forgotten himself? I erred, then, when as a boy I preferred those vain studies to those more profitable ones, or rather loved the one and hated the other. “One and one are two, two and two are four,” this was then in truth a hateful song to me; while the wooden horse full of armed men, and the burning of Troy, and the “spectral image” of Creusa7 were a most pleasant spectacle of vanity.
CHAP. XIV.—
WHY HE DESPISED GREEK LITERATURE, AND EASILY LEARNED LATIN.
23. But why, then, did I dislike Greek learning, which was full of like tales?1 For Homer also was skilled in inventing similar stories, and is most sweetly vain, yet was he disagreeable to me as a boy. I believe Virgil, indeed, would be the same to Grecian children, if compelled to learn him, as I was Homer. The difficulty, in truth, the difficulty of learning a foreign language mingled as it were with gall all the sweetness of those fabulous Grecian stories. For not a single word of it did I understand, and to make me do so, they vehemently urged me with cruel threatenings and punishments. There was a time also when (as an infant) I knew no Latin; but this I acquired without any fear or tormenting, by merely taking notice, amid the blandishments of my nurses, the jests of those who smiled on me, and the sportiveness of those who toyed with me. I learnt all this, indeed, without being urged by any pressure of punishment, for my own heart urged me to bring forth its own conceptions, which I could not do unless by learning words, not of those who taught me, but of those who talked to me; into whose ears, also, I brought forth whatever I discerned. From this it is sufficiently clear that a free curiosity hath more influence in our learning these things than a necessity full of fear. But this last restrains the overflowings of that freedom, through Thy laws, O God,—Thy laws, from the ferule of the schoolmaster to the trials of the martyr, being effective to mingle for us a salutary bitter, calling us back to Thyself from the pernicious delights which allure us from Thee.
CHAP. XV.—
HE ENTREATS GOD, THAT WHATEVER USEFUL THINGS HE LEARNED AS A BOY MAY BE DEDICATED TO HIM.
24. Hear my prayer, O Lord; let not my soul faint under Thy discipline, nor let me faint in confessing unto Thee Thy mercies, whereby Thou hast saved me from all my most mischievous ways, that Thou mightest become sweet to me beyond all the seductions which I used to follow; and that I may love Thee entirely, and grasp Thy hand with my whole heart, and that Thou mayest deliver me from every temptation, even unto the end. For lo, O Lord, my King and my God, for Thy service be whatever useful thing I learnt as a boy—for Thy service what I speak, and write, and count. For when I learned vain things, Thou didst grant me Thy discipline; and my sin in taking delight in those vanities, Thou hast forgiven me. I learned, indeed, in them many useful words; but these may be learned in things not vain, and that is the safe way for youths to walk in.
CHAP. XVI.—
HE DISAPROVES OF THE MODE OF EDUCATING YOUTH, AND HE POINTS OUT WHY WICKEDNESS IS ATTRIBUTED TO THE GODS BY THE POETS.
25. But woe unto thee, thou stream of human custom! Who shall stay thy course? How long shall it be before thou art dried up? How long wilt thou carry down the sons of Eve into that huge and formidable ocean, which even they who are embarked on the cross (lignum) can scarce pass over?2 Do I not read in thee of Jove the thunderer and adulterer? And the two verily he could not be; but it was that, while the fictitious thunder served as a cloak, he might have warrant to imitate real adultery. Yet which of our gowned masters can lend a temperate ear to a man of his school who cries out and says: “These were Homer’s fictions; he transfers things human to the gods. I could have wished him to transfer divine things to us.”3 But it would have been more true had he said: “These are, indeed, his fictions, but he attributed divine attributes to sinful men, that crimes might not be accounted crimes, and that whosoever committed any might appear to imitate the celestial gods and not abandoned men.”
26. And yet, thou stream of hell, into thee are cast the sons of men, with rewards for learning these things; and much is made of it when this is going on in the forum in the sight of laws which grant a salary over and above the rewards. And thou beatest against thy rocks and roarest, saying, “Hence words are learnt; hence eloquence is to be attained, most necessary to persuade people to your way of thinking, and to unfold your opinions.” So, in truth, we should never have understood these words, “golden shower,” “bosom,” “intrigue,” “highest heavens,” and other words written in the same place, unless Terence had introduced a good-for-nothing youth upon the stage, setting up Jove as his example of lewdness:—
- “Viewing a picture, where the tale was drawn,
- Of Jove’s descending in a golden shower
- To Danaë’s bosom . . . with a woman to intrigue.”
And see how he excites himself to lust, as if by celestial authority, when he says:—
- “Great Jove,
- Who shakes the highest heavens with his thunder,
- And I, poor mortal man, not do the same!
- I did it, and with all my heart I did it.”1
Not one whit more easily are the words learnt for this vileness, but by their means is the vileness perpetrated with more confidence. I do not blame the words, they being, as it were, choice and precious vessels, but the wine of error which was drunk in them to us by inebriated teachers; and unless we drank, we were beaten, without liberty of appeal to any sober judge. And yet, O my God,—in whose presence I can now with security recall this,—did I, unhappy one, learn these things willingly, and with delight, and for this was I called a boy of good promise.2
CHAP. XVII.—
HE CONTINUES ON THE UNHAPPY METHOD OF TRAINING YOUTH IN LITERARY SUBJECTS.
27. Bear with me, my God, while I speak a little of those talents Thou hast bestowed upon me, and on what follies I wasted them. For a lesson sufficiently disquieting to my soul was given me, in hope of praise, and fear of shame or stripes, to speak the words of Juno, as she raged and sorrowed that she could not
- “Latium bar
- From all approaches of the Dardan king,”3
which I had heard Juno never uttered. Yet were we compelled to stray in the footsteps of these poetic fictions, and to turn that into prose which the poet had said in verse. And his speaking was most applauded in whom, according to the reputation of the persons delineated, the passions of anger and sorrow were most strikingly reproduced, and clothed in the most suitable language. But what is it to me, O my true Life, my God, that my declaiming was applauded above that of many who were my contemporaries and fellow-students? Behold, is not all this smoke and wind? Was there nothing else, too, on which I could exercise my wit and tongue? Thy praise, Lord, Thy praises might have supported the tendrils of my heart by Thy Scriptures; so had it not been dragged away by these empty trifles, a shameful prey of4 the fowls of the air. For there is more than one way in which men sacrifice to the fallen angels.
CHAP. XVIII.—
MEN DESIRE TO OBSERVE THE RULES OF LEARNING, BUT NEGLECT THE ETERNAL RULES OF EVERLASTING SAFETY.
28. But what matter of surprise is it that I was thus carried towards vanity, and went forth from Thee, O my God, when men were proposed to me to imitate, who, should they in relating any acts of theirs—not in themselves evil—be guilty of a barbarism or solecism, when censured for it became confounded; but when they made a full and ornate oration, in well-chosen words, concerning their own licentiousness, and were applauded for it, they boasted? Thou seest this, O Lord, and keepest silence, “long-suffering, and plenteous in mercy and truth,”5 as Thou art. Wilt Thou keep silence for ever? And even now Thou drawest out of this vast deep the soul that seeketh Thee and thirsteth after Thy delights, whose “heart said unto Thee,” I have sought Thy face, “Thy face, Lord, will I seek.”6 For I was far from Thy face, through my darkened7 affections. For it is not by our feet, nor by change of place, that we either turn from Thee or return to Thee. Or, indeed, did that younger son look out for horses, or chariots, or ships, or fly away with visible wings, or journey by the motion of his limbs, that he might, in a far country, prodigally waste all that Thou gavest him when he set out? A kind Father when Thou gavest, and kinder still when he returned destitute!8 So, then, in wanton, that is to say, in darkened affections, lies distance from Thy face.
29. Behold, O Lord God, and behold patiently, as Thou art wont to do, how diligently the sons of men observe the conventional rules of letters and syllables, received from those who spoke prior to them, and yet neglect the eternal rules of everlasting salvation received from Thee, insomuch that he who practises or teaches the hereditary rules of pronunciation, if, contrary to grammatical usage, he should say, without aspirating the first letter, a uman being, will offend men more than if, in opposition to Thy commandments, he, a human being, were to hate a human being. As if, indeed, any man should feel that an enemy could be more destructive to him than that hatred with which he is excited against him, or that he could destroy more utterly him whom he persecutes than he destroys his own soul by his enmity. And of a truth, there is no science of letters more innate than the writing of conscience—that he is doing unto another what he himself would not suffer. How mysterious art Thou, who in silence “dwellest on high,”9 Thou God, the only great, who by an unwearied law dealest out the punishment of blindness to illicit desires! When a man seeking for the reputation of eloquence stands before a human judge while a thronging multitude surrounds him, inveighs against his enemy with the most fierce hatred, he takes most vigilant heed that his tongue slips not into grammatical error, but takes no heed lest through the fury of his spirit he cut off a man from his fellow-men.1
30. These were the customs in the midst of which I, unhappy boy, was cast, and on that arena it was that I was more fearful of perpetrating a barbarism than, having done so, of envying those who had not. These things I declare and confess unto Thee, my God, for which I was applauded by them whom I then thought it my whole duty to please, for I did not perceive the gulf of infamy wherein I was cast away from Thine eyes.2 For in Thine eyes what was more infamous than I was already, displeasing even those like myself, deceiving-with innumerable lies both tutor, and masters, and parents, from love of play, a desire to see frivolous spectacles, and a stage-stuck restlessness, to imitate them? Pilferings I committed from my parents’ cellar and table, either enslaved by gluttony, or that I might have something to give to boys who sold me their play, who, though they sold it, liked it as well as I. In this play, likewise, I often sought dishonest victories, I myself being conquered by the vain desire of pre-eminence. And what could I so little endure, or, if I detected it, censured I so violently, as the very things I did to others, and, when myself detected I was censured, preferred rather to quarrel than to yield? Is this the innocence of childhood? Nay, Lord, nay, Lord; I entreat Thy mercy, O my God. For these same sins, as we grow older, are transferred from governors and masters, from nuts, and balls, and sparrows, to magistrates and kings, to gold, and lands, and slaves, just as the rod is succeeded by more severe chastisements. It was, then, the stature of childhood that Thou, O our King, didst approve of as an emblem of humility when Thou saidst: “Of such is the kingdom of heaven.”3
31. But yet, O Lord, to Thee, most excellent and most good, Thou Architect and Governor of the universe, thanks had been due unto Thee, our God, even hadst Thou willed that I should not survive my boyhood. For I existed even then; I lived, and felt, and was solicitous about my own well-being,—a trace of that most mysterious unity4 from whence I had my being; I kept watch by my inner sense over the wholeness of my senses, and in these insignificant pursuits, and also in my thoughts on things insignificant, I learnt to take pleasure in truth. I was averse to being deceived, I had a vigorous memory, was provided with the power of speech, was softened by friendship, shunned sorrow, meanness, ignorance. In such a being what was not wonderful and praiseworthy? But all these are gifts of my God; I did not give them to myself; and they are good, and all these constitute myself. Good, then, is He that made me, and He is my God; and before Him will I rejoice exceedingly for every good gift which, as a boy, I had. For in this lay my sin, that not in Him, but in His creatures—myself and the rest—I sought for pleasures, honours, and truths, falling thereby into sorrows, troubles, and errors. Thanks be to Thee, my joy, my pride, my confidence, my God—thanks be to Thee for Thy gifts; but preserve Thou them to me. For thus wilt Thou preserve me; and those things which Thou hast given me shall be developed and perfected, and I myself shall be with Thee, for from Thee is my being.
BOOK II.
HE ADVANCES TO PUBERTY, AND INDEED TO THE EARLY PART OF THE SIXTEENTH YEAR OF HIS AGE, IN WHICH, HAVING ABANDONED HIS STUDIES, HE INDULGED IN LUSTFUL PLEASURES, AND, WITH HIS COMPANIONS, COMMITTED THEFT.
CHAP. I.—
HE DEPLORES THE WICKEDNESS OF HIS YOUTH.
1. I will now call to mind my past foulness, and the carnal corruptions of my soul, not because I love them, but that I may love Thee, O my God. For love of Thy love do I it, recalling, in the very bitterness of my remembrance, my most vicious ways, that Thou mayest grow sweet to me,—Thou sweetness without deception! Thou sweetness happy and assured!—and re-collecting myself out of that my dissipation, in which I was torn to pieces, while, turned away from Thee the One, I lost myself among many vanities. For I even longed in my youth formerly to be satisfied with worldly things, and I dared to grow wild again with various and shadowy loves; my form consumed away,1 and I became corrupt in Thine eyes, pleasing myself, and eager to please in the eyes of men.
CHAP. II.—
STRICKEN WITH EXCEEDING GRIEF, HE REMEMBERS THE DISSOLUTE PASSIONS IN WHICH, IN HIS SIXTEENTH YEAR, HE USED TO INDULGE.
2. But what was it that I delighted in save to love and to be beloved? But I held it not in moderation, mind to mind, the bright path of friendship, but out of the dark concupiscence of the flesh and the effervescence of youth exhalations came forth which obscured and overcast my heart, so that I was unable to discern pure affection from unholy desire. Both boiled confusedly within me, and dragged away my unstable youth into the rough places of unchaste desires, and plunged me into a gulf of infamy. Thy anger had overshadowed me, and I knew it not. I was become deaf by the rattling of the chains of my mortality, the punishment for my soul’s pride; and I wandered farther from Thee, and Thou didst “suffer”2 me; and I was tossed to and fro, and wasted, and poured out, and boiled over in my fornications, and Thou didst hold Thy peace, O Thou my tardy joy! Thou then didst hold Thy peace, and I wandered still farther from Thee, into more and more barren seed-plots of sorrows, with proud dejection and restless lassitude.
3. Oh for one to have regulated my disorder, and turned to my profit the fleeting beauties of the things around me, and fixed a bound to their sweetness, so that the tides of my youth might have spent themselves upon the conjugal shore, if so be they could not be tranquillized and satisfied within the object of a family, as Thy law appoints, O Lord,—who thus formest the offspring of our death, being able also with a tender hand to blunt the thorns which were excluded from Thy paradise! For Thy omnipotency is not far from us even when we are far from Thee, else in truth ought I more vigilantly to have given heed to the voice from the clouds: “Nevertheless, such shall have trouble in the flesh, but I spare you;”3 and, “It is good for a man not to touch a woman;”4 and, “He that is unmarried careth for the things that belong to the Lord, how he may please the Lord; but he that is married careth for the things that are of the world, how he may please his wife.”5 I should, therefore, have listened more attentively to these words, and, being severed “for the kingdom of heaven’s sake,”6 I would with greater happiness have expected Thy embraces.
4. But I, poor fool, seethed as does the sea, and, forsaking Thee, followed the violent course of my own stream, and exceeded all Thy limitations; nor did I escape Thy scourges.7 For what mortal can do so? But Thou wert always by me, mercifully angry, and dashing with the bitterest vexations all my illicit pleasures, in order that I might seek pleasures free from vexation. But where I could meet with such except in Thee, O Lord, I could not find,—except in Thee, who teachest by sorrow,8 and woundest us to heal us, and killest us that we may not die from Thee.1 Where was I, and how far was I exiled from the delights of Thy house, in that sixteenth year of the age of my flesh, when the madness of lust—to the which human shamelessness granteth full freedom, although forbidden by Thy laws—held complete sway over me, and I resigned myself entirely to it? Those about me meanwhile took no care to save me from ruin by marriage, their sole care being that I should learn to make a powerful speech, and become a persuasive orator.
CHAP. III.—
CONCERNING HIS FATHER, A FREEMAN OF THAGASTE, THE ASSISTER OF HIS SON’S STUDIES, AND ON THE ADMONITIONS OF HIS MOTHER ON THE PRESERVATION OF CHASTITY.
5. And for that year my studies were intermitted, while after my return from Madaura2 (a neighbouring city, whither I had begun to go in order to learn grammar and rhetoric), the expenses for a further residence at Carthage were provided for me; and that was rather by the determination than the means of my father, who was but a poor freeman of Thagaste. To whom do I narrate this? Not unto Thee, my God; but before Thee unto my own kind, even to that small part of the human race who may chance to light upon these my writings. And to what end? That I and all who read the same may reflect out of what depths we are to cry unto Thee.3 For what cometh nearer to Thine ears than a confessing heart and a life of faith? For who did not extol and praise my father, in that he went even beyond his means to supply his son with all the necessaries for a far journey for the sake of his studies? For many far richer citizens did not the like for their children. But yet this same father did not trouble himself how I grew towards Thee, nor how chaste I was, so long as I was skilful in speaking—however barren I was to Thy tilling, O God, who art the sole true and good Lord of my heart, which is Thy field.
6. But while, in that sixteenth year of my age, I resided with my parents, having holiday from school for a time (this idleness being imposed upon me by my parents’ necessitous circumstances), the thorns of lust grew rank over my head, and there was no hand to pluck them out. Moreover when my father, seeing me at the baths, perceived that I was becoming a man, and was stirred with a restless youthfulness, he, as if from this anticipating future descendants, joyfully told it to my mother; rejoicing in that intoxication wherein the world so often forgets Thee, its Creator, and falls in love with Thy creature instead of Thee, from the invisible wine of its own perversity turning and bowing down to the most infamous things. But in my mother’s breast Thou hadst even now begun Thy temple, and the commencement of Thy holy habitation, whereas my father was only a catechumen as yet, and that but recently. She then started up with a pious fear and trembling; and, although I had not yet been baptized,4 she feared those crooked ways in which they walk who turn their back to Thee, and not their face.5
7. Woe is me! and dare I affirm that Thou heldest Thy peace, O my God, while I strayed farther from Thee? Didst Thou then hold Thy peace to me? And whose words were they but Thine which by my mother, Thy faithful handmaid, Thou pouredst into my ears, none of which sank into my heart to make me do it? For she desired, and I remember privately warned me, with great solicitude, “not to commit fornication; but above all things never to defile another man’s wife.” These appeared to me but womanish counsels, which I should blush to obey. But they were Thine, and I knew it not, and I thought that Thou heldest Thy peace, and that it was she who spoke, through whom Thou heldest not Thy peace to me, and in her person wast despised by me, her son, “the son of Thy handmaid, Thy servant.”6 But this I knew not; and rushed on headlong with such blindness, that amongst my equals I was ashamed to be less shameless, when I heard them pluming themselves upon their disgraceful acts, yea, and glorying all the more in proportion to the greatness of their baseness; and I took pleasure in doing it, not for the pleasure’s sake only, but for the praise. What is worthy of dispraise but vice? But I made myself out worse than I was, in order that I might not be dispraised; and when in anything I had not sinned as the abandoned ones, I would affirm that I had done what I had not, that I might not appear abject for being more innocent, or of less esteem for being more chaste.
8. Behold with what companions I walked the streets of Babylon, in whose filth I was rolled, as if in cinnamon and precious ointments. And that I might cleave the more tenaciously to its very centre, my invisible enemy trod me down, and seduced me, I being easily seduced. Nor did the mother of my flesh, although she herself had ere this fled “out of the midst of Babylon,”1 —progressing, however, but slowly in the skirts of it,—in counselling me to chastity, so bear in mind what she had been told about me by her husband as to restrain in the limits of conjugal affection (if it could not be cut away to the quick) what she knew to be destructive in the present and dangerous in the future. But she took no heed of this, for she was afraid lest a wife should prove a hindrance and a clog to my hopes. Not those hopes of the future world, which my mother had in Thee; but the hope of learning, which both my parents were too anxious that I should acquire,—he, because he had little or no thought of Thee, and but vain thoughts for me—she, because she calculated that those usual courses of learning would not only be no drawback, but rather a furtherance towards my attaining Thee. For thus I conjecture, recalling as well as I can the dispositions of my parents. The reins, meantime, were slackened towards me beyond the restraint of due severity, that I might play, yea, even to dissoluteness, in whatsoever I fancied. And in all there was a mist, shutting out from my sight the brightness of Thy truth, O my God; and my iniquity displayed itself as from very “fatness.”2
CHAP. IV.—
HE COMMITS THEFT WITH HIS COMPANIONS, NOT URGED ON BY POVERTY, BUT FROM A CERTAIN DISTASTE OF WELL-DOING.
9. Theft is punished by Thy law, O Lord, and by the law written in men’s hearts, which iniquity itself cannot blot out. For what thief will suffer a thief? Even a rich thief will not suffer him who is driven to it by want. Yet had I a desire to commit robbery, and did so, compelled neither by hunger, nor poverty, but through a distaste for well-doing, and a lustiness of iniquity. For I pilfered that of which I had already sufficient, and much better. Nor did I desire to enjoy what I pilfered, but the theft and sin itself. There was a pear-tree close to our vineyard, heavily laden with fruit, which was tempting neither for its colour nor its flavour. To shake and rob this some of us wanton young fellows went, late one night (having, according to our disgraceful habit, prolonged our games in the streets until then), and carried away great loads, not to eat ourselves, but to fling to the very swine, having only eaten some of them; and to do this pleased us all the more because it was not permitted. Behold my heart, O my God; behold my heart, which Thou hadst pity upon when in the bottomless pit. Behold, now, let my heart tell Thee what it was seeking there, that I should be gratuitously wanton, having no inducement to evil but the evil itself. It was foul, and I loved it. I loved to perish. I loved my own error—not that for which I erred, but the error itself. Base soul, falling from Thy firmament to utter destruction—not seeking aught through the shame but the shame itself!
CHAP. V.—
CONCERNING THE MOTIVES TO SIN, WHICH ARE NOT IN THE LOVE OF EVIL, BUT IN THE DESIRE OF OBTAINING THE PROPERTY OF OTHERS.
10. There is a desirableness in all beautiful bodies, and in gold, and silver, and all things; and in bodily contact sympathy is powerful, and each other sense hath his proper adaptation of body. Worldly honour hath also its glory, and the power of command, and of overcoming; whence proceeds also the desire for revenge. And yet to acquire all these, we must not depart from Thee, O Lord, nor deviate from Thy law. The life which we live here hath also its peculiar attractiveness, through a certain measure of comeliness of its own, and harmony with all things here below. The friendships of men also are endeared by a sweet bond, in the oneness of many souls. On account of all these, and such as these, is sin committed; while through an inordinate preference for these goods of a lower kind, the better and higher are neglected,—even Thou, our Lord God, Thy truth, and Thy law. For these meaner things have their delights, but not like unto my God, who hath created all things; for in Him doth the righteous delight, and He is the sweetness of the upright in heart.3
11. When, therefore, we inquire why a crime was committed, we do not believe it, unless it appear that there might have been the wish to obtain some of those which we designated meaner things, or else a fear of losing them. For truly they are beautiful and comely, although in comparison with those higher and celestial goods they be abject and contemptible. A man hath murdered another; what was his motive? He desired his wife or his estate; or would steal to support himself; or he was afraid of losing something of the kind by him; or, being injured, he was burning to be revenged. Would he commit murder without a motive, taking delight simply in the act of murder? Who would credit it? For as for that savage and brutal man, of whom it is declared that he was gratuitously wicked and cruel, there is yet a motive assigned. “Lest through idleness,” he says, “hand or heart should grow inactive.”1 And to what purpose? Why, even that, having once got possession of the city through that practice of wickedness, he might attain unto honours, empire, and wealth, and be exempt from the fear of the laws, and his difficult circumstances from the needs of his family, and the consciousness of his own wickedness. So it seems that even Catiline himself loved not his own villanies, but something else, which gave him the motive for committing them.
CHAP. VI.—
WHY HE DELIGHTED IN THAT THEFT, WHEN ALL THINGS WHICH UNDER THE APPEARANCE OF GOOD INVITE TO VICE ARE TRUE AND PERFECT IN GOD ALONE.
12. What was it, then, that I, miserable one, so doted on in thee, thou theft of mine, thou deed of darkness, in that sixteenth year of my age? Beautiful thou wert not, since thou wert theft. But art thou anything, that so I may argue the case with thee? Those pears that we stole were fair to the sight, because they were Thy creation, Thou fairest2 of all, Creator of all, Thou good God—God, the highest good, and my true good. Those pears truly were pleasant to the sight; but it was not for them that my miserable soul lusted, for I had abundance of better, but those I plucked simply that I might steal. For, having plucked them, I threw them away, my sole gratification in them being my own sin, which I was pleased to enjoy. For if any of these pears entered my mouth, the sweetener of it was my sin in eating it. And now, O Lord my God, I ask what it was in that theft of mine that caused me such delight; and behold it hath no beauty in it—not such, I mean, as exists in justice and wisdom; nor such as is in the mind, memory, senses, and animal life of man; nor yet such as is the glory and beauty of the stars in their courses; or the earth, or the sea, teeming with incipient life, to replace, as it is born, that which decayeth; nor, indeed, that false and shadowy beauty which pertaineth to deceptive vices.
13. For thus doth pride imitate high estate, whereas Thou alone art God, high above all. And what does ambition seek but honours and renown, whereas Thou alone art to be honoured above all, and renowned for evermore? The cruelty of the powerful wishes to be feared; but who is to be feared but God only,3 out of whose power what can be forced away or withdrawn—when, or where, or whither, or by whom? The enticements of the wanton would fain be deemed love; and yet is naught more enticing than Thy charity, nor is aught loved more healthfully than that, Thy truth, bright and beautiful above all. Curiosity affects a desire for knowledge, whereas it is Thou who supremely knowest all things. Yea, ignorance and foolishness themselves are concealed under the names of ingenuousness and harmlessness, because nothing can be found more ingenuous than Thou; and what is more harmless, since it is a sinner’s own works by which he is harmed?4 And sloth seems to long for rest; but what sure rest is there besides the Lord? Luxury would fain be called plenty and abundance; but Thou art the fulness and unfailing plenteousness of unfading joys. Prodigality presents a shadow of liberality; but Thou art the most lavish giver of all good. Covetousness desires to possess much; and Thou art the Possessor of all things. Envy contends for excellence; but what so excellent as Thou? Anger seeks revenge; who avenges more justly than Thou? Fear starts at unwonted and sudden chances which threaten things beloved, and is wary for their security; but what can happen that is unwonted or sudden to Thee? or who can deprive Thee of what Thou lovest? or where is there unshaken security save with Thee? Grief languishes for things lost in which desire had delighted itself, even because it would have nothing taken from it, as nothing can be from Thee.
14. Thus doth the soul commit fornication when she turns away from Thee, and seeks without Thee what she cannot find pure and untainted until she returns to Thee. Thus all pervertedly imitate Thee who separate themselves far from Thee4 and raise themselves up against Thee. But even by thus imitating Thee they acknowledge Thee to be the Creator of all nature, and so that there is no place whither they can altogether retire from Thee.5 What, then, was it that I loved in that theft? And wherein did I, even corruptedly and pervertedly, imitate my Lord? Did I wish, if only by artifice, to act contrary to Thy law, because by power I could not, so that, being a captive, I might imitate an imperfect liberty by doing with impunity things which I was not allowed to do, in obscured likeness of Thy omnipotency?6 Behold this servant of Thine, fleeing from his Lord, and following a shadow!7 O rottenness! O monstrosity of life and profundity of death! Could I like that which was unlawful only because it was unlawful?
CHAP. VII.—
HE GIVES THANKS TO GOD FOR THE REMISSION OF HIS SINS, AND REMINDS EVERY ONE THAT THE SUPREME GOD MAY HAVE PRESERVED US FROM GREATER SINS.
15. “What shall I render unto the Lord,”1 that whilst my memory recalls these things my soul is not appalled at them? I will love Thee, O Lord, and thank Thee, and confess unto Thy name,2 because Thou hast put away from me these so wicked and nefarious acts of mine. To Thy grace I attribute it, and to Thy mercy, that Thou hast melted away my sin as it were ice. To Thy grace also I attribute whatsoever of evil I have not committed; for what might I not have committed, loving as I did the sin for the sin’s sake? Yea, all I confess to have been pardoned me, both those which I committed by my own perverseness, and those which, by Thy guidance, I committed not. Where is he who, reflecting upon his own infirmity, dares to ascribe his chastity and innocency to his own strength, so that he should love Thee the less, as if he had been in less need of Thy mercy, whereby Thou dost forgive the transgressions of those that turn to Thee? For whosoever, called by Thee, obeyed Thy voice, and shunned those things which he reads me recalling and confessing of myself, let him not despise me, who, being sick, was healed by that same Physician3 by whose aid it was that he was not sick, or rather was less sick. And for this let him love Thee as much, yea, all the more, since by whom he sees me to have been restored from so great a feebleness of sin, by Him he sees himself from a like feebleness to have been preserved.
CHAP. VIII.—
IN HIS THEFT HE LOVED THE COMPANY OF HIS FELLOW-SINNERS.
16. “What fruit had I then,”4 wretched one, in those things which, when I remember them, cause me shame—above all in that theft, which I loved only for the theft’s sake? And as the theft itself was nothing, all the more wretched was I who loved it. Yet by myself alone I would not have done it—I recall what my heart was—alone I could not have done it. I loved, then, in it the companionship of my accomplices with whom I did it. I did not, therefore, love the theft alone—yea, rather, it was that alone that I loved, for the companionship was nothing. What is the fact? Who is it that can teach me, but He who illuminateth mine heart and searcheth out the dark corners thereof? What is it that hath come into my mind to inquire about, to discuss, and to reflect upon? For had I at that time loved the pears I stole, and wished to enjoy them, I might have done so alone, if I could have been satisfied with the mere commission of the theft by which my pleasure was secured; nor needed I have provoked that itching of my own passions, by the encouragement of accomplices. But as my enjoyment was not in those pears, it was in the crime itself, which the company of my fellow-sinners produced.
CHAP. IX.—
IT WAS A PLEASURE TO HIM ALSO TO LAUGH WHEN SERIOUSLY DECEIVING OTHERS.
17. By what feelings, then, was I animated? For it was in truth too shameful; and woe was me who had it. But still what was it? “Who can understand his errors?”5 We laughed, because our hearts were tickled at the thought of deceiving those who little imagined what we were doing, and would have vehemently disapproved of it. Yet, again, why did I so rejoice in this, that I did it not alone? Is it that no one readily laughs alone? No one does so readily; but yet sometimes, when men are alone by themselves, nobody being by, a fit of laughter overcomes them when anything very droll presents itself to their senses or mind. Yet alone I would not have done it—alone I could not at all have done it. Behold, my God, the lively recollection of my soul is laid bare before Thee—alone I had not committed that theft, wherein what I stole pleased me not, but rather the act of stealing; nor to have done it alone would I have liked so well, neither would I have done it. O Friendship too unfriendly! thou mysterious seducer of the soul, thou greediness to do mischief out of mirth and wantonness, thou craving for others’ loss, without desire for my own profit or revenge; but when they say, “Let us go, let us do it,” we are ashamed not to be shameless.
CHAP. X.—
WITH GOD THERE IS TRUE REST AND LIFE UNCHANGING.
18. Who can unravel that twisted and tangled knottiness? It is foul. I hate to reflect on it. I hate to look on it. But thee do I long for, O righteousness and innocency, fair and comely to all virtuous eyes, and of a satisfaction that never palls! With thee is perfect rest, and life unchanging. He who enters into thee enters into the joy of his Lord,6 and shall have no fear, and shall do excellently in the most Excellent. I sank away from Thee, O my God, and I wandered too far from Thee, my stay, in my youth, and became to myself an unfruitful land.
BOOK III.
OF THE SEVENTEENTH, EIGHTEENTH, AND NINETEENTH YEARS OF HIS AGE, PASSED AT CARTHAGE, WHEN, HAVING COMPLETED HIS COURSE OF STUDIES, HE IS CAUGHT IN THE SNARES OF A LICENTIOUS PASSION, AND FALLS INTO THE ERRORS OF THE MANICHÆANS.
CHAP. I.—
DELUDED BY AN INSANE LOVE, HE, THOUGH FOUL AND DISHONOURABLE, DESIRES TO BE THOUGHT ELEGANT AND URBANE.
1. To Carthage I came, where a cauldron of unholy loves bubbled up all around me. I loved not as yet, yet I loved to love; and, with a hidden want, I abhorred myself that I wanted not. I searched about for something to love, in love with loving, and hating security, and a way not beset with snares. For within me I had a dearth of that inward food, Thyself, my God, though that dearth caused me no hunger; but I remained without all desire for incorruptible food, not because I was already filled thereby, but the more empty I was the more I loathed it. For this reason my soul was far from well, and, full of ulcers, it miserably cast itself forth, craving to be excited by contact with objects of sense. Yet, had these no soul, they would not surely inspire love. To love and to be loved was sweet to me, and all the more when I succeeded in enjoying the person I loved. I befouled, therefore, the spring of friendship with the filth of concupiscence, and I dimmed its lustre with the hell of lustfulness; and yet, foul and dishonourable as I was, I craved, through an excess of vanity, to be thought elegant and urbane. I fell precipitately, then, into the love in which I longed to be ensnared. My God, my mercy, with how much bitterness didst Thou, out of Thy infinite goodness, besprinkle for me that sweetness! For I was both beloved, and secretly arrived at the bond of enjoying; and was joyfully bound with troublesome ties, that I might be scourged with the burning iron rods of jealousy, suspicion, fear, anger, and strife.
CHAP. II.—
IN PUBLIC SPECTACLES HE IS MOVED BY AN EMPTY COMPASSION. HE IS ATTACKED BY A TROUBLESOME SPIRITUAL DISEASE.
2. Stage-plays also drew me away, full of representations of my miseries and of fuel to my fire.1 Why does man like to be made sad when viewing doleful and tragical scenes, which yet he himself would by no means suffer? And yet he wishes, as a spectator, to experience from them a sense of grief, and in this very grief his pleasure consists. What is this but wretched insanity? For a man is more affected with these actions, the less free he is from such affections. Howsoever, when he suffers in his own person, it is the custom to style it “misery;” but when he compassionates others, then it is styled “mercy.”2 But what kind of mercy is it that arises from fictitious and scenic passions? The hearer is not expected to relieve, but merely invited to grieve; and the more he grieves, the more he applauds the actor of these fictions. And if the misfortunes of the characters (whether of olden times or merely imaginary) be so represented as not to touch the feelings of the spectator, he goes away disgusted and censorious; but if his feelings be touched, he sits it out attentively, and sheds tears of joy.
3. Are sorrows, then, also loved? Surely all men desire to rejoice? Or, as man wishes to be miserable, is he, nevertheless, glad to be merciful, which, because it cannot exist without passion, for this cause alone are passions loved? This also is from that vein of friendship. But whither does it go? Whither does it flow? Wherefore runs it into that torrent of pitch,3 seething forth those huge tides of loathsome lusts into which it is changed and transformed, being of its own will cast away and corrupted from its celestial clearness? Shall, then, mercy be repudiated? By no means. Let us, therefore, love sorrows sometimes. But beware of uncleanness, O my soul, under the protection of my God, the God of our fathers, who is to be praised and exalted above all for ever,4 beware of uncleanness. For I have not now ceased to have compassion; but then in the theatres I sympathized with lovers when they sinfully enjoyed one another, although this was done fictitiously in the play. And when they lost one another, I grieved with them, as if pitying them, and yet had delight in both. But now-a-days I feel much more pity for him that delighteth in his wickedness, than for him who is counted as enduring hardships by failing to obtain some pernicious pleasure, and the loss of some miserable felicity. This, surely, is the truer mercy, but grief hath no delight in it. For though he that condoles with the unhappy be approved for his office of charity, yet would he who had real compassion rather there were nothing for him to grieve about. For if goodwill be ill-willed (which it cannot), then can he who is truly and sincerely commiserating wish that there should be some unhappy ones, that he might commiserate them. Some grief may then be justified, none loved. For thus dost Thou, O Lord God, who lovest souls far more purely than do we, and art more incorruptibly compassionate, although Thou art wounded by no sorrow. “And who is sufficient for these things?”1
4. But I, wretched one, then loved to grieve, and sought out what to grieve at, as when, in another man’s misery, though feigned and counterfeited, that delivery of the actor best pleased me, and attracted me the most powerfully, which moved me to tears. What marvel was it that an unhappy sheep, straying from Thy flock, and impatient of Thy care, I became infected with a foul disease? And hence came my love of griefs—not such as should probe me too deeply, for I loved not to suffer such things as I loved to look upon, but such as, when hearing their fictions, should lightly affect the surface; upon which, like as with empoisoned nails, followed burning, swelling, putrefaction, and horrible corruption. Such was my life! But was it life, O my God?
CHAP. III.—
NOT EVEN WHEN AT CHURCH DOES HE SUPPRESS HIS DESIRES. IN THE SCHOOL OF RHETORIC HE ABHORS THE ACTS OF THE SUBVERTERS.
5. And Thy faithful mercy hovered over me afar. Upon what unseemly iniquities did I wear myself out, following a sacrilegious curiosity, that, having deserted Thee, it might drag me into the treacherous abyss, and to the beguiling obedience of devils, unto whom I immolated my wicked deeds, and in all which Thou didst scourge me! I dared, even while Thy solemn rites were being celebrated within the walls of Thy church, to desire, and to plan a business sufficient to procure me the fruits of death; for which Thou chastisedst me with grievous punishments, but nothing in comparison with my fault, O Thou my greatest mercy, my God, my refuge from those terrible hurts, among which I wandered with presumptuous neck, receding farther from Thee, loving my own ways, and not Thine—loving a vagrant liberty.
6. Those studies, also, which were accounted honourable, were directed towards the courts of law; to excel in which, the more crafty I was, the more I should be praised. Such is the blindness of men, that they even glory in their blindness. And now I was head in the School of Rhetoric, whereat I rejoiced proudly, and became inflated with arrogance, though more sedate, O Lord, as Thou knowest, and altogether removed from the subvertings of those “subverters”2 (for this stupid and diabolical name was held to be the very brand of gallantry) amongst whom I lived, with an impudent shamefacedness that I was not even as they were. And with them I was, and at times I was delighted with their friendship whose acts I ever abhorred, that is, their “subverting,” wherewith they insolently attacked the modesty of strangers, which they disturbed by uncalled for jeers, gratifying thereby their mischievous mirth. Nothing can more nearly resemble the actions of devils than these. By what name, therefore, could they be more truly called than “subverters”?—being themselves subverted first, and altogether perverted—being secretly mocked at and seduced by the deceiving spirits, in what they themselves delight to jeer at and deceive others.
CHAP. IV.—
IN THE NINETEENTH YEAR OF HIS AGE (HIS FATHER HAVING DIED TWO YEARS BEFORE) HE IS LED BY THE “HORTENSIUS” OF CICERO TO “PHILOSOPHY,” TO GOD, AND A BETTER MODE OF THINKING.
7. Among such as these, at that unstable period of my life, I studied books of eloquence, wherein I was eager to be eminent from a damnable and inflated purpose, even a delight in human vanity. In the ordinary course of study, I lighted upon a certain book of Cicero, whose language, though not his heart, almost all admire. This book of his contains an exhortation to philosophy, and is called Hortensius. This book, in truth, changed my affections, and turned my prayers to Thyself, O Lord, and made me have other hopes and desires. Worthless suddenly became every vain hope to me; and, with an incredible warmth of heart, I yearned for an immortality of wisdom,1 and began now to arise2 that I might return to Thee. Not, then, to improve my language—which I appeared to be purchasing with my mother’s means, in that my nineteenth year, my father having died two years before—not to improve my language did I have recourse to that book; nor did it persuade me by its style, but its matter.
8. How ardent was I then, my God, how ardent to fly from earthly things to Thee! Nor did I know how Thou wouldst deal with me. For with Thee is wisdom. In Greek the love of wisdom is called “philosophy,”3 with which that book inflamed me. There be some who seduce through philosophy, under a great, and alluring, and honourable name colouring and adorning their own errors. And almost all who in that and former times were such, are in that book censured and pointed out. There is also disclosed that most salutary admonition of Thy Spirit, by Thy good and pious servant: “Beware lest any man spoil you through philosophy and vain deceit, after the tradition of men, after the rudiments of the world, and not after Christ: for in Him dwelleth all the fulness of the Godhead bodily.”4 And since at that time (as Thou, O Light of my heart, knowest) the words of the apostle were unknown to me, I was delighted with that exhortation, in so far only as I was thereby stimulated, and enkindled, and inflamed to love, seek, obtain, hold, and embrace, not this or that sect, but wisdom itself, whatever it were; and this alone checked me thus ardent, that the name of Christ was not in it. For this name, according to Thy mercy, O Lord, this name of my Saviour Thy Son, had my tender heart piously drunk in, deeply treasured even with my mother’s milk; and whatsoever was without that name, though never so erudite, polished, and truthful, took not complete hold of me.
CHAP. V.—
HE REJECTS THE SACRED SCRIPTURES AS TOO SIMPLE, AND AS NOT TO BE COMPARED WITH THE DIGNITY OF TULLY.
9. I resolved, therefore, to direct my mind to the Holy Scriptures, that I might see what they were. And behold, I perceive something not comprehended by the proud, not disclosed to children, but lowly as you approach, sublime as you advance, and veiled in mysteries; and I was not of the number of those who could enter into it, or bend my neck to follow its steps. For not as when now I speak did I feel when I turned towards those Scriptures,5 but they appeared to me to be unworthy to be compared with the dignity of Tully; for my inflated pride shunned their style, nor could the sharpness of my wit pierce their inner meaning.6 Yet, truly, were they such as would develope in little ones; but I scorned to be a little one, and, swollen with pride, I looked upon myself as a great one.
CHAP. VI.—
DECEIVED BY HIS OWN FAULT, HE FALLS INTO THE ERRORS OF THE MANICHÆANS, WHO GLORIED IN THE TRUE KNOWLEDGE OF GOD AND IN A THOROUGH EXAMINATION OF THINGS.
10. Therefore I fell among men proudly raving, very carnal, and voluble, in whose mouths were the snares of the devil—the birdlime being composed of a mixture of the syllables of Thy name, and of our Lord Jesus Christ, and of the Paraclete, the Holy Ghost, the Comforter.7 These names departed not out of their mouths, but so far forth as the sound only and the clatter of the tongue, for the heart was empty of truth. Still they cried, “Truth, Truth,” and spoke much about it to me, “yet was it not in them;”8 but they spake falsely not of Thee only—who, verily, art the Truth—but also of these elements of this world, Thy creatures. And I, in truth, should have passed by philosophers, even when speaking truth concerning them, for love of Thee, my Father, supremely good, beauty of all things beautiful! O Truth, Truth! how inwardly even then did the marrow of my soul pant after Thee, when they frequently, and in a multiplicity of ways, and in numerous and huge books, sounded out Thy name to me, though it was but a voice!1 And these were the dishes in which to me, hungering for Thee, they, instead of Thee, served up the sun and moon, Thy beauteous works—but yet Thy works, not Thyself, nay, nor Thy first works. For before these corporeal works are Thy spiritual ones, celestial and shining though they be. But I hungered and thirsted not even after those first works of Thine, but after Thee Thyself, the Truth, “with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning;”2 yet they still served up to me in those dishes glowing phantasies, than which better were it to love this very sun (which, at least, is true to our sight), than those illusions which deceive the mind through the eye. And yet, because I supposed them to be Thee, I fed upon them; not with avidity, for Thou didst not taste to my mouth as Thou art, for Thou wast not these empty fictions; neither was I nourished by them, but the rather exhausted. Food in our sleep appears like our food awake; yet the sleepers are not nourished by it, for they are asleep. But those things were not in any way like unto Thee as Thou hast now spoken unto me, in that those were corporeal phantasies, false bodies, than which these true bodies, whether celestial or terrestrial, which we perceive with our fleshly sight, are much more certain. These things the very beasts and birds perceive as well as we, and they are more certain than when we imagine them. And again, we do with more certainty imagine them, than by them conceive of other greater and infinite bodies which have no existence. With such empty husks was I then fed, and was not fed. But Thou, my Love, in looking for whom I fail3 that I may be strong, art neither those bodies that we see, although in heaven, nor art Thou those which we see not there; for Thou hast created them, nor dost Thou reckon them amongst Thy greatest works. How far, then, art Thou from those phantasies of mine, phantasies of bodies which are not at all, than which the images of those bodies which are, are more certain, and still more certain the bodies themselves, which yet Thou art not; nay, nor yet the soul, which is the life of the bodies. Better, then, and more certain is the life of bodies than the bodies themselves. But Thou art the life of souls, the life of lives, having life in Thyself; and Thou changest not, O Life of my soul.
11. Where, then, wert Thou then to me, and how far from me? Far, indeed, was I wandering away from Thee, being even shut out from the very husks of the swine, whom with husks I fed.4 For how much better, then, are the fables of the grammarians and poets than these snares! For verses, and poems, and Medea flying, are more profitable truly than these men’s five elements, variously painted, to answer to the five caves of darkness,5 none of which exist, and which slay the believer. For verses and poems I can turn into6 true food, but the “Medea flying,” though I sang, I maintained it not; though I heard it sung, I believed it not; but those things I did believe. Woe, woe, by what steps was I dragged down “to the depths of hell!”7 —toiling and turmoiling through want of Truth, when I sought after Thee, my God,—to Thee I confess it, who hadst mercy on me when I had not yet confessed,—sought after Thee not according to the understanding of the mind, in which Thou desiredst that I should excel the beasts, but according to the sense of the flesh! Thou wert more inward to me than my most inward part; and higher than my highest. I came upon that bold woman, who “is simple, and knoweth nothing,”8 the enigma of Solomon, sitting “at the door of the house on a seat,” and saying, “Stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant.”9 This woman seduced me, because she found my soul beyond its portals, dwelling in the eye of my flesh, and thinking on such food as through it I had devoured.
CHAP. VII.—
HE ATTACKS THE DOCTRINE OF THE MANICHÆANS CONCERNING EVIL, GOD, AND THE RIGHTEOUSNESS OF THE PATRIARCHS.
12. For I was ignorant as to that which really is, and was, as it were, violently moved to give my support to foolish deceivers, when they asked me, “Whence is evil?”1 —and, “Is God limited by a bodily shape, and has He hairs and nails?”—and, “Are they to be esteemed righteous who had many wives at once, and did kill men, and sacrificed living creatures?”2 At which things I, in my ignorance, was much disturbed, and, retreating from the truth, I appeared to myself to be going towards it; because as yet I knew not that evil was naught but a privation of good, until in the end it ceases altogether to be; which how should I see, the sight of whose eyes saw no further than bodies, and of my mind no further than a phantasm? And I knew not God to be a Spirit,3 not one who hath parts extended in length and breadth, nor whose being was bulk; for every bulk is less in a part than in the whole, and, if it be infinite, it must be less in such part as is limited by a certain space than in its infinity; and cannot be wholly everywhere, as Spirit, as God is. And what that should be in us, by which we were like unto God, and might rightly in Scripture be said to be after “the image of God,”4 I was entirely ignorant.
13. Nor had I knowledge of that true inner righteousness, which doth not judge according to custom, but out of the most perfect law of God Almighty, by which the manners of places and times were adapted to those places and times—being itself the while the same always and everywhere, not one thing in one place, and another in another; according to which Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob, and Moses, and David, and all those commended by the mouth of God were righteous,5 but were judged unrighteous by foolish men, judging out of man’s judgment,6 and gauging by the petty standard of their own manners the manners of the whole human race. Like as if in an armoury, one knowing not what were adapted to the several members should put greaves on his head, or boot himself with a helmet, and then complain because they would not fit. Or as if, on some day when in the afternoon business was forbidden, one were to fume at not being allowed to sell as it was lawful to him in the forenoon. Or when in some house he sees a servant take something in his hand which the butler is not permitted to touch, or something done behind a stable which would be prohibited in the dining-room, and should be indignant that in one house, and one family, the same thing is not distributed everywhere to all. Such are they who cannot endure to hear something to have been lawful for righteous men in former times which is not so now; or that God, for certain temporal reasons, commanded them one thing, and these another, but both obeying the same righteousness; though they see, in one man, one day, and one house, different things to be fit for different members, and a thing which was formerly lawful after a time unlawful—that permitted or commanded in one corner, which done in another is justly prohibited and punished. Is justice, then, various and changeable? Nay, but the times over which she presides are not all alike, because they are times.7 But men, whose days upon the earth are few,8 because by their own perception they cannot harmonize the causes of former ages and other nations, of which they had no experience, with these of which they have experience, though in one and the same body, day, or family, they can readily see what is suitable for each member, season, part, and person—to the one they take exception, to the other they submit.
14. These things I then knew not, nor observed. They met my eyes on every side, and I saw them not. I composed poems, in which it was not permitted me to place every foot everywhere, but in one metre one way, and in another another, nor even in any one verse the same foot in all places. Yet the art itself by which I composed had not different principles for these different cases, but comprised all in one. Still I saw not how that righteousness, which good and holy men submitted to, far more excellently and sublimely comprehended in one all those things which God commanded, and in no part varied, though in varying times it did not prescribe all things at once, but distributed and enjoined what was proper for each. And I, being blind, blamed those pious fathers, not only for making use of present things as God commanded and inspired them to do, but also for foreshowing things to come as God was revealing them.1
CHAP. VIII.—
HE ARGUES AGAINST THE SAME AS TO THE REASON OF OFFENCES.
15. Can it at any time or place be an unrighteous thing for a man to love God with all his heart, with all his soul, and with all his mind, and his neighbour as himself?2 Therefore those offences which be contrary to nature are everywhere and at all times to be held in detestation and punished; such were those of the Sodomites, which should all nations commit, they should all be held guilty of the same crime by the divine law, which hath not so made men that they should in that way abuse one another. For even that fellowship which should be between God and us is violated, when that same nature of which He is author is polluted by the perversity of lust. But those offences which are contrary to the customs of men are to be avoided according to the customs severally prevailing; so that an agreement made, and confirmed by custom or law of any city or nation, may not be violated at the lawless pleasure of any, whether citizen or stranger. For any part which is not consistent with its whole is unseemly. But when God commands anything contrary to the customs or compacts of any nation to be done, though it were never done by them before, it is to be done; and if intermitted it is to be restored, and, if never established, to be established. For if it be lawful for a king, in the state over which he reigns, to command that which neither he himself nor any one before him had commanded, and to obey him cannot be held to be inimical to the public interest,—nay, it were so if he were not obeyed (for obedience to princes is a general compact of human society),—how much more, then, ought we unhesitatingly to obey God, the Governor of all His creatures! For as among the authorities of human society the greater authority is obeyed before the lesser, so must God above all.
16. So also in deeds of violence, where there is a desire to harm, whether by contumely or injury; and both of these either by reason of revenge, as one enemy against another; or to obtain some advantage over another, as the highwayman to the traveller; or for the avoiding of some evil, as with him who is in fear of another; or through envy, as the unfortunate man to one who is happy; or as he that is prosperous in anything to him who he fears will become equal to himself, or whose equality he grieves at; or for the mere pleasure in another’s pains, as the spectators of gladiators, or the deriders and mockers of others. These be the chief iniquities which spring forth from the lust of the flesh, of the eye, and of power, whether singly, or two together, or all at once. And so do men live in opposition to the three and seven, that psaltery “of ten strings,”3 Thy ten commandments, O God most high and most sweet. But what foul offences can there be against Thee who canst not be defiled? Or what deeds of violence against thee who canst not be harmed? But Thou avengest that which men perpetrate against themselves, seeing also that when they sin against Thee, they do wickedly against their own souls; and iniquity gives itself the lie,4 either by corrupting or perverting their nature, which Thou hast made and ordained, or by an immoderate use of things permitted, or in “burning” in things forbidden to that use which is against nature;5 or when convicted, raging with heart and voice against Thee, kicking against the pricks;6 or when, breaking through the pale of human society, they audaciously rejoice in private combinations or divisions, according as they have been pleased or offended. And these things are done whenever Thou art forsaken, O Fountain of Life, who art the only and true Creator and Ruler of the universe, and by a self-willed pride any one false thing is selected therefrom and loved. So, then, by a humble piety we return to Thee; and thou purgest us from our evil customs, and art merciful unto the sins of those who confess unto Thee, and dost “hear the groaning of the prisoner,”7 and dost loosen us from those fetters which we have forged for ourselves, if we lift not up against Thee the horns of a false liberty,—losing all through craving more, by loving more our own private good than Thee, the good of all.
CHAP. IX.—
THAT THE JUDGMENT OF GOD AND MEN, AS TO HUMAN ACTS OF VIOLENCE, IS DIFFERENT.
17. But amidst these offences of infamy and violence, and so many iniquities, are the sins of men who are, on the whole, making progress; which, by those who judge rightly, and after the rule of perfection, are censured, yet commended withal, upon the hope of bearing fruit, like as in the green blade of the growing corn. And there are some which resemble offences of infamy or violence, and yet are not sins, because they neither offend Thee, our Lord God, nor social custom: when, for example, things suitable for the times are provided for the use of life, and we are uncertain whether it be out of a lust of having; or when acts are punished by constituted authority for the sake of correction, and we are uncertain whether it be out of a lust of hurting. Many a deed, then, which in the sight of men is disapproved, is approved by Thy testimony; and many a one who is praised by men is, Thou being witness, condemned; because frequently the view of the deed, and the mind of the doer, and the hidden exigency of the period, severally vary. But when Thou unexpectedly commandest an unusual and unthought-of thing—yea, even if Thou hast formerly forbidden it, and still for the time keepest secret the reason of Thy command, and it even be contrary to the ordinance of some society of men, who doubts but it is to be done, inasmuch as that society is righteous which serves Thee?1 But blessed are they who know Thy commands! For all things were done by them who served Thee either to exhibit something necessary at the time, or to foreshow things to come.2
CHAP. X.—
HE REPROVES THE TRIFLINGS OF THE MANICHÆANS AS TO THE FRUITS OF THE EARTH.
18. These things being ignorant of, I derided those holy servants and prophets of Thine. And what did I gain by deriding them but to be derided by Thee, being insensibly, and little by little, led on to those follies, as to credit that a fig-tree wept when it was plucked, and that the mother-tree shed milky tears? Which fig notwithstanding, plucked not by his own but another’s wickedness, had some “saint”3 eaten and mingled with his entrails, he should breathe out of it angels; yea, in his prayers he shall assuredly groan and sigh forth particles of God, which particles of the most high and true God should have remained bound in that fig unless they had been set free by the teeth and belly of some “elect saint”!4 And I, miserable one, believed that more mercy was to be shown to the fruits of the earth than unto men, for whom they were created; for if a hungry man—who was not a Manichæan—should beg for any, that morsel which should be given him would appear, as it were, condemned to capital punishment.5
CHAP. XI.—
HE REFERS TO THE TEARS, AND THE MEMORABLE DREAM CONCERNING HER SON, GRANTED BY GOD TO HIS MOTHER.
19. And Thou sendedst Thine hand from above,6 and drewest my soul out of that profound darkness, when my mother, Thy faithful one, wept to thee on my behalf more than mothers are wont to weep the bodily deaths of their children. For she saw that I was dead by that faith and spirit which she had from Thee, and Thou heardest her, O Lord. Thou heardest her, and despisedst not her tears, when, pouring down, they watered the earth7 under her eyes in every place where she prayed; yea, Thou heardest her. For whence was that dream with which Thou consoledst her, so that she permitted me to live with her, and to have my meals at the same table in the house, which she had begun to avoid, hating and detesting the blasphemies of my error? For she saw herself standing on a certain wooden rule,8 and a bright youth advancing towards her, joyous and smiling upon her, whilst she was grieving and bowed down with sorrow. But he having inquired of her the cause of her sorrow and daily weeping (he wishing to teach, as is their wont, and not to be taught), and she answering that it was my perdition she was lamenting, he bade her rest contented, and told her to behold and see “that where she was, there was I also.” And when she looked she saw me standing near her on the same rule. Whence was this, unless that Thine ears were inclined towards her heart? O Thou Good Omnipotent, who so carest for every one of us as if Thou caredst for him only, and so for all as if they were but one!
20. Whence was this, also, that when she had narrated this vision to me, and I tried to put this construction on it, “That she rather should not despair of being some day what I was,” she immediately, without hesitation, replied, “No; for it was not told me that ‘where he is, there shalt thou be,’ but ‘where thou art, there shall he be’ ”? I confess to Thee, O Lord, that, to the best of my remembrance (and I have oft spoken of this), Thy answer through my watchful mother—that she was not disquieted by the speciousness of my false interpretation, and saw in a moment what was to be seen, and which I myself had not in truth perceived before she spake—even then moved me more than the dream itself, by which the happiness to that pious woman, to be realized so long after, was, for the alleviation of her present anxiety, so long before predicted. For nearly nine years passed in which I wallowed in the slime of that deep pit and the darkness of falsehood, striving often to rise, but being all the more heavily dashed down. But yet that chaste, pious, and sober widow (such as Thou lovest), now more buoyed up with hope, though no whit less zealous in her weeping and mourning, desisted not, at all the hours of her supplications, to bewail my case unto Thee. And her prayers entered into Thy presence,1 and yet Thou didst still suffer me to be involved and re-involved in that darkness.
CHAP. XII.—
THE EXCELLENT ANSWER OF THE BISHOP WHEN REFERRED TO BY HIS MOTHER AS TO THE CONVERSION OF HER SON.
21. And meanwhile Thou grantedst her another answer, which I recall; for much I pass over, hastening on to those things which the more strongly impel me to confess unto Thee, and much I do not remember. Thou didst grant her then another answer, by a priest of Thine, a certain bishop, reared in Thy Church and well versed in Thy books. He, when this woman had entreated that he would vouchsafe to have some talk with me, refute my errors, unteach me evil things, and teach me good (for this he was in the habit of doing when he found people fitted to receive it), refused, very prudently, as I afterwards came to see. For he answered that I was still unteachable, being inflated with the novelty of that heresy, and that I had already perplexed divers inexperienced persons with vexatious questions,2 as she had informed him. “But leave him alone for a time,” saith he, “only pray God for him; he will of himself, by reading, discover what that error is, and how great its impiety.” He disclosed to her at the same time how he himself, when a little one, had, by his misguided mother, been given over to the Manichæans, and had not only read, but even written out almost all their books, and had come to see (without argument or proof from any one) how much that sect was to be shunned, and had shunned it. Which when he had said, and she would not be satisfied, but repeated more earnestly her entreaties, shedding copious tears, that he would see and discourse with me, he, a little vexed at her importunity, exclaimed, “Go thy way, and God bless thee, for it is not possible that the son of these tears should perish.” Which answer (as she often mentioned in her conversations with me) she accepted as though it were a voice from heaven.
BOOK IV.
THEN FOLLOWS A PERIOD OF NINE YEARS FROM THE NINETEENTH YEAR OF HIS AGE, DURING WHICH HAVING LOST A FRIEND, HE FOLLOWED THE MANICHÆANS—AND WROTE BOOKS ON THE FAIR AND FIT, AND PUBLISHED A WORK ON THE LIBERAL ARTS, AND THE CATEGORIES OF ARISTOTLE.
CHAP. I.—
CONCERNING THAT MOST UNHAPPY TIME IN WHICH HE, BEING DECEIVED, DECEIVED OTHERS; AND CONCERNING THE MOCKERS OF HIS CONFESSION.
1. During this space of nine years, then, from my nineteenth to my eight and twentieth year, we went on seduced and seducing, deceived and deceiving, in divers lusts; publicly, by sciences which they style “liberal”—secretly, with a falsity called religion. Here proud, there superstitious, everywhere vain! Here, striving after the emptiness of popular fame, even to theatrical applauses, and poetic contests, and strifes for grassy garlands, and the follies of shows and the intemperance of desire. There, seeking to be purged from these our corruptions by carrying food to those who were called “elect” and “holy,” out of which, in the laboratory of their stomachs, they should make for us angels and gods, by whom we might be delivered.1 These things did I follow eagerly, and practise with my friends—by me and with me deceived. Let the arrogant, and such as have not been yet savingly cast down and stricken by Thee, O my God, laugh at me; but notwithstanding I would confess to Thee mine own shame in Thy praise. Bear with me, I beseech Thee, and give me grace to retrace in my present remembrance the circlings of my past errors, and to “offer to Thee the sacrifice of thanksgiving.”2 For what am I to myself without Thee, but a guide to mine own downfall? Or what am I even at the best, but one sucking Thy milk,3 and feeding upon Thee, the meat that perisheth not?4 But what kind of man is any man, seeing that he is but a man? Let, then, the strong and the mighty laugh at us, but let us who are “poor and needy”5 confess unto Thee.
CHAP. II.—
HE TEACHES RHETORIC, THE ONLY THING HE LOVED, AND SCORNS THE SOOTHSAYER, WHO PROMISED HIM VICTORY.
2. In those years I taught the art of rhetoric, and, overcome by cupidity, put to sale a loquacity by which to overcome. Yet I preferred—Lord, Thou knowest—to have honest scholars (as they are esteemed); and these I, without artifice, taught artifices, not to be put in practise against the life of the guiltless, though sometimes for the life of the guilty. And Thou, O God, from afar sawest me stumbling in that slippery path, and amid much smoke6 sending out some flashes of fidelity, which I exhibited in that my guidance of such as loved vanity and sought after leasing,7 I being their companion. In those years I had one (whom I knew not in what is called lawful wedlock, but whom my wayward passion, void of understanding, had discovered), yet one only, remaining faithful even to her; in whom I found out truly by my own experience what difference there is between the restraints of the marriage bonds, contracted for the sake of issue, and the compact of a lustful love, where children are born against the parents’ will, although, being born, they compel love.
3. I remember, too, that when I decided to compete for a theatrical prize, a soothsayer demanded of me what I would give him to win; but I, detesting and abominating such foul mysteries, answered, “That if the garland were of imperishable gold, I would not suffer a fly to be destroyed to secure it for me.” For he was to slay certain living creatures in his sacrifices, and by those honours to invite the devils to give me their support. But this ill thing I also refused, not out of a pure love1 for Thee, O God of my heart; for I knew not how to love Thee, knowing not how to conceive aught beyond corporeal brightness.2 And doth not a soul, sighing after such-like fictions, commit fornication against Thee, trust in false things,3 and nourish the wind?4 But I would not, forsooth, have sacrifices offered to devils on my behalf, though I myself was offering sacrifices to them by that superstition. For what else is nourishing the wind but nourishing them, that is, by our wanderings to become their enjoyment and derision?
CHAP. III.—
NOT EVEN THE MOST EXPERIENCED MEN COULD PERSUADE HIM OF THE VANITY OF ASTROLOGY, TO WHICH HE WAS DEVOTED.
4. Those impostors, then, whom they designate Mathematicians, I consulted without hesitation, because they used no sacrifices, and invoked the aid of no spirit for their divinations, which art Christian and true piety fitly rejects and condemns.5 For good it is to confess unto Thee, and to say, “Be merciful unto me, heal my soul, for I have sinned against Thee;”6 and not to abuse Thy goodness for a license to sin, but to remember the words of the Lord, “Behold, thou art made whole; sin no more, lest a worse thing come unto thee.”7 All of which salutary advice they endeavour to destroy when they say, “The cause of thy sin is inevitably determined in heaven;” and, “This did Venus, or Saturn, or Mars;” in order that man, forsooth, flesh and blood, and proud corruption, may be blameless, while the Creator and Ordainer of heaven and stars is to bear the blame. And who is this but Thee, our God, the sweetness and well-spring of righteousness, who renderest “to every man according to his deeds,”8 and despisest not “a broken and a contrite heart!”9
5. There was in those days a wise man, very skilful in medicine, and much renowned therein, who had with his own proconsular hand put the Agonistic garland upon my distempered head, not, though, as a physician;10 for this disease Thou alone healest, who resistest the proud, and givest grace to the humble.11 But didst Thou fail me even by that old man, or forbear from healing my soul? For when I had become more familiar with him, and hung assiduously and fixedly on his conversation (for though couched in simple language, it was replete with vivacity, life, and earnestness), when he had perceived from my discourse that I was given to books of the horoscope-casters, he, in a kind and fatherly manner, advised me to throw them away, and not vainly bestow the care and labour necessary for useful things upon these vanities; saying that he himself in his earlier years had studied that art with a view to gaining his living by following it as a profession, and that, as he had understood Hippocrates, he would soon have understood this, and yet he had given it up, and followed medicine, for no other reason than that he discovered it to be utterly false, and he, being a man of character, would not gain his living by beguiling people. “But thou,” saith he, “who hast rhetoric to support thyself by, so that thou followest this of free will, not of necessity—all the more, then, oughtest thou to give me credit herein, who laboured to attain it so perfectly, as I wished to gain my living by it alone.” When I asked him to account for so many true things being foretold by it, he answered me (as he could) “that the force of chance, diffused throughout the whole order of nature, brought this about. For if when a man by accident opens the leaves of some poet, who sang and intended something far different, a verse oftentimes fell out wondrously apposite to the present business, it were not to be wondered at,” he continued, “if out of the soul of man, by some higher instinct, not knowing what goes on within itself, an answer should be given by chance, not art, which should coincide with the business and actions of the questioner.”
6. And thus truly, either by or through him, Thou didst look after me. And Thou didst delineate in my memory what I might afterwards search out for myself. But at that time neither he, nor my most dear Nebridius, a youth most good and most circumspect, who scoffed at that whole stock of divination, could persuade me to forsake it, the authority of the authors influencing me still more; and as yet I had lighted upon no certain proof—such as I sought—whereby it might without doubt appear that what had been truly foretold by those consulted was by accident or chance, not by the art of the star-gazers.
CHAP. IV.—
SORELY DISTRESSED BY WEEPING AT THE DEATH OF HIS FRIEND, HE PROVIDES CONSOLATION FOR HIMSELF.
7. In those years, when I first began to teach rhetoric in my native town, I had acquired a very dear friend, from association in our studies, of mine own age, and, like myself, just rising up into the flower of youth. He had grown up with me from childhood, and we had been both school-fellows and play-fellows. But he was not then my friend, nor, indeed, afterwards, as true friendship is; for true it is not but in such as Thou bindest together, cleaving unto Thee by that love which is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost, which is given unto us.1 But yet it was too sweet, being ripened by the fervour of similar studies. For, from the true faith (which he, as a youth, had not soundly and thoroughly become master of), I had turned him aside towards those superstitious and pernicious fables which my mother mourned in me. With me this man’s mind now erred, nor could my soul exist without him. But behold, Thou wert close behind Thy fugitives—at once God of vengeance2 and Fountain of mercies, who turnest us to Thyself by wondrous means. Thou removedst that man from this life when he had scarce completed one whole year of my friendship, sweet to me above all the sweetness of that my life.
8. “Who can show forth all Thy praise”3 which he hath experienced in himself alone? What was it that Thou didst then, O my God, and how unsearchable are the depths of Thy judgments!4 For when, sore sick of a fever, he long lay unconscious in a death-sweat, and all despaired of his recovery, he was baptized without his knowledge;5 myself meanwhile little caring, presuming that his soul would retain rather what it had imbibed from me, than what was done to his unconscious body. Far different, however, was it, for he was revived and restored. Straightway, as soon as I could talk to him (which I could as soon as he was able, for I never left him, and we hung too much upon each other), I attempted to jest with him, as if he also would jest with me at that baptism which he had received when mind and senses were in abeyance, but had now learnt that he had received. But he shuddered at me, as if I were his enemy; and, with a remarkable and unexpected freedom, admonished me, if I desired to continue his friend, to desist from speaking to him in such a way. I, confounded and confused, concealed all my emotions, till he should get well, and his health be strong enough to allow me to deal with him as I wished. But he was withdrawn from my frenzy, that with Thee he might be preserved for my comfort. A few days after, during my absence, he had a return of the fever, and died.
9. At this sorrow my heart was utterly darkened, and whatever I looked upon was death. My native country was a torture to me, and my father’s house a wondrous unhappiness; and whatsoever I had participated in with him, wanting him, turned into a frightful torture. Mine eyes sought him everywhere, but he was not granted them; and I hated all places because he was not in them; nor could they now say to me, “Behold, he is coming,” as they did when he was alive and absent. I became a great puzzle to myself, and asked my soul why she was so sad, and why she so exceedingly disquieted me;1 but she knew not what to answer me. And if I said, “Hope thou in God,”2 she very properly obeyed me not; because that most dear friend whom she had lost was, being man, both truer and better than that phantasm3 she was bid to hope in. Naught but tears were sweet to me, and they succeeded my friend in the dearest of my affections.
CHAP. V.—
WHY WEEPING IS PLEASANT TO THE WRETCHED.
10. And now, O Lord, these things are passed away, and time hath healed my wound. May I learn from Thee, who art Truth, and apply the ear of my heart unto Thy mouth, that Thou mayest tell me why weeping should be so sweet to the unhappy.4 Hast Thou—although present everywhere—cast away far from Thee our misery? And Thou abidest in Thyself, but we are disquieted with divers trials; and yet, unless we wept in Thine ears, there would be no hope for us remaining. Whence, then, is it that such sweet fruit is plucked from the bitterness of life, from groans, tears, sighs, and lamentations? Is it the hope that Thou hearest us that sweetens it? This is true of prayer, for therein is a desire to approach unto Thee. But is it also in grief for a thing lost, and the sorrow with which I was then overwhelmed? For I had neither hope of his coming to life again, nor did I seek this with my tears; but I grieved and wept only, for I was miserable, and had lost my joy. Or is weeping a bitter thing, and for distaste of the things which aforetime we enjoyed before, and even then, when we are loathing them, does it cause us pleasure?
CHAP. VI.—
HIS FRIEND BEING SNATCHED AWAY BY DEATH, HE IMAGINES THAT HE REMAINS ONLY AS HALF.
11. But why do I speak of these things? For this is not the time to question, but rather to confess unto Thee. Miserable I was, and miserable is every soul fettered by the friendship of perishable things—he is torn to pieces when he loses them, and then is sensible of the misery which he had before ever he lost them. Thus was it at that time with me; I wept most bitterly, and found rest in bitterness. Thus was I miserable, and that life of misery I accounted dearer than my friend. For though I would willingly have changed it, yet I was even more unwilling to lose it than him; yea, I knew not whether I was willing to lose it even for him, as is handed down to us (if not an invention) of Pylades and Orestes, that they would gladly have died one for another, or both together, it being worse than death to them not to live together. But there had sprung up in me some kind of feeling, too, contrary to this, for both exceedingly wearisome was it to me to live, and dreadful to die. I suppose, the more I loved him, so much the more did I hate and fear, as a most cruel enemy, that death which had robbed me of him; and I imagined it would suddenly annihilate all men, as it had power over him. Thus, I remember, it was with me. Behold my heart, O my God! Behold and look into me, for I remember it well, O my Hope! who cleansest me from the uncleanness of such affections, directing mine eyes towards Thee, and plucking my feet out of the net.5 For I was astonished that other mortals lived, since he whom I loved, as if he would never die, was dead; and I wondered still more that I, who was to him a second self, could live when he was dead. Well did one say of his friend, “Thou half of my soul,”6 for I felt that my soul and his soul were but one soul in two bodies;7 and, consequently, my life was a horror to me, because I would not live in half. And therefore, perchance, was I afraid to die, lest he should die wholly8 whom I had so greatly loved.
CHAP. VII.—
TROUBLED BY RESTLESSNESS AND GRIEF, HE LEAVES HIS COUNTRY A SECOND TIME FOR CARTHAGE.
12. O madness, which knowest not how to love men as men should be loved! O foolish man that I then was, enduring with so much impatience the lot of man! So I fretted, sighed, wept, tormented myself, and took neither rest nor advice. For I bore about with me a rent and polluted soul, impatient of being borne by me, and where to repose it I found not. Not in pleasant groves, not in sport or song, not in fragrant spots, nor in magnificent banquetings, nor in the pleasures of the bed and the couch, nor, finally, in books and songs did it find repose. All things looked terrible, even the very light itself; and whatsoever was not what he was, was repulsive and hateful, except groans and tears, for in those alone found I a little repose. But when my soul was withdrawn from them, a heavy burden of misery weighed me down. To Thee, O Lord, should it have been raised, for Thee to lighten and avert it.1 This I knew, but was neither willing nor able; all the more since, in my thoughts of Thee, Thou wert not any solid or substantial thing to me. For Thou wert not Thyself, but an empty phantasm,2 and my error was my god. If I attempted to discharge my burden thereon, that it might find rest, it sank into emptiness, and came rushing down again upon me, and I remained to myself an unhappy spot, where I could neither stay nor depart from. For whither could my heart fly from my heart? Whither could I fly from mine own self? Whither not follow myself? And yet fled I from my country; for so should my eyes look less for him where they were not accustomed to see him. And thus I left the town of Thagaste, and came to Carthage.
CHAP. VIII.—
THAT HIS GRIEF CEASED BY TIME, AND THE CONSOLATION OF FRIENDS.
13. Times lose no time, nor do they idly roll through our senses. They work strange operations on the mind.3 Behold, they came and went from day to day, and by coming and going they disseminated in my mind other ideas and other remembrances, and by little and little patched me up again with the former kind of delights, unto which that sorrow of mine yielded. But yet there succeeded, not certainly other sorrows, yet the causes of other sorrows.4 For whence had that former sorrow so easily penetrated to the quick, but that I had poured out my soul upon the dust, in loving one who must die as if he were never to die? But what revived and refreshed me especially was the consolations of other friends,5 with whom I did love what instead of Thee I loved. And this was a monstrous fable and protracted lie, by whose adulterous contact our soul, which lay itching in our ears, was being polluted. But that fable would not die to me so oft as any of my friends died. There were other things in them which did more lay hold of my mind,—to discourse and jest with them; to indulge in an interchange of kindnesses; to read together pleasant books; together to trifle, and together to be earnest; to differ at times without ill-humour, as a man would do with his own self; and even by the infrequency of these differences to give zest to our more frequent consentings; sometimes teaching, sometimes being taught; longing for the absent with impatience, and welcoming the coming with joy. These and similar expressions, emanating from the hearts of those who loved and were beloved in return, by the countenance, the tongue, the eyes, and a thousand pleasing movements, were so much fuel to melt our souls together, and out of many to make but one.
CHAP. IX.—
THAT THE LOVE OF A HUMAN BEING, HOWEVER CONSTANT IN LOVING AND RETURNING LOVE, PERISHES; WHILE HE WHO LOVES GOD NEVER LOSES A FRIEND.
14. This is it that is loved in friends; and so loved that a man’s conscience accuses itself if he love not him by whom he is beloved, or love not again him that loves him, expecting nothing from him but indications of his love. Hence that mourning if one die, and gloom of sorrow, that steeping of the heart in tears, all sweetness turned into bitterness, and upon the loss of the life of the dying, the death of the living. Blessed be he who loveth Thee, and his friend in Thee, and his enemy for Thy sake. For he alone loses none dear to him to whom all are dear in Him who cannot be lost. And who is this but our God, the God that created heaven and earth,6 and filleth them,7 because by filling them He created them?8 None loseth Thee but he who leaveth Thee. And he who leaveth Thee, whither goeth he, or whither fleeth he, but from Thee well pleased to Thee angry? For where doth not he find Thy law in his own punishment? “And Thy law is the truth,”9 and truth Thou.10
CHAP. X.—
THAT ALL THINGS EXIST THAT THEY MAY PERISH, AND THAT WE ARE NOT SAFE UNLESS GOD WATCHES OVER US.
15. “Turn us again, O Lord God of Hosts, cause Thy face to shine; and we shall be saved.”1 For whithersoever the soul of man turns itself, unless towards Thee, it is affixed to sorrows,2 yea, though it is affixed to beauteous things without Thee and without itself. And yet they were not unless they were from Thee. They rise and set; and by rising, they begin as it were to be; and they grow, that they may become perfect; and when perfect, they wax old and perish; and all wax not old, but all perish. Therefore when they rise and tend to be, the more rapidly they grow that they may be, so much the more they hasten not to be. This is the way of them.3 Thus much hast Thou given them, because they are parts of things, which exist not all at the same time, but by departing and succeeding they together make up the universe, of which they are parts. And even thus is our speech accomplished by signs emitting a sound; but this, again, is not perfected unless one word pass away when it has sounded its part, in order that another may succeed it. Let my soul praise Thee out of all these things, O God, the Creator of all; but let not my soul be affixed to these things by the glue of love, through the senses of the body. For they go whither they were to go, that they might no longer be; and they rend her with pestilent desires, because she longs to be, and yet loves to rest in what she loves. But in these things no place is to be found; they stay not—they flee; and who is he that is able to follow them with the senses of the flesh? Or who can grasp them, even when they are near? For tardy is the sense of the flesh, because it is the sense of the flesh, and its boundary is itself. It sufficeth for that for which it was made, but it is not sufficient to stay things running their course from their appointed starting-place to the end appointed. For in Thy word, by which they were created, they hear the fiat, “Hence and hitherto.”
CHAP. XI.—
THAT PORTIONS OF THE WORLD ARE NOT TO BE LOVED; BUT THAT GOD, THEIR AUTHOR, IS IMMUTABLE, AND HIS WORD ETERNAL.
16. Be not foolish, O my soul, and deaden not the ear of thine heart with the tumult of thy folly. Hearken thou also. The word itself invokes thee to return; and there is the place of rest imperturbable, where love is not abandoned if itself abandoneth not. Behold, these things pass away, that others may succeed them, and so this lower universe be made complete in all its parts. But do I depart anywhere, saith the word of God? There fix thy habitation. There commit whatsoever thou hast thence, O my soul; at all events now thou art tired out with deceits. Commit to truth whatsoever thou hast from the truth, and nothing shalt thou lose; and thy decay shall flourish again, and all thy diseases be healed,4 and thy perishable parts shall be re-formed and renovated, and drawn together to thee; nor shall they put thee down where themselves descend, but they shall abide with thee, and continue for ever before God, who abideth and continueth for ever.5
17. Why, then, be perverse and follow thy flesh? Rather let it be converted and follow thee. Whatever by her thou feelest, is but in part; and the whole, of which these are portions, thou art ignorant of, and yet they delight thee. But had the sense of thy flesh been capable of comprehending the whole, and not itself also, for thy punishment, been justly limited to a portion of the whole, thou wouldest that whatsoever existeth at the present time should pass away, that so the whole might please thee more.6 For what we speak, also by the same sense of the flesh thou hearest; and yet wouldest not thou that the syllables should stay, but fly away, that others may come, and the whole7 be heard. Thus it is always, when any single thing is composed of many, all of which exist not together, all together would delight more than they do simply could all be perceived at once. But far better than these is He who made all; and He is our God, and He passeth not away, for there is nothing to succeed Him. If bodies please thee, praise God for them, and turn back thy love upon their Creator, lest in those things which please thee thou displease.
CHAP. XII.—
LOVE IS NOT CONDEMNED, BUT LOVE IN GOD, IN WHOM THERE IS REST THROUGH JESUS CHRIST, IS TO BE PREFERRED.
18. If souls please thee, let them be loved in God; for they also are mutable, but in Him are they firmly established, else would they pass, and pass away. In Him, then, let them be beloved; and draw unto Him along with thee as many souls as thou canst, and say to them, “Him let us love, Him let us love; He created these, nor is He far off. For He did not create them, and then depart; but they are of Him, and in Him. Behold, there is He wherever truth is known. He is within the very heart, but yet hath the heart wandered from Him. Return to your heart,1 O ye transgressors,2 and cleave fast unto Him that made you. Stand with Him, and you shall stand fast. Rest in Him, and you shall be at rest. Whither go ye in rugged paths? Whither go ye? The good that you love is from Him; and as it has respect unto Him it is both good and pleasant, and justly shall it be embittered,3 because whatsoever cometh from Him is unjustly loved if He be forsaken for it. Why, then, will ye wander farther and farther in these difficult and toilsome ways? There is no rest where ye seek it. Seek what ye seek; but it is not there where ye seek. Ye seek a blessed life in the land of death; it is not there. For could a blessed life be where life itself is not?”
19. But our very Life descended hither, and bore our death, and slew it, out of the abundance of His own life; and thundering He called loudly to us to return hence to Him into that secret place whence He came forth to us—first into the Virgin’s womb, where the human creature was married to Him,—our mortal flesh, that it might not be for ever mortal,—and thence “as a bridegroom coming out of his chamber, rejoicing as a strong man to run a race.”4 For He tarried not, but ran crying out by words, deeds, death, life, descent, ascension, crying aloud to us to return to Him. And He departed from our sight, that we might return to our heart, and there find Him. For He departed, and behold, He is here. He would not be long with us, yet left us not; for He departed thither, whence He never departed, because “the world was made by Him.”5 And in this world He was, and into this world He came to save sinners,6 unto whom my soul doth confess, that He may heal it, for it hath sinned against Him.7 O ye sons of men, how long so slow of heart?8 Even now, after the Life is descended to you, will ye not ascend and live?9 But whither ascend ye, when ye are on high, and set your mouth against the heavens?10 Descend that ye may ascend,11 and ascend to God. For ye have fallen by “ascending against Him.” Tell them this, that they may weep in the valley of tears,12 and so draw them with thee to God, because it is by His Spirit that thou speakest thus unto them, if thou speakest burning with the fire of love.
CHAP. XIII.—
LOVE ORIGINATES FROM GRACE AND BEAUTY ENTICING US.
20. These things I knew not at that time, and I loved these lower beauties, and I was sinking to the very depths; and I said to my friends, “Do we love anything but the beautiful? What, then, is the beautiful? And what is beauty? What is it that allures and unites us to the things we love; for unless there were a grace and beauty in them, they could by no means attract us to them?” And I marked and perceived that in bodies themselves there was a beauty from their forming a kind of whole, and another from mutual fitness, as one part of the body with its whole, or a shoe with a foot, and so on. And this consideration sprang up in my mind out of the recesses of my heart, and I wrote books (two or three, I think) “on the fair and fit.” Thou knowest, O Lord, for it has escaped me; for I have them not, but they have strayed from me, I know not how.
CHAP. XIV.—
CONCERNING THE BOOKS WHICH HE WROTE “ON THE FAIR AND FIT,” DEDICATED TO HIERIUS.
21. But what was it that prompted me, O Lord my God, to dedicate these books to Hierius, an orator of Rome, whom I knew not by sight, but loved the man for the fame of his learning, for which he was renowned, and some words of his which I had heard, and which had pleased me? But the more did he please me in that he pleased others, who highly extolled him, astonished that a native of Syria, instructed first in Greek eloquence, should afterwards become a wonderful Latin orator, and one so well versed in studies pertaining unto wisdom. Thus a man is commended and loved when absent. Doth this love enter into the heart of the hearer from the mouth of the commender? Not so. But through one who loveth is another inflamed. For hence he is loved who is commended when the commender is believed to praise him with an unfeigned heart; that is, when he that loves him praises him.
22. Thus, then, loved I men upon the judgment of men, not upon Thine, O my God, in which no man is deceived. But yet why not as the renowned charioteer, as the huntsman,1 known far and wide by a vulgar popularity—but far otherwise, and seriously, and so as I would desire to be myself commended? For I would not that they should commend and love me as actors are,—although I myself did commend and love them,—but I would prefer being unknown than so known, and even being hated than so loved. Where now are these influences of such various and divers kinds of loves distributed in one soul? What is it that I am in love with in another, which, if I did not hate, I should not detest and repel from myself, seeing we are equally men? For it does not follow that because a good horse is loved by him who would not, though he might, be that horse, the same should therefore be affirmed by an actor, who partakes of our nature. Do I then love in a man that which I, who am a man, hate to be? Man himself as a great deep, whose very hairs Thou numberest, O Lord, and they fall not to the ground without Thee.2 And yet are the hairs of his head more readily numbered than are his affections and the movements of his heart.
23. But that orator was of the kind that I so loved as I wished myself to be such a one; and I erred through an inflated pride, and was “carried about with every wind,”3 but yet was piloted by Thee, though very secretly. And whence know I, and whence confidently confess I unto Thee that I loved him more because of the love of those who praised him, than for the very things for which they praised him? Because had he been upraised, and these self-same men had dispraised him, and with dispraise and scorn told the same things of him, I should never have been so inflamed and provoked to love him. And yet the things had not been different, nor he himself different, but only the affections of the narrators. See where lieth the impotent soul that is not yet sustained by the solidity of truth! Just as the blasts of tongues blow from the breasts of conjecturers, so is it tossed this way and that, driven forward and backward, and the light is obscured to it and the truth not perceived. And behold it is before us. And to me it was a great matter that my style and studies should be known to that man; the which if he approved, I were the more stimulated, but if he disapproved, this vain heart of mine, void of Thy solidity, had been offended. And yet that “fair and fit,” about which I wrote to him, I reflected on with pleasure, and contemplated it, and admired it, though none joined me in doing so.
CHAP. XV.—
WHILE WRITING, BEING BLINDED BY CORPOREAL IMAGES, HE FAILED TO RECOGNISE THE SPIRITUAL NATURE OF GOD.
24. But not yet did I perceive the hinge on which this impotent matter turned in Thy wisdom, O Thou Omnipotent, “who alone doest great wonders;”4 and my mind ranged through corporeal forms, and I defined and distinguished as “fair,” that which is so in itself, and “fit,” that which is beautiful as it corresponds to some other thing; and this I supported by corporeal examples. And I turned my attention to the nature of the mind, but the false opinions which I entertained of spiritual things prevented me from seeing the truth. Yet the very power of truth forced itself on my gaze, and I turned away my throbbing soul from incorporeal substance, to lineaments, and colours, and bulky magnitudes. And not being able to perceive these in the mind, I thought I could not perceive my mind. And whereas in virtue I loved peace, and in viciousness I hated discord, in the former I distinguished unity, but in the latter a kind of division. And in that unity I conceived the rational soul and the nature of truth and of the chief good5 to consist. But in this division I, unfortunate one, imagined there was I know not what substance of irrational life, and the nature of the chief evil, which should not be a substance only, but real life also, and yet not emanating from Thee, O my God, from whom are all things. And yet the first I called a Monad, as if it had been a soul without sex,1 but the other a Duad,—anger in deeds of violence, in deeds of passion, lust,—not knowing of what I talked. For I had not known or learned that neither was evil a substance, nor our soul that chief and unchangeable good.
25. For even as it is in the case of deeds of violence, if that emotion of the soul from whence the stimulus comes be depraved, and carry itself insolently and mutinously; and in acts of passion, if that affection of the soul whereby carnal pleasures are imbibed is unrestrained,—so do errors and false opinions contaminate the life, if the reasonable soul itself be depraved, as it was at that time in me, who was ignorant that it must be enlightened by another light that it may be partaker of truth, seeing that itself is not that nature of truth. “For Thou wilt light my candle; the Lord my God will enlighten my darkness;2 and “of His fulness have all we received,”3 for “that was the true Light which lighted every man that cometh into the world;”4 for in Thee there is “no variableness, neither shadow of turning.”5
26. But I pressed towards Thee, and was repelled by Thee that I might taste of death, for Thou “resistest the proud.”6 But what prouder than for me, with a marvellous madness, to assert myself to be that by nature which Thou art? For whereas I was mutable,—so much being clear to me, for my very longing to become wise arose from the wish from worse to become better,—yet chose I rather to think Thee mutable, than myself not to be that which Thou art. Therefore was I repelled by Thee, and Thou resistedst my changeable stiffneckedness; and I imagined corporeal forms, and, being flesh, I accused flesh, and, being “a wind that passeth away,”7 I returned not to Thee, but went wandering and wandering on towards those things that have no being, neither in Thee, nor in me, nor in the body. Neither were they created for me by Thy truth, but conceived by my vain conceit out of corporeal things. And I used to ask Thy faithful little ones, my fellow-citizens,—from whom I unconsciously stood exiled,—I used flippantly and foolishly to ask, “Why, then, doth the soul which God created err?” But I would not permit any one to ask me, “Why, then, doth God err?” And I contended that Thy immutable substance erred of constraint, rather than admit that my mutable substance had gone astray of free will, and erred as a punishment.8
27. I was about six or seven and twenty years of age when I wrote those volumes—meditating upon corporeal fictions, which clamoured in the ears of my heart. These I directed, O sweet Truth, to Thy inward melody, pondering on the “fair and fit,” and longing to stay and listen to Thee, and to rejoice greatly at the Bridegroom’s voice,1 and I could not; for by the voices of my own errors was I driven forth, and by the weight of my own pride was I sinking into the lowest pit. For Thou didst not “make me to hear joy and gladness;” nor did the bones which were not yet humbled rejoice.2
CHAP. XVI.—
HE VERY EASILY UNDERSTOOD THE LIBERAL ARTS AND THE CATEGORIES OF ARISTOTLE, BUT WITHOUT TRUE FRUIT.
28. And what did it profit me that, when scarce twenty years old, a book of Aristotle’s, entitled The Ten Predicaments, fell into my hands,—on whose very name I hung as on something great and divine, when my rhetoric master of Carthage, and others who were esteemed learned, referred to it with cheeks swelling with pride,—I read it alone and understood it? And on my conferring with others, who said that with the assistance of very able masters—who not only explained it orally, but drew many things in the dust3 —they scarcely understood it, and could tell me no more about it than I had acquired in reading it by myself alone? And the book appeared to me to speak plainly enough of substances, such as man is, and of their qualities,—such as the figure of a man, of what kind it is; and his stature, how many feet high; and his relationship, whose brother he is; or where placed, or when born; or whether he stands or sits, or is shod or armed, or does or suffers anything; and whatever innumerable things might be classed under these nine categories,4 —of which I have given some examples,—or under that chief category of substance.
29. What did all this profit me, seeing it even hindered me, when, imagining that whatsoever existed was comprehended in those ten categories, I tried so to understand, O my God, Thy wonderful and unchangeable unity as if Thou also hadst been subjected to Thine own greatness or beauty, so that they should exist in Thee as their subject, like as in bodies, whereas Thou Thyself art Thy greatness and beauty? But a body is not great or fair because it is a body, seeing that, though it were less great or fair, it should nevertheless be a body. But that which I had conceived of Thee was falsehood, not truth,—fictions of my misery, not the supports of Thy blessedness. For Thou hadst commanded, and it was done in me, that the earth should bring forth briars and thorns to me,5 and that with labour I should get my bread.6
30. And what did it profit me that I, the base slave of vile affections, read unaided, and understood, all the books that I could get of the so-called liberal arts? And I took delight in them, but knew not whence came whatever in them was true and certain. For my back then was to the light, and my face towards the things enlightened; whence my face, with which I discerned the things enlightened, was not itself enlightened. Whatever was written either on rhetoric or logic, geometry, music, or arithmetic, did I, without any great difficulty, and without the teaching of any man, understand, as Thou knowest, O Lord my God, because both quickness of comprehension and acuteness of perception are Thy gifts. Yet did I not thereupon sacrifice to Thee. So, then, it served not to my use, but rather to my destruction, since I went about to get so good a portion of my substance7 into my own power; and I kept not my strength for Thee,8 but went away from Thee into a far country, to waste it upon harlotries.9 For what did good abilities profit me, if I did not employ them to good uses? For I did not perceive that those arts were acquired with great difficulty, even by the studious and those gifted with genius, until I endeavoured to explain them to such; and he was the most proficient in them who followed my explanations not too slowly.
31. But what did this profit me, supposing that Thou, O Lord God, the Truth, wert a bright and vast body,10 and I a piece of that body? Perverseness too great! But such was I. Nor do I blush, O my God, to confess to Thee Thy mercies towards me, and to call upon Thee—I, who blushed not then to avow before men my blasphemies, and to bark against Thee. What profited me then my nimble wit in those sciences and all those knotty volumes, disentangled by me without help from a human master, seeing that I erred so odiously, and with such sacrilegious baseness, in the doctrine of piety? Or what impediment was it to Thy little ones to have a far slower wit, seeing that they departed not far from Thee, that in the nest of Thy Church they might safely become fledged, and nourish the wings of charity by the food of a sound faith? O Lord our God, under the shadow of Thy wings let us hope,1 defend us, and carry us. Thou wilt carry us both when little, and even to grey hairs wilt Thou carry us;2 for our firmness, when it is Thou, then is it firmness; but when it is our own, then it is infirmity. Our good lives always with Thee, from which when we are averted we are perverted. Let us now, O Lord, return, that we be not overturned, because with Thee our good lives without any eclipse,—which good Thou Thyself art.3 And we need not fear lest we should find no place unto which to return because we fell away from it; for when we were absent, our home—Thy Eternity—fell not.
BOOK V.
HE DESCRIBES THE TWENTY-NINTH YEAR OF HIS AGE, IN WHICH, HAVING DISCOVERED THE FALLACIES OF THE MANICHÆANS, HE PROFESSED RHETORIC AT ROME AND MILAN. HAVING HEARD AMBROSE, HE BEGINS TO COME TO HIMSELF.
CHAP. I.—
THAT IT BECOMES THE SOUL TO PRAISE GOD, AND TO CONFESS UNTO HIM.
1. Accept the sacrifice of my confessions by the agency of my tongue, which Thou hast formed and quickened, that it may confess to Thy name; and heal Thou all my bones, and let them say, “Lord, who is like unto Thee?”1 For neither does he who confesses to Thee teach Thee what may be passing within him, because a closed heart doth not exclude Thine eye, nor does man’s hardness of heart repulse Thine hand, but Thou dissolvest it when Thou willest, either in pity or in vengeance, “and there is no one who can hide himself from Thy heat.”2 But let my soul praise Thee, that it may love Thee; and let it confess Thine own mercies to Thee, that it may praise Thee. Thy whole creation ceaseth not, nor is it silent in Thy praises—neither the spirit of man, by the voice directed unto Thee, nor animal nor corporeal things, by the voice of those meditating thereon;3 so that our souls may from their weariness arise towards Thee, leaning on those things which Thou hast made, and passing on to Thee, who hast made them wonderfully; and there is there refreshment and true strength.
CHAP. II.—
ON THE VANITY OF THOSE WHO WISHED TO ESCAPE THE OMNIPOTENT GOD.
2. Let the restless and the unjust depart and flee from Thee. Thou both seest them and distinguishest the shadows. And lo! all things with them are fair, yet are they themselves foul.4 And how have they injured Thee?5 Or in what have they disgraced Thy government, which is just and perfect from heaven even to the lowest parts of the earth. For whither fled they when they fled from Thy presence?6 Or where dost Thou not find them? But they fled that they might not see Thee seeing them, and blinded might stumble against Thee;7 since Thou forsakest nothing that Thou hast made8 —that the unjust might stumble against Thee, and justly be hurt,9 withdrawing themselves from Thy gentleness, and stumbling against Thine uprightness, and falling upon their own roughness. Forsooth, they know not that Thou art everywhere whom no place encompasseth, and that Thou alone art near even to those that remove far from Thee.10 Let them, then, be converted and seek Thee; because not as they have forsaken their Creator hast Thou forsaken Thy creature. Let them be converted and seek Thee; and behold, Thou art there in their hearts, in the hearts of those who confess to Thee, and cast themselves upon Thee, and weep on Thy bosom after their obdurate ways, even Thou gently wiping away their tears. And they weep the more, and rejoice in weeping, since Thou, O Lord, not man, flesh and blood, but Thou, Lord, who didst make, remakest and comfortest them. And where was I when I was seeking Thee? And Thou wert before me, but I had gone away even from myself; nor did I find myself, much less Thee!
CHAP. III.—
HAVING HEARD FAUSTUS, THE MOST LEARNED BISHOP OF THE MANICHÆANS, HE DISCERNS THAT GOD, THE AUTHOR BOTH OF THINGS ANIMATE AND INANIMATE, CHIEFLY HAS CARE FOR THE HUMBLE.
3. Let me lay bare before my God that twenty-ninth year of my age. There had at this time come to Carthage a certain bishop of the Manichæans, by name Faustus, a great snare of the devil, and many were entangled by him through the allurement of his smooth speech; the which, although I did commend, yet could I separate from the truth of those things which I was eager to learn. Nor did I esteem the small dish of oratory so much as the science, which this their so praised Faustus placed before me to feed upon. Fame, indeed, had before spoken of him to me, as most skilled in all becoming learning, and pre-eminently skilled in the liberal sciences. And as I had read and retained in memory many injunctions of the philosophers, I used to compare some teachings of theirs with those long fables of the Manichæans; and the former things which they declared, who could only prevail so far as to estimate this lower world, while its lord they could by no means find out,1 seemed to me the more probable. For Thou art great, O Lord, and hast “respect unto the lowly, but the proud Thou knowest afar off.”2 Nor dost Thou draw near but to the contrite heart,3 nor art Thou found by the proud,4 —not even could they number by cunning skill the stars and the sand, and measure the starry regions, and trace the courses of the planets.
4. For with their understanding and the capacity which Thou hast bestowed upon them they search out these things; and much have they found out, and foretold many years before,—the eclipses of those luminaries, the sun and moon, on what day, at what hour, and from how many particular points they were likely to come. Nor did their calculation fail them; and it came to pass even as they foretold. And they wrote down the rules found out, which are read at this day; and from these others foretell in what year, and in what month of the year, and on what day of the month, and at what hour of the day, and at what quarter of its light, either moon or sun is to be eclipsed, and thus it shall be even as it is foretold. And men who are ignorant of these things marvel and are amazed, and they that know them exult and are exalted; and by an impious pride, departing from Thee, and forsaking Thy light, they foretell a failure of the sun’s light which is likely to occur so long before, but see not their own, which is now present. For they seek not religiously whence they have the ability wherewith they seek out these things. And finding that Thou hast made them, they give not themselves up to Thee, that Thou mayest preserve what Thou hast made, nor sacrifice themselves to Thee, even such as they have made themselves to be; nor do they slay their own pride, as fowls of the air,5 nor their own curiosities, by which (like the fishes of the sea) they wander over the unknown paths of the abyss, nor their own extravagance, as the “beasts of the field,”6 that Thou, Lord, “a consuming fire,”7 mayest burn up their lifeless cares and renew them immortally.
5. But the way—Thy Word,8 by whom Thou didst make these things which they number, and themselves who number, and the sense by which they perceive what they number, and the judgment out of which they number—they knew not, and that of Thy wisdom there is no number.9 But the Only-begotten has been “made unto us wisdom, and righteousness, and sanctification,”10 and has been numbered amongst us, and paid tribute to Cæsar.11 This way, by which they might descend to Him from themselves, they knew not; nor that through Him they might ascend unto Him.12 This way they knew not, and they think themselves exalted with the stars13 and shining, and lo! they fell upon the earth,14 and “their foolish heart was darkened.”1 They say many true things concerning the creature; but Truth, the Artificer of the creature, they seek not with devotion, and hence they find Him not. Or if they find Him, knowing that He is God, they glorify Him not as God, neither are they thankful,2 but become vain in their imaginations, and say that they themselves are wise,3 attributing to themselves what is Thine; and by this, with most perverse blindness, they desire to impute to Thee what is their own, forging lies against Thee who art the Truth, and changing the glory of the incorruptible God into an image made like corruptible man, and to birds, and fourfooted beasts, and creeping things,4 —changing Thy truth into a lie, and worshipping and serving the creature more than the Creator.5
6. Many truths, however, concerning the creature did I retain from these men, and the cause appeared to me from calculations, the succession of seasons, and the visible manifestations of the stars; and I compared them with the sayings of Manichæus, who in his frenzy has written most extensively on these subjects, but discovered not any account either of the solstices, or the equinoxes, the eclipses of the luminaries, or anything of the kind I had learned in the books of secular philosophy. But therein I was ordered to believe, and yet it corresponded not with those rules acknowledged by calculation and my own sight, but was far different.
CHAP. IV.—
THAT THE KNOWLEDGE OF TERRESTRIAL AND CELESTIAL THINGS DOES NOT GIVE HAPPINESS, BUT THE KNOWLEDGE OF GOD ONLY.
7. Doth, then, O Lord God of truth, whosoever knoweth those things therefore please Thee? For unhappy is the man who knoweth all those things, but knoweth Thee not; but happy is he who knoweth Thee, though these he may not know.6 But he who knoweth both Thee and them is not the happier on account of them, but is happy on account of Thee only, if knowing Thee he glorify Thee as God, and gives thanks, and becomes not vain in his thoughts.7 But as he is happier who knows how to possess a tree, and for the use thereof renders thanks to Thee, although he may not know how many cubits high it is, or how wide it spreads, than he that measures it and counts all its branches, and neither owns it nor knows or loves its Creator; so a just man, whose is the entire world of wealth,8 and who, as having nothing, yet possesseth all things9 by cleaving unto Thee, to whom all things are subservient, though he know not even the circles of the Great Bear, yet it is foolish to doubt but that he may verily be better than he who can measure the heavens, and number the stars, and weigh the elements, but is forgetful of Thee, “who hast set in order all things in number, weight, and measure.”10
CHAP. V.—
OF MANICHÆUS PERTINACIOUSLY TEACHING FALSE DOCTRINES, AND PROUDLY ARROGATING TO HIMSELF THE HOLY SPIRIT.
8. But yet who was it that ordered Manichæus to write on these things likewise, skill in which was not necessary to piety? For Thou hast told man to behold piety and wisdom,11 of which he might be in ignorance although having a complete knowledge of these other things; but since, knowing not these things, he yet most impudently dared to teach them, it is clear that he had no acquaintance with piety. For even when we have a knowledge of these worldly matters, it is folly to make a profession of them; but confession to Thee is piety. It was therefore with this view that this straying one spake much of these matters, that, standing convicted by those who had in truth learned them, the understanding that he really had in those more difficult things might be made plain. For he wished not to be lightly esteemed, but went about trying to persuade men “that the Holy Ghost, the Comforter and Enricher of Thy faithful ones, was with full authority personally resident in him.”12 When, therefore, it was discovered that his teaching concerning the heavens and stars, and the motions of sun and moon, was false, though these things do not relate to the doctrine of religion, yet his sacrilegious arrogance would become sufficiently evident, seeing that not only did he affirm things of which he knew nothing, but also perverted them, and with such egregious vanity of pride as to seek to attribute them to himself as to a divine being.
9. For when I hear a Christian brother ignorant of these things, or in error concerning them, I can bear with patience to see that man hold to his opinions; nor can I apprehend that any want of knowledge as to the situation or nature of this material creation can be injurious to him, so long as he does not entertain belief in anything unworthy of Thee, O Lord, the Creator of all. But if he conceives it to pertain to the form of the doctrine of piety, and presumes to affirm with great obstinacy that whereof he is ignorant, therein lies the injury. And yet even a weakness such as this in the dawn of faith is borne by our Mother Charity, till the new man may grow up “unto a perfect man,” and not be “carried about with every wind of doctrine.”1 But in him who thus presumed to be at once the teacher, author, head, and leader of all whom he could induce to believe this, so that all who followed him believed that they were following not a simple man only, but Thy Holy Spirit, who would not judge that such great insanity, when once it stood convicted of false teaching, should be abhorred and utterly cast off? But I had not yet clearly ascertained whether the changes of longer and shorter days and nights, and day and night itself, with the eclipses of the greater lights, and whatever of the like kind I had read in other books, could be expounded consistently with his words. Should I have found myself able to do so, there would still have remained a doubt in my mind whether it were so or no, although I might, on the strength of his reputed godliness,2 rest my faith on his authority.
CHAP. VI.—
FAUSTUS WAS INDEED AN ELEGANT SPEAKER, BUT KNEW NOTHING OF THE LIBERAL SCIENCES.
10. And for nearly the whole of those nine years during which, with unstable mind, I had been their follower, I had been looking forward with but too great eagerness for the arrival of this same Faustus. For the other members of the sect whom I had chanced to light upon, when unable to answer the questions I raised, always bade me look forward to his coming, when, by discoursing with him, these, and greater difficulties if I had them, would be most easily and amply cleared away. When at last he did come, I found him to be a man of pleasant speech, who spoke of the very same things as they themselves did, although more fluently, and in better language. But of what profit to me was the elegance of my cup-bearer, since he offered me not the more precious draught for which I thirsted? My ears were already satiated with similar things; neither did they appear to me more conclusive, because better expressed; nor true, because oratorical; nor the spirit necessarily wise, because the face was comely and the language eloquent. But they who extolled him to me were not competent judges; and therefore, as he was possessed of suavity of speech, he appeared to them to be prudent and wise. Another sort of persons, however, was, I was aware, suspicious even of truth itself, if enunciated in smooth and flowing language. But me, O my God, Thou hadst already instructed by wonderful and mysterious ways, and therefore I believe that Thou instructedst me because it is truth; nor of truth is there any other teacher—where or whencesoever it may shine upon us3 —but Thee. From Thee, therefore, I had now learned, that because a thing is eloquently expressed, it should not of necessity seem to be true; nor, because uttered with stammering lips, should it be false; nor, again, perforce true, because unskilfully delivered; nor consequently untrue, because the language is fine; but that wisdom and folly are as food both wholesome and unwholesome, and courtly or simple words as town-made or rustic vessels,—and both kinds of food may be served in either kind of dish.
11. That eagerness, therefore, with which I had so long waited for this man was in truth delighted with his action and feeling when disputing, and the fluent and apt words with which he clothed his ideas. I was therefore filled with joy, and joined with others (and even exceeded them) in exalting and praising him. It was, however, a source of annoyance to me that I was not allowed at those meetings of his auditors to introduce and impart4 any of those questions that troubled me in familiar exchange of arguments with him. When I might speak, and began, in conjunction with my friends, to engage his attention at such times as it was not unseeming for him to enter into a discussion with me, and had mooted such questions as perplexed me, I discovered him first to know nothing of the liberal sciences save grammar, and that only in an ordinary way. Having, however, read some of Tully’s Orations, a very few books of Seneca, and some of the poets, and such few volumes of his own sect as were written coherently in Latin, and being day by day practised in speaking, he so acquired a sort of eloquence, which proved the more delightful and enticing in that it was under the control of ready tact, and a sort of native grace. Is it not even as I recall, O Lord my God, Thou judge of my conscience? My heart and my memory are laid before Thee, who didst at that time direct me by the inscrutable mystery of Thy Providence, and didst set before my face those vile errors of mine, in order that I might see and loathe them.
CHAP. VII.—
CLEARLY SEEING THE FALLACIES OF THE MANICHÆANS, HE RETIRES FROM THEM, BEING REMARKABLY AIDED BY GOD.
12. For when it became plain to me that he was ignorant of those arts in which I had believed him to excel, I began to despair of his clearing up and explaining all the perplexities which harassed me: though ignorant of these, however, he might still have held the truth of piety, had he not been a Manichæan. For their books are full of lengthy fables1 concerning the heaven and stars, the sun and moon, and I had ceased to think him able to decide in a satisfactory manner what I ardently desired,—whether, on comparing these things with the calculations I had read elsewhere, the explanations contained in the works of Manichæus were preferable, or at any rate equally sound? But when I proposed that these subjects should be deliberated upon and reasoned out, he very modestly did not dare to endure the burden. For he was aware that he had no knowledge of these things, and was not ashamed to confess it. For he was not one of those loquacious persons, many of whom I had been troubled with, who covenanted to teach me these things, and said nothing; but this man possessed a heart, which, though not right towards Thee, yet was not altogether false towards himself. For he was not altogether ignorant of his own ignorance, nor would he without due consideration be inveigled in a controversy, from which he could neither draw back nor extricate himself fairly. And for that I was even more pleased with him, for more beautiful is the modesty of an ingenuous mind than the acquisition of the knowledge I desired,—and such I found him to be in all the more abstruse and subtle questions.
13. My eagerness after the writings of Manichæus having thus received a check, and despairing even more of their other teachers,—seeing that in sundry things which puzzled me, he, so famous amongst them, had thus turned out,—I began to occupy myself with him in the study of that literature which he also much affected, and which I, as Professor of Rhetoric, was then engaged in teaching the young Carthaginian students, and in reading with him either what he expressed a wish to hear, or I deemed suited to his bent of mind. But all my endeavours by which I had concluded to improve in that sect, by acquaintance with that man, came completely to an end: not that I separated myself altogether from them, but, as one who could find nothing better, I determined in the meantime upon contenting myself with what I had in any way lighted upon, unless, by chance, something more desirable should present itself. Thus that Faustus, who had entrapped so many to their death,—neither willing nor witting it,—now began to loosen the snare in which I had been taken. For Thy hands, O my God, in the hidden design of Thy Providence, did not desert my soul; and out of the blood of my mother’s heart, through the tears that she poured out by day and by night, was a sacrifice offered unto Thee for me; and by marvellous ways didst Thou deal with me.2 It was Thou, O my God, who didst it, for the steps of a man are ordered by the Lord, and He shall dispose his way.3 Or how can we procure salvation but from Thy hand, remaking what it hath made?
CHAP. VIII.—
HE SETS OUT FOR ROME, HIS MOTHER IN VAIN LAMENTING IT.
14. Thou dealedst with me, therefore, that I should be persuaded to go to Rome, and teach there rather what I was then teaching at Carthage. And how I was persuaded to do this, I will not fail to confess unto Thee; for in this also the profoundest workings of Thy wisdom, and Thy ever present mercy to usward, must be pondered and avowed. It was not my desire to go to Rome because greater advantages and dignities were guaranteed me by the friends who persuaded me into this,—although even at this period I was influenced by these considerations,—but my principal and almost sole motive was, that I had been informed that the youths studied more quietly there, and were kept under by the control of more rigid discipline, so that they did not capriciously and impudently rush into the school of a master not their own, into whose presence they were forbidden to enter unless with his consent. At Carthage, on the contrary, there was amongst the scholars a shameful and intemperate license. They burst in rudely, and, with almost furious gesticulations, interrupt the system which any one may have instituted for the good of his pupils. Many outrages they perpetrate with astounding phlegm, which would be punishable by law were they not sustained by custom; that custom showing them to be the more worthless, in that they now do, as according to law, what by Thy unchangeable law will never be lawful. And they fancy they do it with impunity, whereas the very blindness whereby they do it is their punishment, and they suffer far greater things than they do. The manners, then, which as a student I would not adopt,1 I was compelled as a teacher to submit to from others; and so I was too glad to go where all who knew anything about it assured me that similar things were not done. But Thou, “my refuge and my portion in the land of the living,”2 didst while at Carthage goad me, so that I might thereby be withdrawn from it, and exchange my worldly habitation for the preservation of my soul; whilst at Rome Thou didst offer me enticements by which to attract me there, by men enchanted with this dying life,—the one doing insane actions, and the other making assurances of vain things; and, in order to correct my footsteps, didst secretly employ their and my perversity. For both they who disturbed my tranquillity were blinded by a shameful madness, and they who allured me elsewhere smacked of the earth. And I, who hated real misery here, sought fictitious happiness there.
15. But the cause of my going thence and going thither, Thou, O God, knewest, yet revealedst it not, either to me or to my mother, who grievously lamented my journey, and went with me as far as the sea. But I deceived her, when she violently restrained me either that she might retain me or accompany me, and I pretended that I had a friend whom I could not quit until he had a favourable wind to set sail. And I lied to my mother—and such a mother!—and got away. For this also Thou hast in mercy pardoned me, saving me, thus replete with abominable pollutions, from the waters of the sea, for the water of Thy grace, whereby, when I was purified, the fountains of my mother’s eyes should be dried, from which for me she day by day watered the ground under her face. And yet, refusing to go back without me, it was with difficulty I persuaded her to remain that night in a place quite close to our ship, where there was an oratory3 in memory of the blessed Cyprian. That night I secretly left, but she was not backward in prayers and weeping. And what was it, O Lord, that she, with such an abundance of tears, was asking of Thee, but that Thou wouldest not permit me to sail? But Thou, mysteriously counselling and hearing the real purpose of her desire, granted not what she then asked, in order to make me what she was ever asking. The wind blew and filled our sails, and withdrew the shore from our sight; and she, wild with grief, was there on the morrow, and filled Thine ears with complaints and groans, which Thou didst disregard; whilst, by the means of my longings, Thou wert hastening me on to the cessation of all longing, and the gross part of her love to me was whipped out by the just lash of sorrow. But, like all mothers,—though even more than others,—she loved to have me with her, and knew not what joy Thou wert preparing for her by my absence. Being ignorant of this, she did weep and mourn, and in her agony was seen the inheritance of Eve,—seeking in sorrow what in sorrow she had brought forth. And yet, after accusing my perfidy and cruelty, she again continued her intercessions for me with Thee, returned to her accustomed place, and I to Rome.
CHAP. IX.—
BEING ATTACKED BY FEVER, HE IS IN GREAT DANGER.
16. And behold, there was I received by the scourge of bodily sickness, and I was descending into hell burdened with all the sins that I had committed, both against Thee, myself, and others, many and grievous, over and above that bond of original sin whereby we all die in Adam.4 For none of these things hadst Thou forgiven me in Christ, neither had He “abolished” by His cross “the enmity”1 which, by my sins, I had incurred with Thee. For how could He, by the crucifixion of a phantasm,2 which I supposed Him to be? As true, then, was the death of my soul, as that of His flesh appeared to me to be untrue; and as true the death of His flesh as the life of my soul, which believed it not, was false. The fever increasing, I was now passing away and perishing. For had I then gone hence, whither should I have gone but into the fiery torments meet for my misdeeds, in the truth of Thy ordinance? She was ignorant of this, yet, while absent, prayed for me. But Thou, everywhere present, hearkened to her where she was, and hadst pity upon me where I was, that I should regain my bodily health, although still frenzied in my sacrilegious heart. For all that peril did not make me wish to be baptized, and I was better when, as a lad, I entreated it of my mother’s piety, as I have already related and confessed.3 But I had grown up to my own dishonour, and all the purposes of Thy medicine I madly derided,4 who wouldst not suffer me, though such a one, to die a double death. Had my mother’s heart been smitten with this wound, it never could have been cured. For I cannot sufficiently express the love she had for me, nor how she now travailed for me in the spirit with a far keener anguish than when she bore me in the flesh.
17. I cannot conceive, therefore, how she could have been healed if such a death of mine had transfixed the bowels of her love. Where then would have been her so earnest, frequent, and unintermitted prayers to Thee alone? But couldst Thou, most merciful God, despise the “contrite and humble heart”5 of that pure and prudent widow, so constant in alms-deeds, so gracious and attentive to Thy saints, not permitting one day to pass without oblation at Thy altar, twice a day, at morning and even-tide, coming to Thy church without intermission—not for vain gossiping, nor old wives’ “fables,”6 but in order that she might listen to Thee in Thy sermons, and Thou to her in her prayers?7 Couldst Thou—Thou by whose gift she was such—despise and disregard without succouring the tears of such a one, wherewith she entreated Thee not for gold or silver, nor for any changing or fleeting good, but for the salvation of the soul of her son? By no means, Lord. Assuredly Thou wert near, and wert hearing and doing in that method in which Thou hadst predetermined that it should be done. Far be it from Thee that Thou shouldst delude her in those visions and the answers she had from Thee,—some of which I have spoken of,8 and others not,9 —which she kept10 in her faithful breast, and, always petitioning, pressed upon Thee as Thine autograph. For Thou, “because Thy mercy endureth for ever,”11 condescendest to those whose debts Thou hast pardoned, to become likewise a debtor by Thy promises.
CHAP. X.—
WHEN HE HAD LEFT THE MANICHÆANS, HE RETAINED HIS DEPRAVED OPINIONS CONCERNING SIN AND THE ORIGIN OF THE SAVIOUR.
18. Thou restoredst me then from that illness, and made sound the son of Thy handmaid meanwhile in body, that he might live for Thee, to endow him with a higher and more enduring health. And even then at Rome I joined those deluding and deluded “saints;” not their “hearers” only,—of the number of whom was he in whose house I had fallen ill, and had recovered,—but those also whom they designate “The Elect.”1 For it still seemed to me “that it was not we that sin, but that I know not what other nature sinned in us.”2 And it gratified my pride to be free from blame, and, after I had committed any fault, not to acknowledge that I had done any,—“that Thou mightest heal my soul because it had sinned against Thee;”3 but I loved to excuse it, and to accuse something else (I wot not what) which was with me, but was not I. But assuredly it was wholly I, and my impiety had divided me against myself; and that sin was all the more incurable in that I did not deem myself a sinner. And execrable iniquity it was, O God omnipotent, that I would rather have Thee to be overcome in me to my destruction, than myself of Thee to salvation! Not yet, therefore, hadst Thou set a watch before my mouth, and kept the door of my lips, that my heart might not incline to wicked speeches, to make excuses of sins, with men that work iniquity4 —and, therefore, was I still united with their “Elect.”
19. But now, hopeless of making proficiency in that false doctrine, even those things with which I had decided upon contenting myself, providing that I could find nothing better, I now held more loosely and negligently. For I was half inclined to believe that those philosophers whom they call “Academics”5 were more sagacious than the rest, in that they held that we ought to doubt everything, and ruled that man had not the power of comprehending any truth; for so, not yet realizing their meaning, I also was fully persuaded that they thought just as they are commonly held to do. And I did not fail frankly to restrain in my host that assurance which I observed him to have in those fictions of which the works of Manichæus are full. Notwithstanding, I was on terms of more intimate friendship with them than with others who were not of this heresy. Nor did I defend it with my former ardour; still my familiarity with that sect (many of them being concealed in Rome) made me slower6 to seek any other way,—particularly since I was hopeless of finding the truth, from which in Thy Church, O Lord of heaven and earth, Creator of all things visible and invisible, they had turned me aside,—and it seemed to me most unbecoming to believe Thee to have the form of human flesh, and to be bounded by the bodily lineaments of our members. And because, when I desired to meditate on my God, I knew not what to think of but a mass of bodies7 (for what was not such did not seem to me to be), this was the greatest and almost sole cause of my inevitable error.
20. For hence I also believed evil to be a similar sort of substance, and to be possessed of its own foul and misshapen mass—whether dense, which they denominated earth, or thin and subtle, as is the body of the air, which they fancy some malignant spirit crawling through that earth. And because a piety—such as it was—compelled me to believe that the good God never created any evil nature, I conceived two masses, the one opposed to the other, both infinite, but the evil the more contracted, the good the more expansive. And from this mischievous commencement the other profanities followed on me. For when my mind tried to revert to the Catholic faith, I was cast back, since what I had held to be the Catholic faith was not so. And it appeared to me more devout to look upon Thee, my God,—to whom I make confession of Thy mercies,—as infinite, at least, on other sides, although on that side where the mass of evil was in opposition to Thee1 I was compelled to confess Thee finite, that if on every side I should conceive Thee to be confined by the form of a human body. And better did it seem to me to believe that no evil had been created by Thee—which to me in my ignorance appeared not only some substance, but a bodily one, because I had no conception of the mind excepting as a subtle body, and that diffused in local spaces—than to believe that anything could emanate from Thee of such a kind as I considered the nature of evil to be. And our very Saviour Himself, also, Thine only-begotten,2 I believed to have been reached forth, as it were, for our salvation out of the lump of Thy most effulgent mass, so as to believe nothing of Him but what I was able to imagine in my vanity. Such a nature, then, I thought could not be born of the Virgin Mary without being mingled with the flesh; and how that which I had thus figured to myself could be mingled without being contaminated, I saw not. I was afraid, therefore, to believe Him to be born in the flesh, lest I should be compelled to believe Him contaminated by the flesh.3 Now will Thy spiritual ones blandly and lovingly smile at me if they shall read these my confessions; yet such was I.
CHAP. XI.—
HELPIDIUS DISPUTED WELL AGAINST THE MANICHÆANS AS TO THE AUTHENTICITY OF THE NEW TESTAMENT.
21. Furthermore, whatever they had censured4 in Thy Scriptures I thought impossible to be defended; and yet sometimes, indeed, I desired to confer on these several points with some one well learned in those books, and to try what he thought of them. For at this time the words of one Helpidius, speaking and disputing face to face against the said Manichæans, had begun to move me even at Carthage, in that he brought forth things from the Scriptures not easily withstood, to which their answer appeared to me feeble. And this answer they did not give forth publicly, but only to us in private,—when they said that the writings of the New Testament had been tampered with by I know not whom, who were desirous of ingrafting the Jewish law upon the Christian faith;5 but they themselves did not bring forward any uncorrupted copies.6 But I, thinking of corporeal things, very much ensnared and in a measure stifled, was oppressed by those masses;7 panting under which for the breath of Thy Truth, I was not able to breathe it pure and undefiled.
CHAP. XII.—
PROFESSING RHETORIC AT ROME, HE DISCOVERS THE FRAUD OF HIS SCHOLARS.
22. Then began I assiduously to practise that for which I came to Rome—the teaching of rhetoric; and first to bring together at my home some to whom, and through whom, I had begun to be known; when, behold, I learnt that other offences were committed in Rome which I had not to bear in Africa. For those subvertings by abandoned young men were not practised here, as I had been informed; yet, suddenly, said they, to evade paying their master’s fees, many of the youths conspire together, and remove themselves to another,—breakers of faith, who, for the love of money, set a small value on justice. These also my heart “hated,” though not with a “perfect hatred;”8 for, perhaps, I hated them more in that I was to suffer by them, than for the illicit acts they committed. Such of a truth are base persons, and they are unfaithful to Thee, loving these transitory mockeries of temporal things, and vile gain, which begrimes the hand that lays hold on it; and embracing the fleeting world, and scorning Thee, who abidest, and invitest to return, and pardonest the prostitufed human soul when it returneth to Thee. And now I hate such crooked and perverse men, although I love them if they are to be corrected so as to prefer the learning they obtain to money, and to learning Thee, O God, the truth and fulness of certain good and most chaste peace. But then was the wish stronger in me for my own sake not to suffer them evil, than was the wish that they should become good for Thine.
CHAP. XIII.—
HE IS SENT TO MILAN, THAT HE, ABOUT TO TEACH RHETORIC, MAY BE KNOWN BY AMBROSE.
23. When, therefore, they of Milan had sent to Rome to the prefect of the city, to provide them with a teacher of rhetoric for their city, and to despatch him at the public expense, I made interest through those identical persons, drunk with Manichæan vanities, to be freed from whom I was going away,—neither of us, however, being aware of it,—that Symmachus, the then prefect, having proved me by proposing a subject, would send me. And to Milan I came, unto Ambrose the bishop, known to the whole world as among the best of men, Thy devout servant; whose eloquent discourse did at that time strenuously dispense unto Thy people the flour of Thy wheat, the “gladness” of Thy “oil,” and the sober intoxication of Thy “wine.”1 To him was I unknowingly led by Thee, that by him I might knowingly be led to Thee. That man of God received me like a father, and looked with a benevolent and episcopal kindliness on my change of abode. And I began to love him, not at first, indeed, as a teacher of the truth,—which I entirely despaired of in Thy Church,—but as a man friendly to myself. And I studiously hearkened to him preaching to the people, not with the motive I should, but, as it were, trying to discover whether his eloquence came up to the fame thereof, or flowed fuller or lower than was asserted; and I hung on his words intently, but of the matter I was but as a careless and contemptuous spectator; and I was delighted with the pleasantness of his speech, more erudite, yet less cheerful and soothing in manner, than that of Faustus. Of the matter, however, there could be no comparison; for the latter was straying amid Manichæan deceptions, whilst the former was teaching salvation most soundly. But “salvation is far from the wicked,”2 such as I then stood before him; and yet I was drawing nearer gradually and unconsciously.
CHAP. XIV.—
HAVING HEARD THE BISHOP, HE PERCEIVES THE FORCE OF THE CATHOLIC FAITH, YET DOUBTS, AFTER THE MANNER OF THE MODERN ACADEMICS.
24. For although I took no trouble to learn what he spake, but only to hear how he spake (for that empty care alone remained to me, despairing of a way accessible for man to Thee), yet, together with the words which I prized, there came into my mind also the things about which I was careless; for I could not separate them. And whilst I opened my heart to admit “how skilfully he spake,” there also entered with it, but gradually, “and how truly he spake!” For first, these things also had begun to appear to me to be defensible; and the Catholic faith, for which I had fancied nothing could be said against the attacks of the Manichæans, I now conceived might be maintained without presumption; especially after I had heard one or two parts of the Old Testament explained, and often allegorically—which when I accepted literally, I was “killed” spiritually.3 Many places, then, of those books having been expounded to me, I now blamed my despair in having believed that no reply could be made to those who hated and derided4 the Law and the Prophets. Yet I did not then see that for that reason the Catholic way was to be held because it had its learned advocates, who could at length, and not irrationally, answer objections; nor that what I held ought therefore to be condemned because both sides were equally defensible. For that way did not appear to me to be vanquished; nor yet did it seem to me to be victorious.
25. Hereupon did I earnestly bend my mind to see if in any way I could possibly prove the Manichæans guilty of falsehood. Could I have realized a spiritual substance, all their strongholds would have been beaten down, and cast utterly out of my mind; but I could not. But yet, concerning the body of this world, and the whole of nature, which the senses of the flesh can attain unto, I, now more and more considering and comparing things, judged that the greater part of the philosophers held much the more probable opinions. So, then, after the manner of the Academics (as they are supposed),5 doubting of everything and fluctuating between all, I decided that the Manichæans were to be abandoned; judging that, even while in that period of doubt, I could not remain in a sect to which I preferred some of the philosophers; to which philosophers, however, because they were without the saving name of Christ, I utterly refused to commit the cure of my fainting soul. I resolved, therefore, to be a catechumen6 in the Catholic Church, which my parents had commended to me, until something settled should manifest itself to me whither I might steer my course.7
BOOK VI.
ATTAINING HIS THIRTIETH YEAR, HE, UNDER THE ADMONITION OF THE DISCOURSES OF AMBROSE, DISCOVERED MORE AND MORE THE TRUTH OF THE CATHOLIC DOCTRINE, AND DELIBERATES AS TO THE BETTER REGULATION OF HIS LIFE.
CHAP. I.—
HIS MOTHER HAVING FOLLOWED HIM TO MILAN, DECLARES THAT SHE WILL NOT DIE BEFORE HER SON SHALL HAVE EMBRACED THE CATHOLIC FAITH.
1. O Thou, my hope from my youth,1 where wert Thou to me, and whither hadst Thou gone? For in truth, hadst Thou not created me, and made a difference between me and the beasts of the field and fowls of the air? Thou hadst made me wiser than they, yet did I wander about in dark and slippery places, and sought Thee abroad out of myself, and found not the God of my heart;2 and had entered the depths of the sea, and distrusted and despaired finding out the truth. By this time my mother, made strong by her piety, had come to me, following me over sea and land, in all perils feeling secure in Thee. For in the dangers of the sea she comforted the very sailors (to whom the inexperienced passengers, when alarmed, were wont rather to go for comfort), assuring them of a safe arrival, because she had been so assured by Thee in a vision. She found me in grievous danger, through despair of ever finding truth. But when I had disclosed to her that I was now no longer a Manichæan, though not yet a Catholic Christian, she did not leap for joy as at what was unexpected; although she was now reassured as to that part of my misery for which she had mourned me as one dead, but who would be raised to Thee, carrying me forth upon the bier of her thoughts, that Thou mightest say unto the widow’s son, “Young man, I say unto Thee, arise,” and he should revive, and begin to speak, and Thou shouldest deliver him to his mother.3 Her heart, then, was not agitated with any violent exultation, when she had heard that to be already in so great a part accomplished which she daily, with tears, entreated of Thee might be done,—that though I had not yet grasped the truth, I was rescued from falsehood. Yea, rather, for that she was fully confident that Thou, who hadst promised the whole, wouldst give the rest, most calmly, and with a breast full of confidence, she replied to me, “She believed in Christ, that before she departed this life, she would see me a Catholic believer.”4 And thus much said she to me; but to Thee, O Fountain of mercies, poured she out more frequent prayers and tears, that Thou wouldest hasten Thy aid, and enlighten my darkness; and she hurried all the more assiduously to the church, and hung upon the words of Ambrose, praying for the fountain of water that springeth up into everlasting life.5 For she loved that man as an angel of God, because she knew that it was by him that I had been brought, for the present, to that perplexing state of agitation6 I was now in, through which she was fully persuaded that I should pass from sickness unto health, after an excess, as it were, of a sharper fit, which doctors term the “crisis.”
CHAP. II.—
SHE, ON THE PROHIBITION OF AMBROSE, ABSTAINS FROM HONOURING THE MEMORY OF THE MARTYRS.
2. When, therefore, my mother had at one time—as was her custom in Africa—brought to the oratories built in the memory of the saints1 certain cakes, and bread, and wine, and was forbidden by the door-keeper, so soon as she learnt that it was the bishop who had forbidden it, she so piously and obediently acceded to it, that I myself marvelled how readily she could bring herself to accuse her own custom, rather than question his prohibition. For wine-bibbing did not take possession of her spirit, nor did the love of wine stimulate her to hatred of the truth, as it doth too many, both male and female, who nauseate at a song of sobriety, as men well drunk at a draught of water. But she, when she had brought her basket with the festive meats, of which she would taste herself first and give the rest away, would never allow herself more than one little cup of wine, diluted according to her own temperate palate, which, out of courtesy, she would taste. And if there were many oratories of departed saints that ought to be honoured in the same way, she still carried round with her the selfsame cup, to be used everywhere; and this, which was not only very much watered, but was also very tepid with carrying about, she would distribute by small sips to those around; for she sought their devotion, not pleasure. As soon, therefore, as she found this custom to be forbidden by that famous preacher and most pious prelate, even to those who would use it with moderation, lest thereby an occasion of excess2 might be given to such as were drunken, and because these, so to say, festivals in honour of the dead were very like unto the superstition of the Gentiles, she most willingly abstained from it. And in lieu of a basket filled with fruits of the earth, she had learned to bring to the oratories of the martyrs a heart full of more purified petitions, and to give all that she could to the poor;3 that so the communion of the Lord’s body might be rightly celebrated there, where, after the example of His passion, the martyrs had been sacrificed and crowned. But yet it seems to me, O Lord my God, and thus my heart thinks of it in thy sight, that my mother perhaps would not so easily have given way to the relinquishment of this custom had it been forbidden by another whom she loved not as Ambrose,4 whom, out of regard for my salvation, she loved most dearly; and he loved her truly, on account of her most religious conversation, whereby, in good works so “fervent in spirit,”5 she frequented the church; so that he would often, when he saw me, burst forth into her praises, congratulating me that I had such a mother—little knowing what a son she had in me, who was in doubt as to all these things, and did not imagine the way of life could be found out.
CHAP. III.—
AS AMBROSE WAS OCCUPIED WITH BUSINESS AND STUDY, AUGUSTIN COULD SELDOM CONSULT HIM CONCERNING THE HOLY SCRIPTURES.
3. Nor did I now groan in my prayers that Thou wouldest help me; but my mind was wholly intent on knowledge, and eager to dispute. And Ambrose himself I esteemed a happy man, as the world counted happiness, in that such great personages held him in honour; only his celibacy appeared to me a painful thing. But what hope he cherished, what struggles he had against the temptations that beset his very excellences, what solace in adversities, and what savoury joys Thy bread possessed for the hidden mouth of his heart when ruminating1 on it, I could neither conjecture, nor had I experienced. Nor did he know my embarrassments, nor the pit of my danger. For I could not request of him what I wished as I wished, in that I was debarred from hearing and speaking to him by crowds of busy people, whose infirmities he devoted himself to. With whom when he was not engaged (which was but a little time), he either was refreshing his body with necessary sustenance, or his mind with reading. But while reading, his eyes glanced over the pages, and his heart searched out the sense, but his voice and tongue were silent. Ofttimes, when we had come (for no one was forbidden to enter, nor was it his custom that the arrival of those who came should be announced to him), we saw him thus reading to himself, and never otherwise; and, having long sat in silence (for who durst interrupt one so intent?), we were fain to depart, inferring that in the little time he secured for the recruiting of his mind, free from the clamour of other men’s business, he was unwilling to be taken off. And perchance he was fearful lest, if the author he studied should express aught vaguely, some doubtful and attentive hearer should ask him to expound it, or to discuss some of the more abstruse questions, as that, his time being thus occupied, he could not turn over as many volumes as he wished; although the preservation of his voice, which was very easily weakened, might be the truer reason for his reading to himself. But whatever was his motive in so doing, doubtless in such a man was a good one.
4. But verily no opportunity could I find of ascertaining what I desired from that Thy so holy oracle, his breast, unless the thing might be entered into briefly. But those surgings in me required to find him at full leisure, that I might pour them out to him, but never were they able to find him so; and I heard him, indeed, every Lord’s day, “rightly dividing the word of truth”2 among the people; and I was all the more convinced that all those knots of crafty calumnies, which those deceivers of ours had knit against the divine books, could be unravelled. But so soon as I understood, withal, that man made “after the image of Him that created him”3 was not so understood by Thy spiritual sons (whom of the Catholic mother Thou hadst begotten again through grace), as though they believed and imagined Thee to be bounded by human form,—although what was the nature of a spiritual substance4 I had not the faintest or dimmest suspicion,—yet rejoicing, I blushed that for so many years I had barked, not against the Catholic faith, but against the fables of carnal imaginations. For I had been both impious and rash in this, that what I ought inquiring to have learnt, I had pronounced on condemning. For Thou, O most high and most near, most secret, yet most present, who hast not limbs some larger some smaller, but art wholly everywhere, and nowhere in space, nor art Thou of such corporeal form, yet hast Thou created man after Thine own image, and, behold, from head to foot is he confined by space.
CHAP. IV.—
HE RECOGNISES THE FALSITY OF HIS OWN OPINIONS, AND COMMITS TO MEMORY THE SAYING OF AMBROSE.
5. As, then, I knew not how this image of Thine should subsist, I should have knocked and propounded the doubt how it was to be believed, and not have insultingly opposed it, as if it were believed. Anxiety, therefore, as to what to retain as certain, did all the more sharply gnaw into my soul, the more shame I felt that, having been so long deluded and deceived by the promise of certainties, I had, with puerile error and petulance, prated of so many uncertainties as if they were certainties. For that they were falsehoods became apparent to me afterwards. However, I was certain that they were uncertain, and that I had formerly held them as certain when with a blind contentiousness I accused Thy Catholic Church, which though I had not yet discovered to teach truly, yet not to teach that of which I had so vehemently accused her. In this manner was I confounded and converted, and I rejoiced, O my God, that the one Church, the body of Thine only Son (wherein the name of Christ had been set upon me when an infant), did not appreciate these infantile trifles, nor maintained, in her sound doctrine, any tenet that would confine Thee, the Creator of all, in space—though ever so great and wide, yet bounded on all sides by the restraints of a human form.
6. I rejoiced also that the old Scriptures of the law and the prophets were laid before me, to be perused, not now with that eye to which they seemed most absurd before, when I censured Thy holy ones for so thinking, whereas in truth they thought not so; and with delight I heard Ambrose, in his sermons to the people, oftentimes most diligently recommend this text as a rule,—“The letter killeth, but the Spirit giveth life;”1 whilst, drawing aside the mystic veil, he spiritually laid open that which, accepted according to the “letter,” seemed to teach perverse doctrines—teaching herein nothing that offended me, though he taught such things as I knew not as yet whether they were true. For all this time I restrained my heart from assenting to anything, fearing to fall headlong; but by hanging in suspense I was the worse killed. For my desire was to be as well assured of those things that I saw not, as I was that seven and three are ten. For I was not so insane as to believe that this could not be comprehended; but I desired to have other things as clear as this, whether corporeal things, which were not present to my senses, or spiritual, whereof I knew not how to conceive except corporeally. And by believing I might have been cured, that so the sight of my soul being cleared,2 it might in some way be directed towards Thy truth, which abideth always, and faileth in naught. But as it happens that he who has tried a bad physician fears to trust himself with a good one, so was it with the health of my soul, which could not be healed but by believing, and, lest it should believe falsehoods, refused to be cured—resisting Thy hands, who hast prepared for us the medicaments of faith, and hast applied them to the maladies of the whole world, and hast bestowed upon them so great authority.
CHAP. V.—
FAITH IS THE BASIS OF HUMAN LIFE; MAN CANNOT DISCOVER THAT TRUTH WHICH HOLY SCRIPTURE HAS DISCLOSED.
7. From this, however, being led to prefer the Catholic doctrine, I felt that it was with more moderation and honesty that it commanded things to be believed that were not demonstrated (whether it was that they could be demonstrated, but not to any one, or could not be demonstrated at all), than was the method of the Manichæans, where our credulity was mocked by audacious promise of knowledge, and then so many most fabulous and absurd things were forced upon belief because they were not capable of demonstration.1 After that, O Lord, Thou, by little and little, with most gentle and most merciful hand, drawing and calming my heart, didst persuade me,—taking into consideration what a multiplicity of things which I had never seen, nor was present when they were enacted, like so many of the things in secular history, and so many accounts of places and cities which I had not seen; so many of friends, so many of physicians, so many now of these men, now of those, which unless we should believe, we should do nothing at all in this life; lastly, with how unalterable an assurance I believed of what parents I was born, which it would have been impossible for me to know otherwise than by hearsay,—taking into consideration all this, Thou persuadest me that not they who believed Thy books (which, with so great authority, Thou hast established among nearly all nations), but those who believed them not were to be blamed;2 and that those men were not to be listened unto who should say to me, “How dost thou know that those Scriptures were imparted unto mankind by the Spirit of the one true and most true God?” For it was the same thing that was most of all to be believed, since no wranglings of blasphemous questions, whereof I had read so many amongst the self-contradicting philosophers, could once wring the belief from me that Thou art,—whatsoever Thou wert, though what I knew not,—or that the government of human affairs belongs to Thee.
8. Thus much I believed, at one time more strongly than another, yet did I ever believe both that Thou wert, and hadst a care of us, although I was ignorant both what was to be thought of Thy substance, and what way led, or led back to Thee. Seeing, then, that we were too weak by unaided reason to find out the truth, and for this cause needed the authority of the holy writings, I had now begun to believe that Thou wouldest by no means have given such excellency of authority to those Scriptures throughout all lands, had it not been Thy will thereby to be believed in, and thereby sought. For now those things which heretofore appeared incongruous to me in the Scripture, and used to offend me, having heard divers of them expounded reasonably, I referred to the depth of the mysteries, and its authority seemed to me all the more venerable and worthy of religious belief, in that, while it was visible for all to read it, it reserved the majesty of its secret3 within its profound significance, stooping to all in the great plainness of its language and lowliness of its style, yet exercising the application of such as are not light of heart; that it might receive all into its common bosom, and through narrow passages waft over some few towards Thee, yet many more than if it did not stand upon such a height of authority, nor allured multitudes within its bosom by its holy humility. These things I meditated upon, and Thou wert with me; I sighed, and Thou heardest me; I vacillated, and Thou didst guide me; I roamed through the broad way4 of the world, and Thou didst not desert me.
CHAP. VI.—
ON THE SOURCE AND CAUSE OF TRUE JOY,—THE EXAMPLE OF THE JOYOUS BEGGAR BEING ADDUCED.
9. I longed for honours, gains, wedlock; and Thou mockedst me. In these desires I underwent most bitter hardships, Thou being the more gracious the less Thou didst suffer anything which was not Thou to grow sweet to me. Behold my heart, O Lord, who wouldest that I should recall all this, and confess unto Thee. Now let my soul cleave to Thee, which Thou hast freed from that fast-holding bird-lime of death. How wretched was it! And Thou didst irritate the feeling of its wound, that, forsaking all else, it might be converted unto Thee,—who art above all, and without whom all things would be naught,—be converted and be healed. How wretched was I at that time, and how didst Thou deal with me, to make me sensible of my wretchedness on that day wherein I was preparing to recite a panegyric on the Emperor,1 wherein I was to deliver many a lie, and lying was to be applauded by those who knew I lied; and my heart panted with these cares, and boiled over with the feverishness of consuming thoughts. For, while walking along one of the streets of Milan, I observed a poor mendicant,—then, I imagine, with a full belly,—joking and joyous; and I sighed, and spake to the friends around me of the many sorrows resulting from our madness, for that by all such exertions of ours,—as those wherein I then laboured, dragging along, under the spur of desires, the burden of my own unhappiness, and by dragging increasing it,—we yet aimed only to attain that very joyousness which that mendicant had reached before us, who, perchance, never would attain it! For what he had obtained through a few begged pence, the same was I scheming for by many a wretched and tortuous turning,—the joy of a temporary felicity. For he verily possessed not true joy, but yet I, with these my ambitions, was seeking one much more untrue. And in truth he was joyous, I anxious; he free from care, I full of alarms. But should any one inquire of me whether I would rather be merry or fearful, I would reply, Merry. Again, were I asked whether I would rather be such as he was, or as I myself then was, I should elect to be myself, though beset with cares and alarms, but out of perversity; for was it so in truth? For I ought not to prefer myself to him because I happened to be more learned than he, seeing that I took no delight therein, but sought rather to please men by it; and that not to instruct, but only to please. Wherefore also didst Thou break my bones with the rod of Thy correction.2
10. Away with those, then, from my soul, who say unto it, “It makes a difference from whence a man’s joy is derived. That mendicant rejoiced in drunkenness; thou longedst to rejoice in glory.” What glory, O Lord? That which is not in Thee. For even as his was no true joy, so was mine no true glory;3 and it subverted my soul more. He would digest his drunkenness that same night, but many a night had I slept with mine, and risen again with it, and was to sleep again and again to rise with it, I know not how oft. It does indeed “make a difference whence a man’s joy is derived.” I know it is so, and that the joy of a faithful hope is incomparably beyond such vanity. Yea, and at that time was he beyond me, for he truly was the happier man; not only for that he was thoroughly steeped in mirth, I torn to pieces with cares, but he, by giving good wishes, had gotten wine, I, by lying, was following after pride. Much to this effect said I then to my dear friends, and I often marked in them how it fared with me; and I found that it went ill with me, and fretted, and doubled that very ill. And if any prosperity smiled upon me, I loathed to seize it, for almost before I could grasp it it flew away.
CHAP. VII.—
HE LEADS TO REFORMATION HIS FRIEND ALYPIUS, SEIZED WITH MADNESS FOR THE CIRCENSIAN GAMES.
11. These things we, who lived like friends together, jointly deplored, but chiefly and most familiarly did I discuss them with Alypius and Nebridius, of whom Alypius was born in the same town as myself, his parents being of the highest rank there, but he being younger than I. For he had studied under me, first, when I taught in our own town, and afterwards at Carthage, and esteemed me highly, because I appeared to him good and learned; and I esteemed him for his innate love of virtue, which, in one of no great age, was sufficiently eminent. But the vortex of Carthaginian customs (amongst whom these frivolous spectacles are hotly followed) had inveigled him into the madness of the Circensian games. But while he was miserably tossed about therein, I was professing rhetoric there, and had a public school. As yet he did not give ear to my teaching, on account of some ill-feeling that had arisen between me and his father. I had then found how fatally he doted upon the circus, and was deeply grieved that he seemed likely—if, indeed, he had not already done so—to cast away his so great promise. Yet had I no means of advising, or by a sort of restraint reclaiming him, either by the kindness of a friend or by the authority of a master. For I imagined that his sentiments towards me were the same as his father’s; but he was not such. Disregarding, therefore, his father’s will in that matter, he commenced to salute me, and, coming into my lecture-room, to listen for a little and depart.
12. But it slipped my memory to deal with him, so that he should not, through a blind and headstrong desire of empty pastimes, undo so great a wit. But Thou, O Lord, who governest the helm of all Thou hast created, hadst not forgotten him, who was one day to be amongst Thy sons, the President of Thy sacrament;4 and that his amendment might plainly be attributed to Thyself, Thou broughtest it about through me, but I knowing nothing of it. For one day, when I was sitting in my accustomed place, with my scholars before me, he came in, saluted me, sat himself down, and fixed his attention on the subject I was then handling. It so happened that I had a passage in hand, which while I was explaining, a simile borrowed from the Circensian games occurred to me, as likely to make what I wished to convey pleasanter and plainer, imbued with a biting jibe at those whom that madness had enthralled. Thou knowest, O our God, that I had no thought at that time of curing Alypius of that plague. But he took it to himself, and thought that I would not have said it but for his sake. And what any other man would have made a ground of offence against me, this worthy young man took as a reason for being offended at himself, and for loving me more fervently. For Thou hast said it long ago, and written in Thy book, “Rebuke a wise man, and he will love thee.”1 But I had not rebuked him, but Thou, who makest use of all consciously or unconsciously, in that order which Thyself knowest (and that order is right), wroughtest out of my heart and tongue burning coals, by which Thou mightest set on fire and cure the hopeful mind thus languishing. Let him be silent in Thy praises who meditates not on Thy mercies, which from my inmost parts confess unto Thee. For he upon that speech rushed out from that so deep pit, wherein he was wilfully plunged, and was blinded by its miserable pastimes; and he roused his mind with a resolute moderation; whereupon all the filth of the Circensian pastimes2 flew off from him, and he did not approach them further. Upon this, he prevailed with his reluctant father to let him be my pupil. He gave in and consented. And Alypius, beginning again to hear me, was involved in the same superstition as I was, loving in the Manichæans that ostentation of continency3 which he believed to be true and unfeigned. It was, however, a senseless and seducing continency, ensnaring precious souls, not able as yet to reach the height of virtue, and easily beguiled with the veneer of what was but a shadowy and feigned virtue.
CHAP. VIII.—
THE SAME WHEN AT ROME, BEING LED BY OTHERS INTO THE AMPHITHEATRE, IS DELIGHTED WITH THE GLADIATORIAL GAMES.
13. He, not relinquishing that worldly way which his parents had bewitched him to pursue, had gone before me to Rome, to study law, and there he was carried away in an extraordinary manner with an incredible eagerness after the gladiatorial shows. For, being utterly opposed to and detesting such spectacles, he was one day met by chance by divers of his acquaintance and fellow-students returning from dinner, and they with a friendly violence drew him, vehemently objecting and resisting, into the amphitheatre, on a day of these cruel and deadly shows, he thus protesting: “Though you drag my body to that place, and there place me, can you force me to give my mind and lend my eyes to these shows? Thus shall I be absent while present, and so shall overcome both you and them.” They hearing this, dragged him on nevertheless, desirous, perchance, to see whether he could do as he said. When they had arrived thither, and had taken their places as they could, the whole place became excited with the inhuman sports. But he, shutting up the doors of his eyes, forbade his mind to roam abroad after such naughtiness; and would that he had shut his ears also! For, upon the fall of one in the fight, a mighty cry from the whole audience stirring him strongly, he, overcome by curiosity, and prepared as it were to despise and rise superior to it, no matter what it were, opened his eyes, and was struck with a deeper wound in his soul than the other, whom he desired to see, was in his body;4 and he fell more miserably than he on whose fall that mighty clamour was raised, which entered through his ears, and unlocked his eyes, to make way for the striking and beating down of his soul, which was bold rather than valiant hitherto; and so much the weaker in that it presumed on itself, which ought to have depended on Thee. For, directly he saw that blood, he therewith imbibed a sort of savageness; nor did he turn away, but fixed his eye, drinking in madness unconsciously, and was delighted with the guilty contest, and drunken with the bloody pastime. Nor was he now the same he came in, but was one of the throng he came unto, and a true companion of those who had brought him thither. Why need I say more? He looked, shouted, was excited, carried away with him the madness which would stimulate him to return, not only with those who first enticed him, but also before them, yea, and to draw in others. And from all this didst Thou, with a most powerful and most merciful hand, pluck him, and taughtest him not to repose confidence in himself, but in Thee—but not till long after.
CHAP. IX.—
INNOCENT ALYPIUS, BEING APPREHENDED AS A THIEF, IS SET AT LIBERTY BY THE CLEVERNESS OF AN ARCHITECT.
14. But this was all being stored up in his memory for a medicine hereafter. As was that also, that when he was yet studying under me at Carthage, and was meditating at noonday in the market-place upon what he had to recite (as scholars are wont to be exercised), Thou sufferedst him to be apprehended as a thief by the officers of the market-place. For no other reason, I apprehend, didst Thou, O our God, suffer it, but that he who was in the future to prove so great a man should now begin to learn that, in judging of causes, man should not with a reckless credulity readily be condemned by man. For as he was walking up and down alone before the judgment-seat with his tablets and pen, lo, a young man, one of the scholars, the real thief, privily bringing a hatchet, got in without Alypius’ seeing him as far as the leaden bars which protect the silversmiths’ shops, and began to cut away the lead. But the noise of the hatchet being heard, the silversmiths below began to make a stir, and sent to take in custody whomsoever they should find. But the thief, hearing their voices, ran away, leaving his hatchet, fearing to be taken with it. Now Alypius, who had not seen him come in, caught sight of him as he went out, and noted with what speed he made off. And, being curious to know the reasons, he entered the place, where, finding the hatchet, he stood wondering and pondering, when behold, those that were sent caught him alone, hatchet in hand, the noise whereof had startled them and brought them thither. They lay hold of him and drag him away, and, gathering the tenants of the market-place about them, boast of having taken a notorious thief, and thereupon he was being led away to appear before the judge.
15. But thus far was he to be instructed. For immediately, O Lord, Thou camest to the succour of his innocency, whereof Thou wert the sole witness. For, as he was being led either to prison or to punishment, they were met by a certain architect, who had the chief charge of the public buildings. They were specially glad to come across him, by whom they used to be suspected of stealing the goods lost out of the market-place, as though at last to convince him by whom these thefts were committed. He, however, had at divers times seen Alypius at the house of a certain senator, whom he was wont to visit to pay his respects; and, recognising him at once, he took him aside by the hand, and inquiring of him the cause of so great a misfortune, heard the whole affair, and commanded all the rabble then present (who were very uproarious and full of threatenings) to go with him. And they came to the house of the young man who had committed the deed. There, before the door, was a lad so young as not to refrain from disclosing the whole through the fear of injuring his master. For he had followed his master to the market-place. Whom, so soon as Alypius recognised, he intimated it to the architect; and he, showing the hatchet to the lad, asked him to whom it belonged. “To us,” quoth he immediately; and on being further interrogated, he disclosed everything. Thus, the crime being transferred to that house, and the rabble shamed, which had begun to triumph over Alypius, he, the future dispenser of Thy word, and an examiner of numerous causes in Thy Church,1 went away better experienced and instructed.
CHAP. X.—
THE WONDERFUL INTEGRITY OF ALYPIUS IN JUDGMENT. THE LASTING FRIENDSHIP OF NEBRIDIUS WITH AUGUSTIN.
16. Him, therefore, had I lighted upon at Rome, and he clung to me by a most strong tie, and accompanied me to Milan, both that he might not leave me, and that he might practise something of the law he had studied, more with a view of pleasing his parents than himself. There had he thrice sat as assessor with an uncorruptness wondered at by others, he rather wondering at those who could prefer gold to integrity. His character was tested, also, not only by the bait of covetousness, but by the spur of fear. At Rome, he was assessor to the Count of the Italian Treasury.2 There was at that time a most potent senator, to whose favours many were indebted, of whom also many stood in fear. He would fain, by his usual power, have a thing granted him which was forbidden by the laws. This Alypius resisted; a bribe was promised, he scorned it with all his heart; threats were employed, he trampled them under foot,—all men being astonished at so rare a spirit, which neither coveted the friendship nor feared the enmity of a man at once so powerful and so greatly famed for his innumerable means of doing good or ill. Even the judge whose councillor Alypius was, although also unwilling that it should be done, yet did not openly refuse it, but put the matter off upon Alypius, alleging that it was he who would not permit him to do it; for verily, had the judge done it, Alypius would have decided otherwise. With this one thing in the way of learning was he very nearly led away,—that he might have books copied for him at prætorian prices.3 But, consulting justice, he changed his mind for the better, esteeming equity, whereby he was hindered, more gainful than the power whereby he was permitted. These are little things, but “He that is faithful in that which is least, is faithful also in much.”4 Nor can that possibly be void which proceedeth out of the mouth of Thy Truth. “If, therefore, ye have not been faithful in the unrighteous mammon, who will commit to your trust the true riches? And if ye have not been faithful in that which is another man’s, who shall give you that which is your own?”5 He, being such, did at that time cling to me, and wavered in purpose, as I did, what course of life was to be taken.
17. Nebridius also, who had left his native country near Carthage, and Carthage itself, where he had usually lived, leaving behind his fine paternal estate, his house, and his mother, who intended not to follow him, had come to Milan, for no other reason than that he might live with me in a most ardent search after truth and wisdom. Like me he sighed, like me he wavered, an ardent seeker after true life, and a most acute examiner of the most abstruse questions.6 So were there three begging mouths, sighing out their wants one to the other, and waiting upon Thee, that Thou mightest give them their meat in due season.7 And in all the bitterness which by Thy mercy followed our worldly pursuits, as we contemplated the end, why this suffering should be ours, darkness came upon us; and we turned away groaning and exclaiming, “How long shall these things be?” And this we often said; and saying so, we did not relinquish them, for as yet we had discovered nothing certain to which, when relinquished, we might betake ourselves.
CHAP. XI.—
BEING TROUBLED BY HIS GRIEVOUS ERRORS, HE MEDITATES ENTERING ON A NEW LIFE.
18. And I, puzzling over and reviewing these things, most marvelled at the length of time from that my nineteenth year, wherein I began to be inflamed with the desire of wisdom, resolving, when I had found her, to forsake all the empty hopes and lying insanities of vain desires. And behold, I was now getting on to my thirtieth year, sticking in the same mire, eager for the enjoyment of things present, which fly away and destroy me, whilst I say, “To-morrow I shall discover it; behold, it will appear plainly, and I shall seize it; behold, Faustus will come and explain everything! O ye great men, ye Academicians, it is then true that nothing certain for the ordering of life can be attained! Nay, let us search the more diligently, and let us not despair. Lo, the things in the ecclesiastical books, which appeared to us absurd aforetime, do not appear so now, and may be otherwise and honestly interpreted. I will set my feet upon that step, where, as a child, my parents placed me, until the clear truth be discovered. But where and when shall it be sought? Ambrose has no leisure,—we have no leisure to read. Where are we to find the books? Whence or when procure them? From whom borrow them? Let set times be appointed, and certain hours be set apart for the health of the soul. Great hope has risen upon us, the Catholic faith doth not teach what we conceived, and vainly accused it of. Her learned ones hold it as an abomination to believe that God is limited by the form of a human body. And do we doubt to ‘knock,’ in order that the rest may be ‘opened’?1 The mornings are taken up by our scholars; how do we employ the rest of the day? Why do we not set about this? But when, then, pay our respects to our great friends, of whose favours we stand in need? When prepare what our scholars buy from us? When recreate ourselves, relaxing our minds from the pressure of care?”
19. “Perish everything, and let us dismiss these empty vanities, and betake ourselves solely to the search after truth! Life is miserable, death uncertain. If it creeps upon us suddenly, in what state shall we depart hence, and where shall we learn what we have neglected here? Or rather shall we not suffer the punishment of this negligence? What if death itself should out off and put an end to all care and feeling? This also, then, must be inquired into. But God forbid that it should be so. It is not without reason, it is no empty thing, that the so eminent height of the authority of the Christian faith is diffused throughout the entire world. Never would such and so great things be wrought for us, if, by the death of the body, the life of the soul were destroyed. Why, therefore, do we delay to abandon our hopes of this world, and give ourselves wholly to seek after God and the blessed life? But stay! Even those things are enjoyable; and they possess some and no little sweetness. We must not abandon them lightly, for it would be a shame to return to them again. Behold, now is it a great matter to obtain some post of honour! And what more could we desire? We have crowds of influential friends, though we have nothing else, and if we make haste a presidentship may be offered us; and a wife with some money, that she increase not our expenses; and this shall be the height of desire. Many men, who are great and worthy of imitation, have applied themselves to the study of wisdom in the marriage state.”
20. Whilst I talked of these things, and these winds veered about and tossed my heart hither and thither, the time passed on; but I was slow to turn to the Lord, and from day to day deferred to live in Thee, and deferred not daily to die in myself. Being enamoured of a happy life, I yet feared it in its own abode, and, fleeing from it, sought after it. I conceived that I should be too unhappy were I deprived of the embracements of a woman;2 and of Thy merciful medicine to cure that infirmity I thought not, not having tried it. As regards continency, I imagined it to be under the control of our own strength (though in myself I found it not), being so foolish as not to know what is written, that none can be continent unless Thou give it;3 and that Thou wouldst give it, if with heart-felt groaning I should knock at Thine ears, and should with firm faith cast my care upon Thee.
CHAP. XII.—
DISCUSSION WITH ALYPIUS CONCERNING A LIFE OF CELIBACY.
21. It was in truth Alypius who prevented me from marrying, alleging that thus we could by no means live together, having so much undistracted leisure in the love of wisdom, as we had long desired. For he himself was so chaste in this matter that it was wonderful—all the more, too, that in his early youth he had entered upon that path, but had not clung to it; rather had he, feeling sorrow and disgust at it, lived from that time to the present most continently. But I opposed him with the examples of those who as married men had loved wisdom, found favour with God, and walked faithfully and lovingly with their friends. From the greatness of whose spirit I fell far short, and, enthralled with the disease of the flesh and its deadly sweetness, dragged my chain along, fearing to be loosed, and, as if it pressed my wound, rejected his kind expostulations, as it were the hand of one who would unchain me. Moreover, it was by me that the serpent spake unto Alypius himself, weaving and laying in his path, by my tongue, pleasant snares, wherein his honourable and free feet1 might be entangled.
22. For when he wondered that I, for whom he had no slight esteem, stuck so fast in the bird-lime of that pleasure as to affirm whenever we discussed the matter that it would be impossible for me to lead a single life, and urged in my defence when I saw him wonder that there was a vast difference between the life that he had tried by stealth and snatches (of which he had now but a faint recollection, and might therefore, without regret, easily despise), and my sustained acquaintance with it, whereto if but the honourable name of marriage were added, he would not then be astonished at my inability to contemn that course,—then began he also to wish to be married, not as if overpowered by the lust of such pleasure, but from curiosity. For, as he said, he was anxious to know what that could be without which my life, which was so pleasing to him, seemed to me not life but a penalty. For his mind, free from that chain, was astounded at my slavery, and through that astonishment was going on to a desire of trying it, and from it to the trial itself, and thence, perchance, to fall into that bondage whereat he was so astonished, seeing he was ready to enter into “a covenant with death;”2 and he that loves danger shall fall into it.3 For whatever the conjugal honour be in the office of well-ordering a married life, and sustaining children, influenced us but slightly. But that which did for the most part afflict me, already made a slave to it, was the habit of satisfying an insatiable lust; him about to be enslaved did an admiring wonder draw on. In this state were we, until Thou, O most High, not forsaking our lowliness, commiserating our misery, didst come to our rescue by wonderful and secret ways.
CHAP. XIII.—
BEING URGED BY HIS MOTHER TO TAKE A WIFE, HE SOUGHT A MAIDEN THAT WAS PLEASING UNTO HIM.
23. Active efforts were made to get me a wife. I wooed, I was engaged, my mother taking the greatest pains in the matter, that when I was once married, the health-giving baptism might cleanse me; for which she rejoiced that I was being daily fitted, remarking that her desires and Thy promises were being fulfilled in my faith. At which time, verily, both at my request and her own desire, with strong heartfelt cries did we daily beg of Thee that Thou wouldest by a vision disclose unto her something concerning my future marriage; but Thou wouldest not. She saw indeed certain vain and fantastic things, such as the earnestness of a human spirit, bent thereon, conjured up; and these she told me of, not with her usual confidence when Thou hadst shown her anything, but slighting them. For she could, she declared, through some feeling which she could not express in words, discern the difference betwixt Thy revelations and the dreams of her own spirit. Yet the affair was pressed on, and a maiden sued who wanted two years of the marriageable age; and, as she was pleasing, she was waited for.
CHAP. XIV.—
THE DESIGN OF ESTABLISHING A COMMON HOUSEHOLD WITH HIS FRIENDS IS SPEEDILY HINDERED.
24. And many of us friends, consulting on and abhorring the turbulent vexations of human life, had considered and now almost determined upon living at ease and separate from the turmoil of men. And this was to be obtained in this way; we were to bring whatever we could severally procure, and make a common household, so that, through the sincerity of our friendship, nothing should belong more to one than the other; but the whole, being derived from all, should as a whole belong to each, and the whole unto all. It seemed to us that this society might consist of ten persons, some of whom were very rich, especially Romanianus,1 our townsman, an intimate friend of mine from his childhood, whom grave business matters had then brought up to Court; who was the most earnest of us all for this project, and whose voice was of great weight in commending it, because his estate was far more ample than that of the rest. We had arranged, too, that two officers should be chosen yearly, for the providing of all necessary things, whilst the rest were left undisturbed. But when we began to reflect whether the wives which some of us had already, and others hoped to have, would permit this, all that plan, which was being so well framed, broke to pieces in our hands, and was utterly wrecked and cast aside. Thence we fell again to sighs and groans, and our steps to follow the broad and beaten ways2 of the world; for many thoughts were in our heart, but Thy counsel standeth for ever.3 Out of which counsel Thou didst mock ours, and preparedst Thine own, purposing to give us meat in due season, and to open Thy hand, and to fill our souls with blessing.4
CHAP. XV.—
HE DISMISSES ONE MISTRESS, AND CHOOSES ANOTHER.
25. Meanwhile my sins were being multiplied, and my mistress being torn from my side as an impediment to my marriage, my heart, which clave to her, was racked, and wounded, and bleeding. And she went back to Africa, making a vow unto Thee never to know another man, leaving with me my natural son by her. But I, unhappy one, who could not imitate a woman, impatient of delay, since it was not until two years’ time I was to obtain her I sought,—being not so much a lover of marriage as a slave to lust,—procured another (not a wife, though), that so by the bondage of a lasting habit the disease of my soul might be nursed up, and kept up in its vigour, or even increased, into the kingdom of marriage. Nor was that wound of mine as yet cured which had been caused by the separation from my former mistress, but after inflammation and most acute anguish it mortified,5 and the pain became numbed, but more desperate.
CHAP. XVI.—
THE FEAR OF DEATH AND JUDGMENT CALLED HIM, BELIEVING IN THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL, BACK FROM HIS WICKEDNESS, HIM WHO AFORETIME BELIEVED IN THE OPINIONS OF EPICURUS.
26. Unto Thee be praise, unto Thee be glory, O Fountain of mercies! I became more wretched, and Thou nearer. Thy right hand was ever ready to pluck me out of the mire, and to cleanse me, but I was ignorant of it. Nor did anything recall me from a yet deeper abyss of carnal pleasures, but the fear of death and of Thy future judgment, which, amid all my fluctuations of opinion, never left my breast. And in disputing with my friends, Alypius and Nebridius, concerning the nature of good and evil, I held that Epicurus had, in my judgment, won the palm, had I not believed that after death there remained a life for the soul, and places of recompense, which Epicurus would not believe.6 And I demanded, “Supposing us to be immortal, and to be living in the enjoyment of perpetual bodily pleasure, and that without any fear of losing it, why, then, should we not be happy, or why should we search for anything else?”—not knowing that even this very thing was a part of my great misery, that, being thus sunk and blinded, I could not discern that light of honour and beauty to be embraced for its own sake,1 which cannot be seen by the eye of the flesh, it being visible only to the inner man. Nor did I, unhappy one, consider out of what vein it emanated, that even these things, loathsome as they were, I with pleasure discussed with my friends. Nor could I, even in accordance with my then notions of happiness, make myself happy without friends, amid no matter how great abundance of carnal pleasures. And these friends assuredly I loved for their own sakes, and I knew myself to be loved of them again for my own sake. O crooked ways! Woe to the audacious soul which hoped that, if it forsook Thee, it would find some better thing! It hath turned and re-turned, on back, sides, and belly, and all was hard,2 and Thou alone rest. And behold, Thou art near, and deliverest us from our wretched wanderings, and stablishest us in Thy way, and dost comfort us, and say, “Run; I will carry you, yea, I will lead you, and there also will I carry you.”
BOOK VII.
HE RECALLS THE BEGINNING OF HIS YOUTH, i. e. THE THIRTY-FIRST YEAR OF HIS AGE, IN WHICH VERY GRAVE ERRORS AS TO THE NATURE OF GOD AND THE ORIGIN OF EVIL BEING DISTINGUISHED, AND THE SACRED BOOKS MORE ACCURATELY KNOWN, HE AT LENGTH ARRIVES AT A CLEAR KNOWLEDGE OF GOD, NOT YET RIGHTLY APPREHENDING JESUS CHRIST.
CHAP. I.—
HE REGARDED NOT GOD INDEED UNDER THE FORM OF A HUMAN BODY, BUT AS A CORPOREAL SUBSTANCE DIFFUSED THROUGH SPACE.
1. Dead now was that evil and abominable youth of mine, and I was passing into early manhood: as I increased in years, the fouler became I in vanity, who could not conceive of any substance but such as I saw with my own eyes. I thought not of Thee, O God, under the form of a human body. Since the time I began to hear something of wisdom, I always avoided this; and I rejoiced to have found the same in the faith of our spiritual mother, Thy Catholic Church. But what else to imagine Thee I knew not. And I, a man, and such a man, sought to conceive of Thee, the sovereign and only true God; and I did in my inmost heart believe that Thou wert incorruptible, and inviolable, and unchangeable; because, not knowing whence or how, yet most plainly did I see and feel sure that that which may be corrupted must be worse than that which cannot, and what cannot be violated did I without hesitation prefer before that which can, and deemed that which suffers no change to be better than that which is changeable. Violently did my heart cry out against all my phantasms, and with this one blow I endeavoured to beat away from the eye of my mind all that unclean crowd which fluttered around it.1 And lo, being scarce put off, they, in the twinkling of an eye, pressed in multitudes around me, dashed against my face, and beclouded it; so that, though I thought not of Thee under the form of a human body, yet was I constrained to image Thee to be something corporeal in space, either infused into the world, or infinitely diffused beyond it,—even that incorruptible, inviolable, and unchangeable, which I preferred to the corruptible, and violable, and changeable; since whatsoever I conceived, deprived of this space, appeared as nothing to me, yea, altogether nothing, not even a void, as if a body were removed from its place and the place should remain empty of any body at all, whether earthy, terrestrial, watery, aerial, or celestial, but should remain a void place—a spacious nothing, as it were.
2. I therefore being thus gross-hearted, nor clear even to myself, whatsoever was not stretched over certain spaces, nor diffused, nor crowded together, nor swelled out, or which did not or could not receive some of these dimensions, I judged to be altogether nothing.2 For over such forms as my eyes are wont to range did my heart then range; nor did I see that this same observation, by which I formed those same images, was not of this kind, and yet it could not have formed them had not itself been something great. In like manner did I conceive of Thee, Life of my life, as vast through infinite spaces, on every side penetrating the whole mass of the world, and beyond it, all ways, through immeasurable and boundless spaces; so that the earth should have Thee, the heaven have Thee, all things have Thee, and they bounded in Thee, but Thou nowhere. For as the body of this air which is above the earth preventeth not the light of the sun from passing through it, penetrating it, not by bursting or by cutting, but by filling it entirely, so I imagined the body, not of heaven, air, and sea only, but of the earth also, to be pervious to Thee, and in all its greatest parts as well as smallest penetrable to receive Thy presence, by a secret inspiration, both inwardly and outwardly governing all things which Thou hast created. So I conjectured, because I was unable to think of anything else; for it was untrue. For in this way would a greater part of the earth contain a greater portion of Thee, and the less a lesser; and all things should so be full of Thee, as that the body of an elephant should contain more of Thee than that of a sparrow by how much larger it is, and occupies more room; and so shouldest Thou make the portions of Thyself present unto the several portions of the world, in pieces, great to the great, little to the little. But Thou art not such a one; nor hadst Thou as yet enlightened my darkness.
CHAP. II.—
THE DISPUTATION OF NEBRIDIUS AGAINST THE MANICHÆANS, ON THE QUESTION “WHETHER GOD BE CORRUPTIBLE OR INCORRUPTIBLE.”
3. It was sufficient for me, O Lord, to oppose to those deceived deceivers and dumb praters (dumb, since Thy word sounded not forth from them) that which a long while ago, while we were at Carthage, Nebridius used to propound, at which all we who heard it were disturbed: “What could that reputed nation of darkness, which the Manichæans are in the habit of setting up as a mass opposed to Thee, have done unto Thee hadst Thou objected to fight with it? For had it been answered, ‘It would have done Thee some injury,’ then shouldest Thou be subject to violence and corruption; but if the reply were: ‘It could do Thee no injury,’ then was no cause assigned for Thy fighting with it; and so fighting as that a certain portion and member of Thee, or offspring of Thy very substance, should be blended with adverse powers and natures not of Thy creation, and be by them corrupted and deteriorated to such an extent as to be turned from happiness into misery, and need help whereby it might be delivered and purged; and that this offspring of Thy substance was the soul, to which, being enslaved, contaminated, and corrupted, Thy word, free, pure, and entire, might bring succour; but yet also the word itself being corruptible, because it was from one and the same substance. So that should they affirm Thee, whatsoever Thou art, that is, Thy substance whereby Thou art, to be incorruptible, then were all these assertions false and execrable; but if corruptible, then that were false, and at the first utterance to be abhorred.”1 This argument, then, was enough against those who wholly merited to be vomited forth from the surfeited stomach, since they had no means of escape without horrible sacrilege, both of heart and tongue, thinking and speaking such things of Thee.
CHAP. III.—
THAT THE CAUSE OF EVIL IS THE FREE JUDGMENT OF THE WILL.
4. But I also, as yet, although I said and was firmly persuaded, that Thou our Lord, the true God, who madest not only our souls but our bodies, and not our souls and bodies alone, but all creatures and all things, wert uncontaminable and inconvertible, and in no part mutable; yet understood I not readily and clearly what was the cause of evil. And yet, whatever it was, I perceived that it must be so sought out as not to constrain me by it to believe that the immutable God was mutable, lest I myself should become the thing that I was seeking out. I sought, therefore, for it free from care, certain of the untruthfulness of what these asserted, whom I shunned with my whole heart; for I perceived that through seeking after the origin of evil, they were filled with malice, in that they liked better to think that Thy Substance did suffer evil than that their own did commit it.1
5. And I directed my attention to discern what I now heard, that free will2 was the cause of our doing evil, and Thy righteous judgment of our suffering it. But I was unable clearly to discern it. So, then, trying to draw the eye of my mind from that pit, I was plunged again therein, and trying often, was as often plunged back again. But this raised me towards Thy light, that I knew as well that I had a will as that I had life: when, therefore, I was willing or unwilling to do anything, I was most certain that it was none but myself that was willing and unwilling; and immediately I perceived that there was the cause of my sin. But what I did against my will I saw that I suffered rather than did, and that judged I not to be my fault, but my punishment; whereby, believing Thee to be most just, I quickly confessed myself to be not unjustly punished. But again I said: “Who made me? Was it not my God, who is not only good, but goodness itself? Whence came I then to will to do evil, and to be unwilling to do good, that there might be cause for my just punishment? Who was it that put this in me, and implanted in me the root of bitterness, seeing I was altogether made by my most sweet God? If the devil were the author, whence is that devil? And if he also, by his own perverse will, of a good angel became a devil, whence also was the evil will in him whereby he became a devil, seeing that the angel was made altogether good by that most good Creator?” By these reflections was I again cast down and stifled; yet not plunged into that hell of error (where no man confesseth unto Thee),3 to think that Thou dost suffer evil, rather than that man doth it.
CHAP. IV.—
THAT GOD IS NOT CORRUPTIBLE, WHO, IF HE WERE, WOULD NOT BE GOD AT ALL.
6. For I was so struggling to find out the rest, as having already found that what was incorruptible must be better than the corruptible; and Thee, therefore, whatsoever Thou wert, did I acknowledge to be incorruptible. For never yet was, nor will be, a soul able to conceive of anything better than Thou, who art the highest and best good. But whereas most truly and certainly that which is incorruptible is to be preferred to the corruptible (like as I myself did now prefer it), then, if Thou were not incorruptible, I could in my thoughts have reached unto something better than my God. Where, then, I saw that the incorruptible was to be preferred to the corruptible, there ought I to seek Thee, and there observe “whence evil itself was,” that is, whence comes the corruption by which Thy substance can by no means be profaned. For corruption, truly, in no way injures our God,—by no will, by no necessity, by no unforeseen chance,—because He is God, and what He wills is good, and Himself is that good; but to be corrupted is not good. Nor art Thou compelled to do anything against Thy will in that Thy will is not greater than Thy power. But greater should it be wert Thou Thyself greater than Thyself; for the will and power of God is God Himself. And what can be unforeseen by Thee, who knowest all things? Nor is there any sort of nature but Thou knowest it. And what more should we say “why that substance which God is should not be corruptible,” seeing that if it were so it could not be God?
CHAP. V.—
QUESTIONS CONCERNING THE ORIGIN OF EVIL IN REGARD TO GOD, WHO, SINCE HE IS THE CHIEF GOOD, CANNOT BE THE CAUSE OF EVIL.
7. And I sought “whence is evil?” And sought in an evil way; nor saw I the evil in my very search. And I set in order before the view of my spirit the whole creation, and whatever we can discern in it, such as earth, sea, air, stars, trees, living creatures; yea, and whatever in it we do not see, as the firmament of heaven, all the angels, too, and all the spiritual inhabitants thereof. But these very beings, as though they were bodies, did my fancy dispose in such and such places, and I made one huge mass of all Thy creatures, distinguished according to the kinds of bodies,—some of them being real bodies, some what I myself had feigned for spirits. And this mass I made huge,—not as it was, which I could not know, but as large as I thought well, yet every way finite. But Thee, O Lord, I imagined on every part environing and penetrating it, though every way infinite; as if there were a sea everywhere, and on every side through immensity nothing but an infinite sea; and it contained within itself some sponge, huge, though finite, so that the sponge would in all its parts be filled from the immeasurable sea. So conceived I Thy creation to be itself finite, and filled by Thee, the Infinite. And I said, Behold God, and behold what God hath created; and God is good, yea, most mightily and incomparably better than all these; but yet He, who is good, hath created them good, and behold how He encircleth and filleth them. Where, then, is evil, and whence, and how crept it in hither? What is its root, and what its seed? Or hath it no being at all? Why, then, do we fear and shun that which hath no being? Or if we fear it needlessly, then surely is that fear evil whereby the heart is unnecessarily pricked and tormented,—and so much a greater evil, as we have naught to fear, and yet do fear. Therefore either that is evil which we fear, or the act of fearing is in itself evil. Whence, therefore, is it, seeing that God, who is good, hath made all these things good? He, indeed, the greatest and chiefest Good, hath created these lesser goods; but both Creator and created are all good. Whence is evil? Or was there some evil matter of which He made and formed and ordered it, but left something in it which He did not convert into good? But why was this? Was He powerless to change the whole lump, so that no evil should remain in it, seeing that He is omnipotent? Lastly, why would He make anything at all of it, and not rather by the same omnipotency cause it not to be at all? Or could it indeed exist contrary to His will? Or if it were from eternity, why did He permit it so to be for infinite spaces of times in the past, and was pleased so long after to make something out of it? Or if He wished now all of a sudden to do something, this rather should the Omnipotent have accomplished, that this evil matter should not be at all, and that He only should be the whole, true, chief, and infinite Good. Or if it were not good that He, who was good, should not also be the framer and creator of what was good, then that matter which was evil being removed, and brought to nothing, He might form good matter, whereof He might create all things. For He would not be omnipotent were He not able to create something good without being assisted by that matter which had not been created by Himself.1 Such like things did I revolve in my miserable breast, overwhelmed with most gnawing cares lest I should die ere I discovered the truth; yet was the faith of Thy Christ, our Lord and Saviour, as held in the Catholic Church, fixed firmly in my heart, unformed, indeed, as yet upon many points, and diverging from doctrinal rules, but yet my mind did not utterly leave it, but every day rather drank in more and more of it.
CHAP. VI.—
HE REFUTES THE DIVINATIONS OF THE ASTROLOGERS, DEDUCED FROM THE CONSTELLATIONS.
8. Now also had I repudiated the lying divinations and impious absurdities of the astrologers. Let Thy mercies, out of the depth of my soul, confess unto thee2 for this also, O my God. For Thou, Thou altogether,—for who else is it that calls us back from the death of all errors, but that Life which knows not how to die, and the Wisdom which, requiring no light, enlightens the minds that do, whereby the universe is governed, even to the fluttering leaves of trees?—Thou providedst also for my obstinacy wherewith I struggled with Vindicianus,3 an acute old man, and Nebridius, a young one of remarkable talent; the former vehemently declaring, and the latter frequently, though with a certain measure of doubt, saying, “That no art existed by which to foresee future things, but that men’s surmises had oftentimes the help of luck, and that of many things which they foretold some came to pass unawares to the predicters, who lighted on it by their oft speaking.” Thou, therefore, didst provide a friend for me, who was no negligent consulter of the astrologers, and yet not thoroughly skilled in those arts, but, as I said, a curious consulter with them; and yet knowing somewhat, which he said he had heard from his father, which, how far it would tend to overthrow the estimation of that art, he knew not. This man, then, by name Firminius, having received a liberal education, and being well versed in rhetoric, consulted me, as one very dear to him, as to what I thought on some affairs of his, wherein his worldly hopes had risen, viewed with regard to his so-called constellations; and I, who had now begun to lean in this particular towards Nebridius’ opinion, did not indeed decline to speculate about the matter, and to tell him what came into my irresolute mind, but still added that I was now almost persuaded that these were but empty and ridiculous follies. Upon this he told me that his father had been very curious in such books, and that he had a friend who was as interested in them as he was himself, who, with combined study and consultation, fanned the flame of their affection for these toys, insomuch that they would observe the moment when the very dumb animals which bred in their houses brought forth, and then observed the position of the heavens with regard to them, so as to gather fresh proofs of this so-called art. He said, moreover, that his father had told him, that at the time his mother was about to give birth to him (Firminius), a female servant of that friend of his father’s was also great with child, which could not be hidden from her master, who took care with most diligent exactness to know of the birth of his very dogs. And so it came to pass that (the one for his wife, and the other for his servant, with the most careful observation, calculating the days and hours, and the smaller divisions of the hours) both were delivered at the same moment, so that both were compelled to allow the very selfsame constellations, even to the minutest point, the one for his son, the other for his young slave. For so soon as the women began to be in travail, they each gave notice to the other of what was fallen out in their respective houses, and had messengers ready to despatch to one another so soon as they had information of the actual birth, of which they had easily provided, each in his own province, to give instant intelligence. Thus, then, he said, the messengers of the respective parties met one another in such equal distances from either house, that neither of them could discern any difference either in the position of the stars or other most minute points. And yet Firminius, born in a high estate in his parents’ house, ran his course through the prosperous paths of this world, was increased in wealth, and elevated to honours; whereas that slave—the yoke of his condition being unrelaxed—continued to serve his masters, as Firminius, who knew him, informed me.
9. Upon hearing and believing these things, related by so reliable a person, all that resistance of mine melted away; and first I endeavoured to reclaim Firminius himself from that curiosity, by telling him, that upon inspecting his constellations, I ought, were I to foretell truly, to have seen in them parents eminent among their neighbours, a noble family in its own city, good birth, becoming education, and liberal learning. But if that servant had consulted me upon the same constellations, since they were his also, I ought again to tell him, likewise truly, to see in them the meanness of his origin, the abjectness of his condition, and everything else altogether removed from and at variance with the former. Whence, then, looking upon the same constellations, I should, if I spoke the truth, speak diverse things, or if I spoke the same, speak falsely; thence assuredly was it to be gathered, that whatever, upon consideration of the constellations, was foretold truly, was not by art, but by chance; and whatever falsely, was not from the unskilfulness of the art, but the error of chance.
10. An opening being thus made, I ruminated within myself on such things, that no one of those dotards (who followed such occupations, and whom I longed to assail, and with derision to confute) might urge against me that Firminius had informed me falsely, or his father him: I turned my thoughts to those that are born twins, who generally come out of the womb so near one to another, that the small distance of time between them—how much force soever they may contend that it has in the nature of things—cannot be noted by human observation, or be expressed in those figures which the astrologer is to examine that he may pronounce the truth. Nor can they be true; for, looking into the same figures, he must have foretold the same of Esau and Jacob,1 whereas the same did not happen to them. He must therefore speak falsely; or if truly, then, looking into the same figures, he must not speak the same things. Not then by art, but by chance, would he speak truly. For Thou, O Lord, most righteous Ruler of the universe, the inquirers and inquired of knowing it not, workest by a hidden inspiration that the consulter should hear what, according to the hidden deservings of souls, he ought to hear, out of the depth of Thy righteous judgment, to whom let not man say, “What is this?” or “Why that?” Let him not say so, for he is man.
CHAP. VII.—
HE IS SEVERELY EXERCISED AS TO THE ORIGIN OF EVIL.
11. And now, O my Helper, hadst Thou freed me from those fetters; and I inquired, “Whence is evil?” and found no result. But Thou sufferedst me not to be carried away from the faith by any fluctuations of thought, whereby I believed Thee both to exist, and Thy substance to be unchangeable, and that Thou hadst a care of and wouldest judge men; and that in Christ, Thy Son, our Lord, and the Holy Scriptures, which the authority of Thy Catholic Church pressed upon me, Thou hadst planned the way of man’s salvation to that life which is to come after this death. These things being safe and immoveably settled in my mind, I eagerly inquired, “Whence is evil?” What torments did my travailing heart then endure! What sighs, O my God! Yet even there were Thine ears open, and I knew it not; and when in stillness I sought earnestly, those silent contritions of my soul were strong cries unto Thy mercy. No man knoweth, but only Thou, what I endured. For what was that which was thence through my tongue poured into the ears of my most familiar friends? Did the whole tumult of my soul, for which neither time nor speech was sufficient, reach them? Yet went the whole into Thine ears, all of which I bellowed out from the sighings of my heart; and my desire was before Thee, and the light of mine eyes was not with me;2 for that was within, I without. Nor was that in place, but my attention was directed to things contained in place; but there did I find no resting-place, nor did they receive me in such a way as that I could say, “It is sufficient, it is well;” nor did they let me turn back, where it might be well enough with me. For to these things was I superior, but inferior to Thee; and Thou art my true joy when I am subjected to Thee, and Thou hadst subjected to me what Thou createdst beneath me.1 And this was the true temperature and middle region of my safety, to continue in Thine image, and by serving Thee to have dominion over the body. But when I lifted myself proudly against Thee, and “ran against the Lord, even on His neck, with the thick bosses” of my buckler,2 even these inferior things were placed above me, and pressed upon me, and nowhere was there alleviation or breathing space. They encountered my sight on every side in crowds and troops, and in thought the images of bodies obtruded themselves as I was returning to Thee, as if they would say unto me, “Whither goest thou, unworthy and base one?” And these things had sprung forth out of my wound; for thou humblest the proud like one that is wounded,3 and through my own swelling was I separated from Thee; yea, my too much swollen face closed up mine eyes.
CHAP. VIII.—
BY GOD’S ASSISTANCE HE BY DEGREES ARRIVES AT THE TRUTH.
12. “But Thou, O Lord, shalt endure for ever,”4 yet not for ever art Thou angry with us, because Thou dost commiserate our dust and ashes; and it was pleasing in Thy sight to reform my deformity, and by inward stings didst Thou disturb me, that I should be dissatisfied until Thou wert made sure to my inward sight. And by the secret hand of Thy remedy was my swelling lessened, and the disordered and darkened eyesight of my mind, by the sharp anointings of healthful sorrows, was from day to day made whole.
CHAP. IX.—
HE COMPARES THE DOCTRINE OF THE PLATONISTS CONCERNING THE Λόγος WITH THE MUCH MORE EXCELLENT DOCTRINE OF CHRISTIANITY.
13. And Thou, willing first to show me how Thou “resistest the proud, but givest grace unto the humble,”5 and by how great an act of mercy Thou hadst pointed out to men the path of humility, in that Thy “Word was made flesh” and dwelt among men,—Thou procuredst for me, by the instrumentality of one inflated with most monstrous pride, certain books of the Platonists,6 translated from Greek into Latin.7 And therein I read, not indeed in the same words, but to the selfsame effect,8 enforced by many and divers reasons, that, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by Him; and without Him was not any thing made that was made.” That which was made by Him is “life; and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehendeth it not.”1 And that the soul of man, though it “bears witness of the light,”2 yet itself “is not that light;3 but the Word of God, being God, is that true light that lighteth every man that cometh into the world.”4 And that “He was in the world, and the world was made by Him, and the world knew Him not.”5 But that “He came unto His own, and His own received Him not.6 But as many as received Him, to them gave He power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on His name.”7 This I did not read there.
14. In like manner, I read there that God the Word was born not of flesh, nor of blood, nor of the will of man, nor of the will of the flesh, but of God. But that “the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us,”8 I read not there. For I discovered in those books that it was in many and divers ways said, that the Son was in the form of the Father, and “thought it not robbery to be equal with God,” for that naturally He was the same substance. But that He emptied Himself, “and took upon Him the form of a servant, and was made in the likeness of men: and being found in fashion as a man, He humbled Himself, and became obedient unto death, even the death of the cross. Wherefore God also hath highly exalted Him” from the dead, “and given Him a name above every name; that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, of things in heaven, and things in earth, and things under the earth; and that every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father;”9 those books have not. For that before all times, and above all times, Thy only-begotten Son remaineth unchangeably co-eternal with Thee; and that of “His fulness” souls receive,10 that they may be blessed; and that by participation of the wisdom remaining in them they are renewed, that they may be wise, is there. But that “in due time Christ died for the ungodly,”11 and that Thou sparedst not Thine only Son, but deliveredst Him up for us all,12 is not there. “Because Thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes;”13 that they “that labour and are heavy laden” might “come” unto Him and He might refresh them,14 because He is “meek and lowly in heart.”15 “The meek will He guide in judgment; and the meek will He teach His way;”16 looking upon our humility and our distress, and forgiving all our sins.17 But such as are puffed up with the elation of would-be sublimer learning, do not hear Him saying, “Learn of Me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.”18 “Because that, when they knew God, they glorified Him not as God, neither were thankful; but became vain in their imaginations, and their foolish heart was darkened. Professing themselves to be wise, they became fools.”19
15. And therefore also did I read there, that they had changed the glory of Thy incorruptible nature into idols and divers forms,—“into an image made like to corruptible man, and to birds, and four-footed beasts, and creeping things,”20 namely, into that Egyptian food21 for which Esau lost his birthright;22 for that Thy first-born people worshipped the head of a four-footed beast instead of Thee, turning back in heart towards Egypt, and prostrating Thy image—their own soul—before the image “of an ox that eateth grass.”1 These things found I there; but I fed not on them. For it pleased Thee, O Lord, to take away the reproach of diminution from Jacob, that the elder should serve the younger;2 and Thou hast called the Gentiles into Thine inheritance. And I had come unto Thee from among the Gentiles, and I strained after that gold which Thou willedst Thy people to take from Egypt, seeing that wheresoever it was it was Thine.3 And to the Athenians Thou saidst by Thy apostle, that in Thee “we live, and move, and have our being;” as one of their own poets has said.4 And verily these books came from thence. But I set not my mind on the idols of Egypt, whom they ministered to with Thy gold,5 “who changed the truth of God into a lie, and worshipped and served the creature more than the Creator.”6
CHAP. X.—
DIVINE THINGS ARE THE MORE CLEARLY MANIFESTED TO HIM WHO WITHDRAWS INTO THE RECESSES OF HIS HEART.
16. And being thence warned to return to myself, I entered into my inward self, Thou leading me on; and I was able to do it, for Thou wert become my helper. And I entered, and with the eye of my soul (such as it was) saw above the same eye of my soul, above my mind, the Unchangeable Light.7 Not this common light, which all flesh may look upon, nor, as it were, a greater one of the same kind, as though the brightness of this should be much more resplendent, and with its greatness fill up all things. Not like this was that light, but different, yea, very different from all these. Nor was it above my mind as oil is above water, nor as heaven above earth; but above it was, because it made me, and I below it, because I was made by it. He who knows the Truth knows that Light; and he that knows it knoweth eternity. Love knoweth it. O Eternal Truth, and true Love, and loved Eternity!8 Thou art my God; to Thee do I sigh both night and day. When I first knew Thee, Thou liftedst me up, that I might see there was that which I might see, and that yet it was not I that did see. And Thou didst beat back the infirmity of my sight, pouring forth upon me most strongly Thy beams of light, and I trembled with love and fear; and I found myself to be far off from Thee, in the region of dissimilarity, as if I heard this voice of Thine from on high: “I am the food of strong men; grow, and thou shalt feed upon me; nor shalt thou convert me, like the food of thy flesh, into thee, but thou shalt be converted into me.” And I learned that Thou for iniquity dost correct man, and Thou dost make my soul to consume away like a spider.9 And I said, “Is Truth, therefore, nothing because it is neither diffused through space, finite, nor infinite?” And Thou criedst to me from afar, “Yea, verily, ‘I am that I am.’ ”10 And I heard this, as things are heard in the heart, nor was there room for doubt; and I should more readily doubt that I live than that Truth is not, which is “clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made.”1
CHAP. XI.—
THAT CREATURES ARE MUTABLE AND GOD ALONE IMMUTABLE.
17. And I viewed the other things below Thee, and perceived that they neither altogether are, nor altogether are not. They are, indeed, because they are from Thee; but are not, because they are not what Thou art. For that truly is which remains immutably.2 It is good, then, for me to cleave unto God,3 for if I remain not in Him, neither shall I in myself; but He, remaining in Himself, reneweth all things.4 And Thou art the Lord my God, since Thou standest not in need of my goodness.5
CHAP. XII.—
WHATEVER THINGS THE GOOD GOD HAS CREATED ARE VERY GOOD.
18. And it was made clear unto me that those things are good which yet are corrupted, which, neither were they supremely good, nor unless they were good, could be corrupted; because if supremely good, they were incorruptible, and if not good at all, there was nothing in them to be corrupted. For corruption harms, but, unless it could diminish goodness, it could not harm. Either, then, corruption harms not, which cannot be; or, what is most certain, all which is corrupted is deprived of good. But if they be deprived of all good, they will cease to be. For if they be, and cannot be at all corrupted, they will become better, because they shall remain incorruptibly. And what more monstrous than to assert that those things which have lost all their goodness are made better? Therefore, if they shall be deprived of all good, they shall no longer be. So long, therefore, as they are, they are good; therefore whatsoever is, is good. That evil, then, which I sought whence it was, is not any substance; for were it a substance, it would be good. For either it would be an incorruptible substance, and so a chief good, or a corruptible substance, which unless it were good it could not be corrupted. I perceived, therefore, and it was made clear to me, that Thou didst make all things good, nor is there any substance at all that was not made by Thee; and because all that Thou hast made are not equal, therefore all things are; because individually they are good, and altogether very good, because our God made all things very good.6
CHAP. XIII.—
IT IS MEET TO PRAISE THE CREATOR FOR THE GOOD THINGS WHICH ARE MADE IN HEAVEN AND EARTH.
19. And to Thee is there nothing at all evil, and not only to Thee, but to Thy whole creation; because there is nothing without which can break in, and mar that order which Thou hast appointed it. But in the parts thereof, some things, because they harmonize not with others, are considered evil;7 whereas those very things harmonize with others, and are good, and in themselves are good. And all these things which do not harmonize together harmonize with the inferior part which we call earth, having its own cloudy and windy sky concordant to it. Far be it from me, then, to say, “These things should not be.” For should I see nothing but these, I should indeed desire better; but yet, if only for these, ought I to praise Thee; for that Thou art to be praised is shown from the “earth, dragons, and all deeps; fire, and hail; snow, and vapours; stormy winds fulfilling Thy word; mountains, and all hills; fruitful trees, and all cedars; beasts, and all cattle; creeping things, and flying fowl; kings of the earth, and all people; princes, and all judges of the earth; both young men and maidens; old men and children,” praise Thy name. But when, “from the heavens,” these praise Thee, praise Thee, our God, “in the heights,” all Thy “angels,” all Thy “hosts,” “sun and moon,” all ye stars and light, “the heavens of heavens,” and the “waters that be above the heavens,” praise Thy name.8 I did not now desire better things, because I was thinking of all; and with a better judgment I reflected that the things above were better than those below, but that all were better than those above alone.
CHAP. XIV.—
BEING DISPLEASED WITH SOME PART OF GOD’S CREATION, HE CONCEIVES OF TWO ORIGINAL SUBSTANCES.
20. There is no wholeness in them whom aught of Thy creation displeaseth; no more than there was in me, when many things which Thou madest displeased me. And, because my soul dared not be displeased at my God, it would not suffer aught to be Thine which displeased it. Hence it had gone into the opinion of two substances, and resisted not, but talked foolishly. And, returning thence, it had made to itself a god, through infinite measures of all space; and imagined it to be Thee, and placed it in its heart, and again had become the temple of its own idol, which was to Thee an abomination. But after Thou hadst fomented the head of me unconscious of it, and closed mine eyes lest they should “behold vanity,”1 I ceased from myself a little, and my madness was lulled to sleep; and I awoke in Thee, and saw Thee to be infinite, though in another way; and this sight was not derived from the flesh.
CHAP. XV.—
WHATEVER IS, OWES ITS BEING TO GOD.
21. And I looked back on other things, and I perceived that it was to Thee they owed their being, and that they were all bounded in Thee; but in another way, not as being in space, but because Thou holdest all things in Thine hand in truth: and all things are true so far as they have a being, nor is there any falsehood, unless that which is not is thought to be. And I saw that all things harmonized, not with their places only, but with their seasons also. And that Thou, who only art eternal, didst not begin to work after innumerable spaces of times; for that all spaces of times, both those which have passed and which shall pass, neither go nor come, save through Thee, working and abiding.2
CHAP. XVI.—
EVIL ARISES NOT FROM A SUBSTANCE, BUT FROM THE PERVERSION OF THE WILL.
22. And I discerned and found it no marvel, that bread which is distasteful to an unhealthy palate is pleasant to a healthy one; and that the light, which is painful to sore eyes, is delightful to sound ones. And Thy righteousness displeaseth the wicked; much more the viper and little worm, which Thou hast created good, fitting in with inferior parts of Thy creation; with which the wicked themselves also fit in, the more in proportion as they are unlike Thee, but with the superior creatures, in proportion as they become like to Thee.3 And I inquired what iniquity was, and ascertained it not to be a substance, but a perversion of the will, bent aside from Thee, O God, the Supreme Substance, towards these lower things, and casting out its bowels,4 and swelling outwardly.
CHAP. XVII.—
ABOVE HIS CHANGEABLE MIND, HE DISCOVERS THE UNCHANGEABLE AUTHOR OF TRUTH.
23. And I marvelled that I now loved Thee, and no phantasm instead of Thee. And yet I did not merit to enjoy my God, but was transported to Thee by Thy beauty, and presently torn away from Thee by mine own weight, sinking with grief into these inferior things. This weight was carnal custom. Yet was there a remembrance of Thee with me; nor did I any way doubt that there was one to whom I might cleave, but that I was not yet one who could cleave unto Thee; for that the body which is corrupted presseth down the soul, and the earthly dwelling weigheth down the mind which thinketh upon many things.5 And most certain I was that Thy “invisible things from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even Thy eternal power and Godhead.”6 For, inquiring whence it was that I admired the beauty of bodies whether celestial or terrestrial, and what supported me in judging correctly on things mutable, and pronouncing, “This should be thus, this not,”—inquiring, then, whence I so judged, seeing I did so judge, I had found the unchangeable and true eternity of Truth, above my changeable mind. And thus, by degrees, I passed from bodies to the soul, which makes use of the senses of the body to perceive; and thence to its inward7 faculty, to which the bodily senses represent outward things, and up to which reach the capabilities of beasts; and thence, again, I passed on to the reasoning faculty,8 unto which whatever is received from the senses of the body is referred to be judged, which also, finding itself to be variable in me, raised itself up to its own intelligence, and from habit drew away my thoughts, withdrawing itself from the crowds of contradictory phantasms; that so it might find out that light1 by which it was besprinkled, when, without all doubting, it cried out, “that the unchangeable was to be preferred before the changeable;” whence also it knew that unchangeable, which, unless it had in some way known, it could have had no sure ground for preferring it to the changeable. And thus, with the flash of a trembling glance, it arrived at that which is, And then I saw Thy invisible things understood by the things that are made.2 But I was not able to fix my gaze thereon; and my infirmity being beaten back, I was thrown again on my accustomed habits, carrying along with me naught but a loving memory thereof, and an appetite for what I had, as it were, smelt the odour of, but was not yet able to eat.
CHAP. XVIII.—
JESUS CHRIST, THE MEDIATOR, IS THE ONLY WAY OF SAFETY.
24. And I sought a way of acquiring strength sufficient to enjoy Thee; but I found it not until I embraced that “Mediator between God and man, the man Christ Jesus,”3 “who is over all, God blessed for ever,”4 calling unto me, and saying, “I am the way, the truth, and the life,”5 and mingling that food which I was unable to receive with our flesh. For “the Word was made flesh,”6 that Thy wisdom, by which Thou createdst all things, might provide milk for our infancy. For I did not grasp my Lord Jesus,—I, though humbled, grasped not the humble One;7 nor did I know what lesson that infirmity of His would teach us. For Thy Word, the Eternal Truth, pre-eminent above the higher parts of Thy creation, raises up those that are subject unto Itself; but in this lower world built for Itself a humble habitation of our clay, whereby He intended to abase from themselves such as would be subjected and bring them over unto Himself, allying their swelling, and fostering their love; to the end that they might go on no further in self-confidence, but rather should become weak, seeing before their feet the Divinity weak by taking our “coats of skins;”8 and wearied, might cast themselves down upon It, and It rising, might lift them up.
CHAP. XIX.—
HE DOES NOT YET FULLY UNDERSTAND THE SAYING OF JOHN, THAT “THE WORD WAS MADE FLESH.”
25. But I thought differently, thinking only of my Lord Christ as of a man of excellent wisdom, to whom no man could be equalled; especially for that, being wonderfully born of a virgin, He seemed, through the divine care for us, to have attained so great authority of leadership,—for an example of contemning temporal things for the obtaining of immortality. But what mystery there was in, “The Word was made flesh,”1 I could not even imagine. Only I had learnt out of what is delivered to us in writing of Him, that He did eat, drink, sleep, walk, rejoice in spirit, was sad, and discoursed; that flesh alone did not cleave unto Thy Word, but with the human soul and body. All know thus who know the unchangeableness of Thy Word, which I now knew as well as I could, nor did I at all have any doubt about it. For, now to move the limbs of the body at will, now not; now to be stirred by some affection, now not; now by signs to enunciate wise sayings, now to keep silence, are properties of a soul and mind subject to change. And should these things be falsely written of Him, all the rest would risk the imputation, nor would there remain in those books any saving faith for the human race. Since, then, they were written truthfully, I acknowledged a perfect man to be in Christ—not the body of a man only, nor with the body a sensitive soul without a rational, but a very man; whom, not only as being a form of truth, but for a certain great excellency of human nature and a more perfect participation of wisdom, I decided was to be preferred before others. But Alypius imagined the Catholics to believe that God was so clothed with flesh, that, besides God and flesh, there was no soul in Christ, and did not think that a human mind was ascribed to Him. And, because He was thoroughly persuaded that the actions which were recorded of Him could not be performed except by a vital and rational creature, he moved the more slowly towards the Christian faith. But, learning afterwards that this was the error of the Apollinarian heretics,2 he rejoiced in the Catholic faith, and was conformed to it. But somewhat later it was, I confess, that I learned how in the sentence, “The Word was made flesh,” the Catholic truth can be distinguished from the falsehood of Photinus.3 For the disapproval of heretics makes the tenets of Thy Church and sound doctrine to stand out boldly.4 For there must be also heresies, that the approved may be made manifest among the weak.5
CHAP. XX.—
HE REJOICES THAT HE PROCEEDED FROM PLATO TO THE HOLY SCRIPTURES, AND NOT THE REVERSE.
26. But having then read those books of the Platonists, and being admonished by them to search for incorporeal truth, I saw Thy invisible things, understood by those things that are made;1 and though repulsed, I perceived what that was, which through the darkness of my mind I was not allowed to contemplate,—assured that Thou wert, and wert infinite, and yet not diffused in space finite or infinite; and that Thou truly art, who art the same ever,2 varying neither in part nor motion; and that all other things are from Thee, on this most sure ground alone, that they are. Of these things was I indeed assured, yet too weak to enjoy Thee. I chattered as one well skilled; but had I not sought Thy way in Christ our Saviour, I would have proved not skilful, but ready to perish. For now, filled with my punishment, I had begun to desire to seem wise; yet mourned I not, but rather was puffed up with knowledge.3 For where was that charity building upon the “foundation” of humility, “which is Jesus Christ”?4 Or, when would these books teach me it? Upon these, therefore, I believe, it was Thy pleasure that I should fall before I studied Thy Scriptures, that it might be impressed on my memory how I was affected by them; and that afterwards when I was subdued by Thy books, and when my wounds were touched by Thy healing fingers, I might discern and distinguish what a difference there is between presumption and confession,—between those who saw whither they were to go, yet saw not the way, and the way which leadeth not only to behold but to inhabit the blessed country.5 For had I first been moulded in Thy Holy Scriptures, and hadst Thou, in the familiar use of them, grown sweet unto me, and had I afterwards fallen upon those volumes, they might perhaps have withdrawn me from the solid ground of piety; or, had I stood firm in that wholesome disposition which I had thence imbibed, I might have thought that it could have been attained by the study of those books alone.
CHAP. XXI.—
WHAT HE FOUND IN THE SACRED BOOKS WHICH ARE NOT TO BE FOUND IN PLATO.
27. Most eagerly, then, did I seize that venerable writing of Thy Spirit, but more especially the Apostle Paul;6 and those difficulties vanished away, in which he at one time appeared to me to contradict himself, and the text of his discourse not to agree with the testimonies of the Law and the Prophets. And the face of that pure speech appeared to me one and the same; and I learned to “rejoice with trembling.”7 So I commenced, and found that whatsoever truth I had there read was declared here with the recommendation of Thy grace; that he who sees may not so glory as if he had not received8 not only that which he sees, but also that he can see (for what hath he which he hath not received?); and that he may not only be admonished to see Thee, who art ever the same, but also may be healed, to hold Thee; and that he who from afar off is not able to see, may still walk on the way by which he may reach, behold, and possess Thee. For though a man “delight in the law of God after the inward man,”9 what shall he do with that other law in his members which warreth against the law of his mind, and bringeth him into captivity to the law of sin, which is in his members?10 For Thou art righteous, O Lord, but we have sinned and committed iniquity, and have done wickedly,11 and Thy hand is grown heavy upon us, and we are justly delivered over unto that ancient sinner, the governor of death; for he induced our will to be like his will, whereby he remained not in Thy truth. What shall “wretched man” do? “Who shall deliver him from the body of this death,” but Thy grace only, “through Jesus Christ our Lord,”12 whom Thou hast begotten co-eternal, and createdst13 in the beginning of Thy ways, in whom the Prince of this world found nothing worthy of death,1 yet killed he Him, and the handwriting which was contrary to us was blotted out?2 This those writings contain not. Those pages contain not the expression of this piety,—the tears of confession, Thy sacrifice, a troubled spirit, “a broken and a contrite heart,”3 the salvation of the people, the espoused city,4 the earnest of the Holy Ghost,5 the cup of our redemption.6 No man sings there, Shall not my soul be subject unto God? For of Him cometh my salvation, for He is my God and my salvation, my defender, I shall not be further moved.7 No one there hears Him calling, “Come unto me all ye that labour.” They scorn to learn of Him, because He is meek and lowly of heart;8 for “Thou hast hid those things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes.”9 For it is one thing, from the mountain’s wooded summit to see the land of peace,10 and not to find the way thither,—in vain to attempt impassable ways, opposed and waylaid by fugitives and deserters, under their captain the “lion”11 and the “dragon;”12 and another to keep to the way that leads thither, guarded by the host of the heavenly general, where they rob not who have deserted the heavenly army, which they shun as torture. These things did in a wonderful manner sink into my bowels, when I read that “least of Thy apostles,”13 and had reflected upon Thy works, and feared greatly.
BOOK VIII.
HE FINALLY DESCRIBES THE THIRTY-SECOND YEAR OF HIS AGE, THE MOST MEMORABLE OF HIS WHOLE LIFE, IN WHICH, BEING INSTRUCTED BY SIMPLICIANUS CONCERNING THE CONVERSION OF OTHERS, AND THE MANNER OF ACTING, HE IS, AFTER A SEVERE STRUGGLE, RENEWED IN HIS WHOLE MIND, AND IS CONVERTED UNTO GOD.
CHAP. I.—
HE, NOW GIVEN TO DIVINE THINGS, AND YET ENTANGLED BY THE LUSTS OF LOVE, CONSULTS SIMPLICIANUS IN REFERENCE TO THE RENEWING OF HIS MIND.
1. O my God, let me with gratitude remember and confess unto Thee Thy mercies bestowed upon me. Let my bones be steeped in Thy love, and let them say, Who is like unto Thee, O Lord?1 “Thou hast loosed my bonds, I will offer unto Thee the sacrifice of thanksgiving.”2 And how Thou hast loosed them I will declare; and all who worship Thee when they hear these things shall say: “Blessed be the Lord in heaven and earth, great and wonderful is His name.” Thy words had stuck fast into my breast, and I was hedged round about by Thee on every side.3 Of Thy eternal life I was now certain, although I had seen it “through a glass darkly.”4 Yet I no longer doubted that there was an incorruptible substance, from which was derived all other substance; nor did I now desire to be more certain of Thee, but more stedfast in Thee. As for my temporal life, all things were uncertain, and my heart had to be purged from the old leaven.5 The “Way,”6 the Saviour Himself, was pleasant unto me, but as yet I disliked to pass through its straightness. And Thou didst put into my mind, and it seemed good in my eyes, to go unto Simplicianus,7 who appeared to me a faithful servant of Thine, and Thy grace shone in him. I had also heard that from his very youth he had lived most devoted to Thee. Now he had grown into years, and by reason of so great age, passed in such zealous following of Thy ways, he appeared to me likely to have gained much experience; and so in truth he had. Out of which experience I desired him to tell me (setting before him my griefs) which would be the most fitting way for one afflicted as I was to walk in Thy way.
2. For the Church I saw to be full, and one went this way, and another that. But it was displeasing to me that I led a secular life; yea, now that my passions had ceased to excite me as of old with hopes of honour and wealth, a very grievous burden it was to undergo so great a servitude. For, compared with Thy sweetness, and the beauty of Thy house, which I loved,8 those things delighted me no longer. But still very tenaciously was I held by the love of women; nor did the apostle forbid me to marry, although he exhorted me to something better, especially wishing that all men were as he himself was.9 But I, being weak, made choice of the more agreeable place, and because of this alone was tossed up and down in all beside, faint and languishing with withering cares, because in other matters I was compelled, though unwilling, to agree to a married life, to which I was given up and enthralled. I had heard from the mouth of truth that “there be eunuchs, which have made themselves eunuchs for the kingdom of heaven’s sake;” but, saith He, “he that is able to receive it, let him receive it.”10 Vain, assuredly, are all men in whom the knowledge of God is not, and who could not, out of the good things which are seen, find out Him who is good.11 But I was no longer in that vanity; I had surmounted it, and by the united testimony of Thy whole creation had found Thee, our Creator,12 and Thy Word, God with Thee, and together with Thee and the Holy Ghost1 one God, by whom Thou createdst all things. There is yet another kind of impious men, who “when they knew God, they glorified Him not as God, neither were thankful.”2 Into this also had I fallen; but Thy right hand held me up,3 and bore me away, and Thou placedst me where I might recover. For Thou hast said unto man, “Behold, the fear of the Lord, that is wisdom;”4 and desire not to seem wise,5 because, “Professing themselves to be wise, they became fools.”6 But I had now found the goodly pearl,7 which, selling all that I had,8 I ought to have bought; and I hesitated.
CHAP. II.—
THE PIOUS OLD MAN REJOICES THAT HE READ PLATO AND THE SCRIPTURES, AND TELLS HIM OF THE RHETORICIAN VICTORINUS HAVING BEEN CONVERTED TO THE FAITH THROUGH THE READING OF THE SACRED BOOKS.
3. To Simplicianus then I went,—the father of Ambrose9 (at that time a bishop) in receiving Thy grace, and whom he truly loved as a father. To him I narrated the windings of my error. But when I mentioned to him that I had read certain books of the Platonists, which Victorinus, sometime Professor of Rhetoric at Rome (who died a Christian, as I had been told), had translated into Latin, he congratulated me that I had not fallen upon the writings of other philosophers, which were full of fallacies and deceit, “after the rudiments of the world,”10 whereas they,11 in many ways, led to the belief in God and His word.12 Then, to exhort me to the humility of Christ,13 hidden from the wise, and revealed to little ones,14 he spoke of Victorinus himself,15 whom, whilst he was at Rome, he had known very intimately; and of him he related that about which I will not be silent. For it contains great praise of Thy grace, which ought to be confessed unto Thee, how that most learned old man, highly skilled in all the liberal sciences, who had read, criticised, and explained so many works of the philosophers; the teacher of so many noble senators; who also, as a mark of his excellent discharge of his duties, had (which men of this world esteem a great honour) both merited and obtained a statue in the Roman Forum, he,—even to that age a worshipper of idols, and a participator in the sacrilegious rites to which almost all the nobility of Rome were wedded, and had inspired the people with the love of
- “The dog Anubis, and a medley crew
- Of monster gods [who] ’gainst Neptune stand in arms,
- ’Gainst Venus and Minerva, steel-clad Mars,”16
whom Rome once conquered, now worshipped, all which old Victorinus had with thundering eloquence defended so many years,—he now blushed not to be the child of Thy Christ, and an infant at Thy fountain, submitting his neck to the yoke of humility, and subduing his forehead to the reproach of the Cross.
4. O Lord, Lord, who hast bowed the heavens and come down, touched the mountains and they did smoke,17 by what means didst Thou convey Thyself into that bosom? He used to read, as Simplicianus said, the Holy Scripture, most studiously sought after and searched into all the Christian writings, and said to Simplicianus,—not openly, but secretly, and as a friend,—“Know thou that I am a Christian.” To which he replied, “I will not believe it, nor will I rank you among the Christians unless I see you in the Church of Christ.” Whereupon he replied derisively, “Is it then the walls that make Christians?” And this he often said, that he already was a Christian; and Simplicianus making the same answer, the conceit of the “walls” was by the other as often renewed. For he was fearful of offending his friends, proud demon-worshippers, from the height of whose Babylonian dignity, as from cedars of Lebanon which had not yet been broken by the Lord,1 he thought a storm of enmity would descend upon him. But after that, from reading and inquiry, he had derived strength, and feared lest he should be denied by Christ before the holy angels if he now was afraid to confess Him before men,2 and appeared to himself guilty of a great fault in being ashamed of the sacraments3 of the humility of Thy word, and not being ashamed of the sacrilegious rites of those proud demons, whose pride he had imitated and their rites adopted, he became bold-faced against vanity, and shame-faced toward the truth, and suddenly and unexpectedly said to Simplicianus,—as he himself informed me,—“Let us go to the church; I wish to be made a Christian.” But he, not containing himself for joy, accompanied him. And having been admitted to the first sacraments of instruction,4 he not long after gave in his name, that he might be regenerated by baptism,—Rome marvelling, and the Church rejoicing. The proud saw, and were enraged; they gnashed with their teeth, and melted away!5 But the Lord God was the hope of Thy servant, and He regarded not vanities and lying madness.6
5. Finally, when the hour arrived for him to make profession of his faith (which at Rome they who are about to approach Thy grace are wont to deliver7 from an elevated place, in view of the faithful people, in a set form of words learnt by heart),8 the presbyters, he said, offered Victorinus to make his profession more privately, as the custom was to do to those who were likely, through bashfulness, to be afraid; but he chose rather to profess his salvation in the presence of the holy assembly. For it was not salvation that he taught in rhetoric, and yet he had publicly professed that. How much less, therefore, ought he, when pronouncing Thy word, to dread Thy meek flock, who, in the delivery of his own words, had not feared the mad multitudes! So, then, when he ascended to make his profession, all, as they recognised him, whispered his name one to the other, with a voice of congratulation. And who was there amongst them that did not know him? And there ran a low murmur through the mouths of all the rejoicing multitude, “Victorinus! Victorinus!” Sudden was the burst of exultation at the sight of him; and suddenly were they hushed, that they might hear him. He pronounced the true faith with an excellent boldness, and all desired to take him to their very heart—yea, by their love and joy they took him thither; such were the hands with which they took him.
CHAP. III.—
THAT GOD AND THE ANGELS REJOICE MORE ON THE RETURN OF ONE SINNER THAN OF MANY JUST PERSONS.
6. Good God, what passed in man to make him rejoice more at the salvation of a soul despaired of, and delivered from greater danger, than if there had always been hope of him, or the danger had been less? For so Thou also, O merciful Father, dost “joy over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons that need no repentance.” And with much joyfulness do we hear, whenever we hear, how the lost sheep is brought home again on the Shepherd’s shoulders, while the angels rejoice, and the drachma is restored to Thy treasury, the neighbours rejoicing with the woman who found it;1 and the joy of the solemn service of Thy house constraineth to tears, when in Thy house it is read of Thy younger son that he “was dead, and is alive again, and was lost, and is found.”2 For Thou rejoicest both in us and in Thy angels, holy through holy charity. For Thou art ever the same; for all things which abide neither the same nor for ever, Thou ever knowest after the same manner.
7. What, then, passes in the soul when it more delights at finding or having restored to it the thing it loves than if it had always possessed them? Yea, and other things bear witness hereunto; and all things are full of witnesses, crying out, “So it is.” The victorious commander triumpheth; yet he would not have conquered had he not fought, and the greater the peril of the battle, the more the rejoicing of the triumph. The storm tosses the voyagers, threatens shipwreck, and every one waxes pale at the approach of death; but sky and sea grow calm, and they rejoice much, as they feared much. A loved one is sick, and his pulse indicates danger; all who desire his safety are at once sick at heart: he recovers, though not able as yet to walk with his former strength, and there is such joy as was not before when he walked sound and strong. Yea, the very pleasures of human life—not those only which rush upon us unexpectedly, and against our wills, but those that are voluntary and designed—do men obtain by difficulties. There is no pleasure at all in eating and drinking unless the pains of hunger and thirst go before. And drunkards eat certain salt meats with the view of creating a troublesome heat, which the drink allaying causes pleasure. It is also the custom that the affianced bride should not immediately be given up, that the husband may not less esteem her whom, as betrothed, he longed not for.3
8. This law obtains in base and accursed joy; in that joy also which is permitted and lawful; in the sincerity of honest friendship; and in Him who was dead, and lived again, had been lost, and was found.4 The greater joy is everywhere preceded by the greater pain. What meaneth this, O Lord my God, when Thou art an everlasting joy unto Thine own self, and some things about Thee are ever rejoicing in Thee?5 What meaneth this, that this portion of things thus ebbs and flows, alternately offended and reconciled? Is this the fashion of them, and is this all Thou hast allotted to them, whereas from the highest heaven to the lowest earth, from the beginning of the world to its end, from the angel to the worm, from the first movement unto the last, Thou settedst each in its right place, and appointedst each its proper seasons, everything good after its kind? Woe is me! How high art Thou in the highest, and how deep in the deepest! Thou withdrawest no whither, and scarcely do we return to Thee.
CHAP. IV.—
HE SHOWS BY THE EXAMPLE OF VICTORINUS THAT THERE IS MORE JOY IN THE CONVERSION OF NOBLES.
9. Haste, Lord, and act; stir us up, and call us back; inflame us, and draw us to Thee; stir us up, and grow sweet unto us; let us now love Thee, let us “run after Thee.”1 Do not many men, out of a deeper hell of blindness than that of Victorinus, return unto Thee, and approach, and are enlightened, receiving that light, which they that receive, receive power from Thee to become Thy sons?2 But if they be less known among the people, even they that know them joy less for them. For when many rejoice together, the joy of each one is the fuller, in that they are incited and inflamed by one another. Again, because those that are known to many influence many towards salvation, and take the lead with many to follow them. And, therefore, do they also who preceded them much rejoice in regard to them, because they rejoice not in them alone. May it be averted that in Thy tabernacle the persons of the rich should be accepted before the poor, or the noble before the ignoble; since rather “Thou hast chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty; and base things of the world, and things which are despised, hast Thou chosen, yea, and things which are not, to bring to naught things that are.”3 And yet, even that “least of the apostles,”4 by whose tongue Thou soundest out these words, when Paulus the proconsul5 —his pride overcome by the apostle’s warfare—was made to pass under the easy yoke6 of Thy Christ, and became a provincial of the great King,—he also, instead of Saul, his former name, desired to be called Paul,7 in testimony of so great a victory. For the enemy is more overcome in one of whom he hath more hold, and by whom he hath hold of more. But the proud hath he more hold of by reason of their nobility; and by them of more, by reason of their authority.8 By how much the more welcome, then, was the heart of Victorinus esteemed, which the devil had held as an unassailable retreat, and the tongue of Victorinus, with which mighty and cutting weapon he had slain many; so much the more abundantly should Thy sons rejoice, seeing that our King hath bound the strong man,9 and they saw his vessels taken from him and cleansed,10 and made meet for Thy honour, and become serviceable for the Lord unto every good work.11
CHAP. V.—
OF THE CAUSES WHICH ALIENATE US FROM GOD.
10. But when that man of Thine, Simplicianus, related this to me about Victorinus, I burned to imitate him; and it was for this end he had related it. But when he had added this also, that in the time of the Emperor Julian, there was a law made by which Christians were forbidden to teach grammar and oratory,12 and he, in obedience to this law, chose rather to abandon the wordy school than Thy word, by which Thou makest eloquent the tongues of the dumb13 ,—he appeared to me not more brave than happy, in having thus discovered an opportunity of waiting on Thee only, which thing I was sighing for, thus bound, not with the irons of another, but my own iron will. My will was the enemy master of, and thence had made a chain for me and bound me. Because of a perverse will was lust made; and lust indulged in became custom; and custom not resisted became necessity. By which links, as it were, joined together (whence I term it a “chain”), did a hard bondage hold me enthralled.14 But that new will which had begun to develope in me, freely to worship Thee, and to wish to enjoy Thee, O God, the only sure enjoyment, was not able as yet to overcome my former wilfulness, made strong by long indulgence. Thus did my two wills, one old and the other new, one carnal, the other spiritual, contend within me; and by their discord they unstrung my soul.
11. Thus came I to understand, from my own experience, what I had read, how that “the flesh lusteth against the Spirit, and the Spirit against the flesh.”1 I verily lusted both ways;2 yet more in that which I approved in myself, than in that which I disapproved in myself. For in this last it was now rather not “I,”3 because in much I rather suffered against my will than did it willingly. And yet it was through me that custom became more combative against me, because I had come willingly wither I willed not. And who, then, can with any justice speak against it, when just punishment follows the sinner?4 Nor had I now any longer my wonted excuse, that as yet I hesitated to be above the world and serve Thee, because my perception of the truth was uncertain; for now it was certain. But I, still bound to the earth, refused to be Thy soldier; and was as much afraid of being freed from all embarrassments, as we ought to fear to be embarrassed.
12. Thus with the baggage of the world was I sweetly burdened, as when in slumber; and the thoughts wherein I meditated upon Thee were like unto the efforts of those desiring to awake, who, still overpowered with a heavy drowsiness, are again steeped therein. And as no one desires to sleep always, and in the sober judgment of all waking is better, yet does a man generally defer to shake off drowsiness, when there is a heavy lethargy in all his limbs, and, though displeased, yet even after it is time to rise with pleasure yields to it, so was I assured that it were much better for me to give up myself to Thy charity, than to yield myself to my own cupidity; but the former course satisfied and vanquished me, the latter pleased me and fettered me.5 Nor had I aught to answer Thee calling to me, “Awake, thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall give thee light.”6 And to Thee showing me on every side, that what Thou saidst was true, I, convicted by the truth, had nothing at all to reply, but the drawling and drowsy words: “Presently, lo, presently;” “Leave me a little while.” But “presently, presently,” had no present; and my “leave me a little while” went on for a long while.7 In vain did I “delight in Thy law after the inner man,” when “another law in my members warred against the law of my mind, and brought me into captivity to the law of sin which is in my members.” For the law of sin is the violence of custom, whereby the mind is drawn and held, even against its will; deserving to be so held in that it so willingly falls into it. “O wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death” but Thy grace only, through Jesus Christ our Lord?8
CHAP. VI.—
PONTITIANUS’ ACCOUNT OF ANTONY, THE FOUNDER OF MONACHISM, AND OF SOME WHO IMITATED HIM.
13. And how, then, Thou didst deliver me out of the bonds of carnal desire, wherewith I was most firmly fettered, and out of the drudgery of worldly business, will I now declare and confess unto Thy name, “O Lord, my strength and my Redeemer.”9 Amid increasing anxiety, I was transacting my usual affairs, and daily sighing unto Thee. I resorted as frequently to Thy church as the business, under the burden of which I groaned, left me free to do. Alypius was with me, being after the third sitting disengaged from his legal occupation, and awaiting further opportunity of selling his counsel, as I was wont to sell the power of speaking, if it can be supplied by teaching. But Nebridius had, on account of our friendship, consented to teach under Verecundus, a citizen and a grammarian of Milan, and a very intimate friend of us all; who vehemently desired, and by the right of friendship demanded from our company, the faithful aid he greatly stood in need of. Nebridius, then, was not drawn to this by any desire of gain (for he could have made much more of his learning had he been so inclined), but, as a most sweet and kindly friend, he would not be wanting in an office of friendliness, and slight our request. But in this he acted very discreetly, taking care not to become known to those personages whom the world esteems great; thus avoiding distraction of mind, which he desired to have free and at leisure as many hours as possible, to search, or read, or hear something concerning wisdom.
14. Upon a certain day, then, Nebridius being away (why, I do not remember), lo, there came to the house to see Alypius and me, Pontitianus, a countryman of ours, in so far as he was an African, who held high office in the emperor’s court. What he wanted with us I know not, but we sat down to talk together, and it fell out that upon a table before us, used for games, he noticed a book; he took it up, opened it, and, contrary to his expectation, found it to be the Apostle Paul,—for he imagined it to be one of those books which I was wearing myself out in teaching. At this he looked up at me smilingly, and expressed his delight and wonder that he had so unexpectedly found this book, and this only, before my eyes. For he was both a Christian and baptized, and often prostrated himself before Thee our God in the church, in constant and daily prayers. When, then, I had told him that I bestowed much pains upon these writings, a conversation ensued on his speaking of Antony,1 the Egyptian monk, whose name was in high repute among Thy servants, though up to that time not familiar to us. When he came to know this, he lingered on that topic, imparting to us a knowledge of this man so eminent, and marvelling at our ignorance. But we were amazed, hearing Thy wonderful works most fully manifested in times so recent, and almost in our own, wrought in the true faith and the Catholic Church. We all wondered—we, that they were so great, and he, that we had never heard of them.
15. From this his conversation turned to the companies in the monasteries, and their manners so fragrant unto Thee, and of the fruitful deserts of the wilderness, of which we knew nothing. And there was a monastery at Milan2 full of good brethren, without the walls of the city, under the fostering care of Ambrose, and we were ignorant of it. He went on with his relation, and we listened intently and in silence. He then related to us how on a certain afternoon, at Triers, when the emperor was taken up with seeing the Circensian games,3 he and three others, his comrades, went out for a walk in the gardens close to the city walls, and there, as they chanced to walk two and two, one strolled away with him, while the other two went by themselves; and these, in their rambling, came upon a certain cottage inhabited by some of Thy servants, “poor in spirit,” of whom “is the kingdom of heaven,”1 where they found a book in which was written the life of Antony. This one of them began to read, marvel at, and be inflamed by it; and in the reading, to meditate on embracing such a life, and giving up his worldly employments to serve Thee. And these were of the body called “Agents for Public Affairs.”2 Then, suddenly being overwhelmed with a holy love and a sober sense of shame, in anger with himself, he cast his eyes upon his friend, exclaiming, “Tell me, I entreat thee, what end we are striving for by all these labours of ours. What is our aim? What is our motive in doing service? Can our hopes in court rise higher than to be ministers of the emperor? And in such a position, what is there not brittle, and fraught with danger, and by how many dangers arrive we at greater danger? And when arrive we thither? But if I desire to become a friend of God, behold, I am even now made it.” Thus spake he, and in the pangs of the travail of the new life, he turned his eyes again upon the page and continued reading, and was inwardly changed where Thou sawest, and his mind was divested of the world, as soon became evident; for as he read, and the surging of his heart rolled along, he raged awhile, discerned and resolved on a better course, and now, having become Thine, he said to his friend, “Now have I broken loose from those hopes of ours, and am determined to serve God; and this, from this hour, in this place, I enter upon. If thou art reluctant to imitate me, hinder me not.” The other replied that he would cleave to him, to share in so great a reward and so great a service. Thus both of them, being now Thine, were building a tower at the necessary cost,3 —of forsaking all that they had and following Thee. Then Pontitianus, and he that had walked with him through other parts of the garden, came in search of them to the same place, and having found them, reminded them to return as the day had declined. But they, making known to him their resolution and purpose, and how such a resolve had sprung up and become confirmed in them, entreated them not to molest them, if they refused to join themselves unto them. But the others, no whit changed from their former selves, did yet (as he said) bewail themselves, and piously congratulated them, recommending themselves to their prayers; and with their hearts inclining towards earthly things, returned to the palace. But the other two, setting their affections upon heavenly things, remained in the cottage. And both of them had affianced brides, who, when they heard of this, dedicated also their virginity unto God.
CHAP. VII.—
HE DEPLORES HIS WRETCHEDNESS, THAT HAVING BEEN BORN THIRTY-TWO YEARS, HE HAD NOT YET FOUND OUT THE TRUTH.
16. Such was the story of Pontitianus. But Thou, O Lord, whilst he was speaking, didst turn me towards myself, taking me from behind my back, where I had placed myself while unwilling to exercise self-scrutiny; and Thou didst set me face to face with myself, that I might behold how foul I was, and how crooked and sordid, bespotted and ulcerous. And I beheld and loathed myself; and whither to fly from myself I discovered not. And if I sought to turn my gaze away from myself, he continued his narrative, and Thou again opposedst me unto myself, and thrustedst me before my own eyes, that I might discover my iniquity, and hate it.4 I had known it, but acted as though I knew it not,—winked at it, and forgot it.
17. But now, the more ardently I loved those whose healthful affections I heard tell of, that they had given up themselves wholly to Thee to be cured, the more did I abhor myself when compared with them. For many of my years (perhaps twelve) had passed away since my nineteenth, when, on the reading of Cicero’s Hortensius,5 I was roused to a desire for wisdom; and still I was delaying to reject mere worldly happiness, and to devote myself to search out that whereof not the finding alone, but the bare search,6 ought to have been preferred before the treasures and kingdoms of this world, though already found, and before the pleasures of the body, though encompassing me at my will. But I, miserable young man, supremely miserable even in the very outset of my youth, had entreated chastity of Thee, and said, “Grant me chastity and continency, but not yet.” For I was afraid lest Thou shouldest hear me soon, and soon deliver me from the disease of concupiscence, which I desired to have satisfied rather than extinguished. And I had wandered through perverse ways in a sacrilegious superstition; not indeed assured thereof, but preferring that to the others, which I did not seek religiously, but opposed maliciously.
18. And I had thought that I delayed from day to day to reject worldly hopes and follow Thee only, because there did not appear anything certain whereunto to direct my course. And now had the day arrived in which I was to be laid bare to myself, and my conscience was to chide me. “Where art thou, O my tongue? Thou saidst, verily, that for an uncertain truth thou wert not willing to cast off the baggage of vanity. Behold, now it is certain, and yet doth that burden still oppress thee; whereas they who neither have so worn themselves out with searching after it, nor yet have spent ten years and more in thinking thereon, have had their shoulders unburdened, and gotten wings to fly away.” Thus was I inwardly consumed and mightily confounded with an horrible shame, while Pontitianus was relating these things. And he, having finished his story, and the business he came for, went his way. And unto myself, what said I not within myself? With what scourges of rebuke lashed I not my soul to make it follow me, struggling to go after Thee! Yet it drew back; it refused, and exercised not itself. All its arguments were exhausted and confuted. There remained a silent trembling; and it feared, as it would death, to be restrained from the flow of that custom whereby it was wasting away even to death.
CHAP. VIII.—
THE CONVERSATION WITH ALYPIUS BEING ENDED, HE RETIRES TO THE GARDEN, WHITHER HIS FRIEND FOLLOWS HIM.
19. In the midst, then, of this great strife of my inner dwelling, which I had strongly raised up against my soul in the chamber of my heart,1 troubled both in mind and countenance, I seized upon Alypius, and exclaimed: “What is wrong with us? What is this? What heardest thou? The unlearned start up and ‘take’ heaven,2 and we, with our learning, but wanting heart, see where we wallow in flesh and blood! Because others have preceded us, are we ashamed to follow, and not rather ashamed at not following?” Some such words I gave utterance to, and in my excitement flung myself from him, while he gazed upon me in silent astonishment. For I spoke not in my wonted tone, and my brow, cheeks, eyes, colour, tone of voice, all expressed my emotion more than the words. There was a little garden belonging to our lodging, of which we had the use, as of the whole house; for the master, our landlord, did not live there. Thither had the tempest within my breast hurried me, where no one might impede the fiery struggle in which I was engaged with myself, until it came to the issue that Thou knewest, though I did not. But I was mad that I might be whole, and dying that I might have life, knowing what evil thing I was, but not knowing what good thing I was shortly to become. Into the garden, then, I retired, Alypius following my steps. For his presence was no bar to my solitude; or how could he desert me so troubled? We sat down at as great a distance from the house as we could. I was disquieted in spirit, being most impatient with myself that I entered not into Thy will and covenant, O my God, which all my bones cried out unto me to enter, extolling it to the skies. And we enter not therein by ships, or chariots, or feet, no, nor by going so far as I had come from the house to that place where we were sitting. For not to go only, but to enter there, was naught else but to will to go, but to will it resolutely and thoroughly; not to stagger and sway about this way and that, a changeable and half-wounded will, wrestling, with one part falling as another rose.
20. Finally, in the very fever of my irresolution, I made many of those motions with my body which men sometimes desire to do, but cannot, if either they have not the limbs, or if their limbs be bound with fetters, weakened by disease, or hindered in any other way. Thus, if I tore my hair, struck my forehead, or if, entwining my fingers, I clasped my knee, this I did because I willed it. But I might have willed and not done it, if the power of motion in my limbs had not responded. So many things, then, I did, when to have the will was not to have the power, and I did not that which both with an unequalled desire I longed more to do, and which shortly when I should will I should have the power to do; because shortly when I should will, I should will thoroughly. For in such things the power was one with the will, and to will was to do, and yet was it not done; and more readily did the body obey the slightest wish of the soul in the moving its limbs at the order of the mind, than the soul obeyed itself to accomplish in the will alone this its great will.
CHAP. IX.—
THAT THE MIND COMMANDETH THE MIND, BUT IT WILLETH NOT ENTIRELY.
21. Whence is this monstrous thing? And why is it? Let Thy mercy shine on me, that I may inquire, if so be the hiding-places of man’s punishment, and the darkest contritions of the sons of Adam, may perhaps answer me. Whence is this monstrous thing? and why is it? The mind commands the body, and it obeys forthwith; the mind commands itself, and is resisted. The mind commands the hand to be moved, and such readiness is there that the command is scarce to be distinguished from the obedience. Yet the mind is mind, and the hand is body. The mind commands the mind to will, and yet, though it be itself, it obeyeth not. Whence this monstrous thing? and why is it? I repeat, it commands itself to will, and would not give the command unless it willed; yet is not that done which it commandeth. But it willeth not entirely; therefore it commandeth not entirely. For so far forth it commandeth, as it willeth; and so far forth is the thing commanded not done, as it willeth not. For the will commandeth that there be a will;—not another, but itself. But it doth not command entirely, therefore that is not which it commandeth. For were it entire, it would not even command it to be, because it would already be. It is, therefore, no monstrous thing partly to will, partly to be unwilling, but an infirmity of the mind, that it doth not wholly rise, sustained by truth, pressed down by custom. And so there are two wills, because one of them is not entire; and the one is supplied with what the other needs.
CHAP. X.—
HE REFUTES THE OPINION OF THE MANICHÆANS AS TO TWO KINDS OF MINDS,—ONE GOOD AND THE OTHER EVIL.
22. Let them perish from Thy presence,1 O God, as “vain talkers and deceivers”2 of the soul do perish, who, observing that there were two wills in deliberating, affirm that there are two kinds of minds in us,—one good, the other evil.3 They themselves verily are evil when they hold these evil opinions; and they shall become good when they hold the truth, and shall consent unto the truth, that Thy apostle may say unto them, “Ye were sometimes darkness, but now are ye light in the Lord.”4 But they, desiring to be light, not “in the Lord,” but in themselves, conceiving the nature of the soul to be the same as that which God is,5 are made more gross darkness; for that through a shocking arrogancy they went farther from Thee, “the true Light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the world.”6 Take heed what you say, and blush for shame; draw near unto Him and be “lightened,” and your faces shall not be “ashamed.”7 I, when I was deliberating upon serving the Lord my God now, as I had long purposed,—I it was who willed, I who was unwilling. It was I, even I myself. I neither willed entirely, nor was entirely unwilling. Therefore was I at war with myself, and destroyed by myself. And this destruction overtook me against my will, and yet showed not the presence of another mind, but the punishment of mine own.8 “Now, then, it is no more I that do it, but sin that dwelleth in me,”9 —the punishment of a more unconfined sin, in that I was a son of Adam.
23. For if there be as many contrary natures as there are conflicting wills, there will not now be two natures only, but many. If any one deliberate whether he should go to their conventicle, or to the theatre, those men10 at once cry out, “Behold, here are two natures,—one good, drawing this way, another bad, drawing back that way; for whence else is this indecision between conflicting wills?” But I reply that both are bad—that which draws to them, and that which draws back to the theatre. But they believe not that will to be other than good which draws to them. Supposing, then, one of us should deliberate, and through the conflict of his two wills should waver whether he should go to the theatre or to our church, would not these also waver what to answer? For either they must confess, which they are not willing to do, that the will which leads to our church is good, as well as that of those who have received and are held by the mysteries of theirs, or they must imagine that there are two evil natures and two evil minds in one man, at war one with the other; and that will not be true which they say, that there is one good and another bad; or they must be converted to the truth, and no longer deny that where any one deliberates, there is one soul fluctuating between conflicting wills.
24. Let them no more say, then, when they perceive two wills to be antagonistic to each other in the same man, that the contest is between two opposing minds, of two opposing substances, from two opposing principles, the one good and the other bad. For Thou, O true God, dost disprove, check, and convince them; like as when both wills are bad, one deliberates whether he should kill a man by poison, or by the sword; whether he should take possession of this or that estate of another’s, when he cannot both; whether he should purchase pleasure by prodigality, or retain his money by covetousness; whether he should go to the circus or the theatre, if both are open on the same day; or, thirdly, whether he should rob another man’s house, if he have the opportunity; or, fourthly, whether he should commit adultery, if at the same time he have the means of doing so,—all these things concurring in the same point of time, and all being equally longed for, although impossible to be enacted at one time. For they rend the mind amid four, or even (among the vast variety of things men desire) more antagonistic wills, nor do they yet affirm that there are so many different substances. Thus also is it in wills which are good. For I ask them, is it a good thing to have delight in reading the apostle, or good to have delight in a sober psalm, or good to discourse on the gospel? To each of these they will answer, “It is good.” What, then, if all equally delight us, and all at the same time? Do not different wills distract the mind, when a man is deliberating which he should rather choose? Yet are they all good, and are at variance until one be fixed upon, whither the whole united will may be borne, which before was divided into many. Thus, also, when above eternity delights us, and the pleasure of temporal good holds us down below, it is the same soul which willeth not that or this with an entire will, and is therefore torn asunder with grievous perplexities, while out of truth it prefers that, but out of custom forbears not this.
CHAP. XI.—
IN WHAT MANNER THE SPIRIT STRUGGLED WITH THE FLESH, THAT IT MIGHT BE FREED FROM THE BONDAGE OF VANITY.
25. Thus was I sick and tormented, accusing myself far more severely than was my wont, tossing and turning me in my chain till that was utterly broken, whereby I now was but slightly, but still was held. And Thou, O Lord, pressedst upon me in my inward parts by a severe mercy, redoubling the lashes of fear and shame, lest I should again give way, and that same slender remaining tie not being broken off, it should recover strength, and enchain me the faster. For I said mentally, “Lo, let it be done now, let it be done now.” And as I spoke, I all but came to a resolve. I all but did it, yet I did it not. Yet fell I not back to my old condition, but took up my position hard by, and drew breath. And I tried again, and wanted but very little of reaching it, and somewhat less, and then all but touched and grasped it; and yet came not at it, nor touched, nor grasped it, hesitating to die unto death, and to live unto life; and the worse, whereto I had been habituated, prevailed more with me than the better, which I had not tried. And the very moment in which I was to become another man, the nearer it approached me, the greater horror did it strike into me; but it did not strike me back, nor turn me aside, but kept me in suspense.
26. The very toys of toys, and vanities of vanities, my old mistresses, still enthralled me; they shook my fleshly garment, and whispered softly, “Dost thou part with us? And from that moment shall we no more be with thee for ever? And from that moment shall not this or that be lawful for thee for ever?” And what did they suggest to me in the words “this or that?” What is it that they suggested, O my God? Let Thy mercy avert it from the soul of Thy servant. What impurities did they suggest! What shame! And now I far less than half heard them, not openly showing themselves and contradicting me, but muttering, as it were, behind my back, and furtively plucking me as I was departing, to make me look back upon them. Yet they did delay me, so that I hesitated to burst and shake myself free from them, and to leap over whither I was called,—an unruly habit saying to me, “Dost thou think thou canst live without them?”
27. But now it said this very faintly; for on that side towards which I had set my face, and whither I trembled to go, did the chaste dignity of Continence appear unto me, cheerful, but not dissolutely gay, honestly alluring me to come and doubt nothing, and extending her holy hands, full of a multiplicity of good examples, to receive and embrace me. There were there so many young men and maidens, a multitude of youth and every age, grave widows and ancient virgins, and Continence herself in all, not barren, but a fruitful mother of children of joys, by Thee, O Lord, her Husband. And she smiled on me with an encouraging mockery, as if to say, “Canst not thou do what these youths and maidens can? Or can one or other do it of themselves, and not rather in the Lord their God? The Lord their God gave me unto them. Why standest thou in thine own strength, and so standest not? Cast thyself upon Him; fear not, He will not withdraw that thou shouldest fall; cast thyself upon Him without fear, He will receive thee, and heal thee.” And I blushed beyond measure, for I still heard the muttering of those toys, and hung in suspense. And she again seemed to say, “Shut up thine ears against those unclean members of thine upon the earth, that they may be mortified.1 They tell thee of delights, but not as doth the law of the Lord thy God.”2 This controversy in my heart was naught but self against self. But Alypius, sitting close by my side, awaited in silence3 the result of my unwonted emotion.
CHAP. XII.—
HAVING PRAYED TO GOD, HE POURS FORTH A SHOWER OF TEARS, AND, ADMONISHED BY A VOICE, HE OPENS THE BOOK AND READS THE WORDS IN ROM. XIII. 13; BY WHICH, BEING CHANGED IN HIS WHOLE SOUL, HE DISCLOSES THE DIVINE FAVOUR TO HIS FRIEND AND HIS MOTHER.
28. But when a profound reflection had, from the secret depths of my soul, drawn together and heaped up all my misery before the sight of my heart, there arose a mighty storm, accompanied by as mighty a shower of tears. Which, that I might pour forth fully, with its natural expressions, I stole away from Alypius; for it suggested itself to me that solitude was fitter for the business of weeping.4 So I retired to such a distance that even his presence could not be oppressive to me. Thus was it with me at that time, and he perceived it; for something, I believe, I had spoken, wherein the sound of my voice appeared choked with weeping, and in that state had I risen up. He then remained where we had been sitting, most completely astonished. I flung myself down, how, I know not, under a certain fig-tree, giving free course to my tears, and the streams of mine eyes gushed out, an acceptable sacrifice unto Thee.5 And, not indeed in these words, yet to this effect, spake I much unto Thee,—“But Thou, O Lord, how long?”6 “How long, Lord? Wilt Thou be angry for ever? Oh, remember not against us former iniquities;”7 for I felt that I was enthralled by them. I sent up these sorrowful cries,—“How long, how long? To-morrow, and to-morrow? Why not now? Why is there not this hour an end to my uncleanness?”
29. I was saying these things and weeping in the most bitter contrition of my heart, when, lo, I heard the voice as of a boy or girl, I know not which, coming from a neighbouring house, chanting, and oft repeating, “Take up and read; take up and read.” Immediately my countenance was changed, and I began most earnestly to consider whether it was usual for children in any kind of game to sing such words; nor could I remember ever to have heard the like. So, restraining the torrent of my tears, I rose up, interpreting it no other way than as a command to me from Heaven to open the book, and to read the first chapter I should light upon. For I had heard of Antony,8 that, accidentally coming in whilst the gospel was being read, he received the admonition as if what was read were addressed to him, “Go and sell that thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven; and come and follow me.”9 And by such oracle was he forthwith converted unto Thee. So quickly I returned to the place where Alypius was sitting; for there had I put down the volume of the apostles, when I rose thence. I grasped, opened, and in silence read that paragraph on which my eyes first fell,—“Not in rioting and drunkenness, not in chambering and wantonness, not in strife and envying; but put ye on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make not provision for the flesh, to fulfil the lusts thereof.”10 No further would I read, nor did I need; for instantly, as the sentence ended,—by a light, as it were, of security infused into my heart,—all the gloom of doubt vanished away.
30. Closing the book, then, and putting either my finger between, or some other mark, I now with a tranquil countenance made it known to Alypius. And he thus disclosed to me what was wrought in him, which I knew not. He asked to look at what I had read. I showed him; and he looked even further than I had read, and I knew not what followed. This it was, verily, “Him that is weak in the faith, receive ye;”1 which he applied to himself, and discovered to me. By this admonition was he strengthened; and by a good resolution and purpose, very much in accord with his character (wherein, for the better, he was always far different from me), without any restless delay he joined me. Thence we go in to my mother. We make it known to her,—she rejoiceth. We relate how it came to pass,—she leapeth for joy, and triumpheth, and blesseth Thee, who art “able to do exceeding abundantly above all that we ask or think;2 for she perceived Thee to have given her more for me than she used to ask by her pitiful and most doleful groanings. For Thou didst so convert me unto Thyself, that I sought neither a wife, nor any other of this world’s hopes,—standing in that rule of faith3 in which Thou, so many years before, had showed me unto her in a vision. And thou didst turn her grief into a gladness,4 much more plentiful than she had desired, and much dearer and chaster than she used to crave, by having grandchildren of my body.
BOOK IX.
HE SPEAKS OF HIS DESIGN OF FORSAKING THE PROFESSION OF RHETORIC; OF THE DEATH OF HIS FRIENDS, NEBRIDIUS AND VERECUNDUS; OF HAVING RECEIVED BAPTISM IN THE THIRTY-THIRD YEAR OF HIS AGE; AND OF THE VIRTUES AND DEATH OF HIS MOTHER, MONICA.
CHAP. I.—
HE PRAISES GOD, THE AUTHOR OF SAFETY, AND JESUS CHRIST, THE REDEEMER, ACKNOWLEDGING HIS OWN WICKEDNESS.
1. “O Lord, truly I am Thy servant; I am Thy servant, and the son of Thine handmaid: Thou hast loosed my bonds. I will offer to Thee the sacrifice of thanksgiving.”1 Let my heart and my tongue praise Thee, and let all my bones say, “Lord, who is like unto Thee?”2 Let them so say, and answer Thou me, and “say unto my soul, I am Thy salvation.”3 Who am I, and what is my nature? How evil have not my deeds been; or if not my deeds, my words; or if not my words, my will? But Thou, O Lord, art good and merciful, and Thy right hand had respect unto the profoundness of my death, and removed from the bottom of my heart that abyss of corruption. And this was the result, that I willed not to do what I willed, and willed to do what thou willedst.4 But where, during all those years, and out of what deep and secret retreat was my free will summoned forth in a moment, whereby I gave my neck to Thy “easy yoke,” and my shoulders to Thy “light burden,”5 O Christ Jesus, “my strength and my Redeemer”?6 How sweet did it suddenly become to me to be without the delights of trifles! And what at one time I feared to lose, it was now a joy to me to put away.7 For Thou didst cast them away from me, Thou true and highest sweetness. Thou didst cast them away, and instead of them didst enter in Thyself,8 —sweeter than all pleasure, though not to flesh and blood; brighter than all light, but more veiled than all mysteries; more exalted than all honour, but not to the exalted in their own conceits. Now was my soul free from the gnawing cares of seeking and getting, and of wallowing and exciting the itch of lust. And I babbled unto Thee my brightness, my riches, and my health, the Lord my God.
CHAP. II.—
AS HIS LUNGS WERE AFFECTED, HE MEDITATES WITHDRAWING HIMSELF FROM PUBLIC FAVOUR.
2. And it seemed good to me, as before Thee, not tumultuously to snatch away, but gently to withdraw the service of my tongue from the talker’s trade; that the young, who thought not on Thy law, nor on Thy peace, but on mendacious follies and forensic strifes, might no longer purchase at my mouth equipments for their vehemence. And opportunely there wanted but a few days unto the Vacation of the Vintage;9 and I determined to endure them, in order to leave in the usual way, and, being redeemed by Thee, no more to return for sale. Our intention then was known to Thee; but to men—excepting our own friends—was it not known. For we had determined among ourselves not to let it get abroad to any; although Thou hadst given to us, ascending from the valley of tears,10 and singing the song of degrees, “sharp arrows,” and destroying coals, against the “deceitful tongue,”11 which in giving counsel opposes, and in showing love consumes, as it is wont to do with its food.
3. Thou hadst penetrated our hearts with Thy charity, and we carried Thy words fixed, as it were, in our bowels; and the examples of Thy servant, whom of black Thou hadst made bright, and of dead, alive, crowded in the bosom of our thoughts, burned and consumed our heavy torpor, that we might not topple into the abyss; and they enkindled us exceedingly, that every breath of the deceitful tongue of the gainsayer might inflame us the more, not extinguish us. Nevertheless, because for Thy name’s sake which Thou hast sanctified throughout the earth, this, our vow and purpose, might also find commenders, it looked like a vaunting of oneself not to wait for the vacation, now so near, but to leave beforehand a public profession, and one, too, under general observation; so that all who looked on this act of mine, and saw how near was the vintage-time I desired to anticipate, would talk of me a great deal as if I were trying to appear to be a great person. And what purpose would it serve that people should consider and dispute about my intention, and that our good should be evil spoken of?1
4. Furthermore, this very summer, from too great literary labour, my lungs2 began to be weak, and with difficulty to draw deep breaths; showing by the pains in my chest that they were affected, and refusing too loud or prolonged speaking. This had at first been a trial to me, for it compelled me almost of necessity to lay down that burden of teaching; or, if I could be cured and become strong again, at least to leave it off for a while. But when the full desire for leisure, that I might see that Thou art the Lord,3 arose, and was confirmed in me, my God, Thou knowest I even began to rejoice that I had this excuse ready,—and that not a feigned one,—which might somewhat temper the offence taken by those who for their sons’ good wished me never to have the freedom of sons. Full, therefore, with such joy, I bore it till that period of time had passed,—perhaps it was some twenty days,—yet they were bravely borne; for the cupidity which was wont to sustain part of this weighty business had departed, and I had remained overwhelmed had not its place been supplied by patience. Some of Thy servants, my brethren, may perchance say that I sinned in this, in that having once fully, and from my heart, entered on Thy warfare, I permitted myself to sit a single hour in the seat of falsehood. I will not contend. But hast not Thou, O most merciful Lord, pardoned and remitted this sin also, with my others, so horrible and deadly, in the holy water?
CHAP. III.—
HE RETIRES TO THE VILLA OF HIS FRIEND VERECUNDUS, WHO WAS NOT YET A CHRISTIAN, AND REFERS TO HIS CONVERSION AND DEATH, AS WELL AS THAT OF NEBRIDIUS.
5. Verecundus was wasted with anxiety at that our happiness, since he, being most firmly held by his bonds, saw that he would lose our fellowship. For he was not yet a Christian, though his wife was one of the faithful;4 and yet hereby, being more firmly enchained than by anything else, was he held back from that journey which we had commenced. Nor, he declared, did he wish to be a Christian on any other terms than those that were impossible. However, he invited us most courteously to make use of his country house so long as we should stay there. Thou, O Lord, wilt “recompense” him for this “at the resurrection of the just,”5 seeing that Thou hast already given him “the lot of the righteous.”6 For although, when we were absent at Rome, he, being overtaken with bodily sickness, and therein being made a Christian, and one of the faithful, departed this life, yet hadst Thou mercy on him, and not on him only, but on us also;7 lest, thinking on the exceeding kindness of our friend to us, and unable to count him in Thy flock, we should be tortured with intolerable grief. Thanks be unto Thee, our God, we are Thine. Thy exhortations, consolations, and faithful promises assure us that Thou now repayest Verecundus for that country house at Cassiacum, where from the fever of the world we found rest in Thee, with the perpetual freshness of Thy Paradise, in that Thou hast forgiven him his earthly sins, in that mountain flowing with milk,8 that fruitful mountain,—Thine own.
6. He then was at that time full of grief; but Nebridius was joyous. Although he also, not being yet a Christian, had fallen into the pit of that most pernicious error of believing Thy Son to be a phantasm,9 yet, coming out thence, he held the same belief that we did; not as yet initiated in any of the sacraments of Thy Church, but a most earnest inquirer after truth.1 Whom, not long after our conversion and regeneration by Thy baptism, he being also a faithful member of the Catholic Church, and serving Thee in perfect chastity and continency amongst his own people in Africa, when his whole household had been brought to Christianity through him, didst Thou release from the flesh; and now he lives in Abraham’s bosom. Whatever that may be which is signified by that bosom,2 there lives my Nebridius, my sweet friend, Thy son, O Lord, adopted of a freedman; there he liveth. For what other place could there be for such a soul? There liveth he, concerning which he used to ask me much,—me, an inexperienced, feeble one. Now he puts not his ear unto my mouth, but his spiritual mouth unto Thy fountain, and drinketh as much as he is able, wisdom according to his desire,—happy without end. Nor do I believe that he is so inebriated with it as to forget me,3 seeing Thou, O Lord, whom he drinketh, art mindful of us. Thus, then, were we comforting the sorrowing Verecundus (our friendship being untouched, concerning our conversion, and exhorting him to a faith according to his condition, I mean, his married state. And tarrying for Nebridius to follow us, which, being so near, he was just about to do, when, behold, those days passed over at last; for long and many they seemed, on account of my love of easeful liberty, that I might sing unto Thee from my very marrow. My heart said unto Thee,—I have sought Thy face; “Thy face, Lord, will I seek.”4
CHAP. IV.—
IN THE COUNTRY HE GIVES HIS ATTENTION TO LITERATURE, AND EXPLAINS THE FOURTH PSALM IN CONNECTION WITH THE HAPPY CONVERSION OF ALYPIUS. HE IS TROUBLED WITH TOOTHACHE.
7. And the day arrived on which, in very deed, I was to be released from the Professorship of Rhetoric, from which in intention I had been already released. And done it was; and Thou didst deliver my tongue whence Thou hadst already delivered my heart; and full of joy I blessed Thee for it, and retired with all mine to the villa.5 What I accomplished here in writing, which was now wholly devoted to Thy service, though still, in this pause as it were, panting from the school of pride, my books testify,6 —those in which I disputed with my friends, and those with myself alone7 before Thee; and what with the absent Nebridius, my letters8 testify. And when can I find time to recount all Thy great benefits which Thou bestowedst upon us at that time, especially as I am hasting on to still greater mercies? For my memory calls upon me, and pleasant it is to me, O Lord, to confess unto Thee, by what inward goads Thou didst subdue me, and how Thou didst make me low, bringing down the mountains and hills of my imaginations, and didst straighten my crookedness, and smooth my rough ways;9 and by what means Thou also didst subdue that brother of my heart, Alypius, unto the name of Thy only-begotten, our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, which he at first refused to have inserted in our writings. For he rather desired that they should savour of the “cedars” of the schools, which the Lord hath now broken down,10 than of the wholesome herbs of the Church, hostile to serpents.
8. What utterances sent I up unto Thee, my God, when I read the Psalms of David,11 those faithful songs and sounds of devotion which exclude all swelling of spirit, when new to Thy true love, at rest in the villa with Alypius, a catechumen like myself, my mother cleaving unto us,—in woman’s garb truly, but with a man’s faith, with the peacefulness of age, full of motherly love and Christian piety! What utterances used I to send up unto Thee in those Psalms, and how was I inflamed towards Thee by them, and burned to rehearse them, if it were possible, throughout the whole world, against the pride of the human race! And yet they are sung throughout the whole world, and none can hide himself from Thy heat.1 With what vehement and bitter sorrow was I indignant at the Manichæans; whom yet again I pitied, for that they were ignorant of those sacraments, those medicaments, and were mad against the antidote which might have made them sane! I wished that they had been somewhere near me then, and, without my being aware of their presence, could have beheld my face, and heard my words, when I read the fourth Psalm in that time of my leisure,—how that Psalm wrought upon me. When I called upon Thee, Thou didst hear me, O God of my righteousness; Thou hast enlarged me when I was in distress; have mercy upon me, and hear my prayer.2 Oh that they might have heard what I uttered on these words, without my knowing whether they heard or no, lest they should think that I spake it because of them! For, of a truth, neither should I have said the same things, nor in the way I said them, if I had perceived that I was heard and seen by them; and had I spoken them, they would not so have received them as when I spake by and for myself before Thee, out of the private feelings of my soul.
9. I alternately quaked with fear, and warmed with hope, and with rejoicing in Thy mercy, O Father. And all these passed forth, both by mine eyes and voice, when Thy good Spirit, turning unto us, said, O ye sons of men, how long will ye be slow of heart? “How long will ye love vanity, and seek after leasing?”3 For I had loved vanity, and sought after leasing. And Thou, O Lord, hadst already magnified Thy Holy One, raising Him from the dead, and setting Him at Thy right hand,4 whence from on high He should send His promise,5 the Paraclete, “the Spirit of Truth.”6 And He had already sent Him,7 but I knew it not; He had sent Him, because He was now magnified, rising again from the dead, and ascending into heaven. For till then “the Holy Ghost was not yet given, because that Jesus was not yet glorified.”8 And the prophet cries out, How long will ye be slow of heart? How long will ye love vanity, and seek after leasing? Know this, that the Lord hath magnified His Holy One. He cries out, “How long?” He cries out, “Know this,” and I, so long ignorant, “loved vanity, and sought after leasing.” And therefore I heard and trembled, because these words were spoken unto such as I remembered that I myself had been. For in those phantasms which I once held for truths was there “vanity” and “leasing.” And I spake many things loudly and earnestly, in the sorrow of my remembrance, which, would that they who yet “love vanity and seek after leasing” had heard! They would perchance have been troubled, and have vomited it forth, and Thou wouldest hear them when they cried unto Thee;9 for by a true10 death in the flesh He died for us, who now maketh intercession for us11 with Thee.
10. I read further, “Be ye angry, and sin not.”12 And how was I moved, O my God, who had now learned to “be angry” with myself for the things past, so that in the future I might not sin! Yea, to be justly angry; for that it was not another nature of the race of darkness13 which sinned for me, as they affirm it to be who are not angry with themselves, and who treasure up to themselves wrath against the day of wrath, and of the revelation of Thy righteous judgment.14 Nor were my good things15 now without, nor were they sought after with eyes of flesh in that sun;16 for they that would have joy from without easily sink into oblivion, and are wasted upon those things which are seen and temporal, and in their starving thoughts do lick their very shadows. Oh, if only they were wearied out with their fasting, and said, “Who will show us any good?”17 And we would answer, and they hear, O Lord. The light of Thy countenance is lifted up upon us.18 For we are not that Light, which lighteth every man,19 but we are enlightened by Thee, that we, who were sometimes darkness, may be light in Thee.20 Oh that they could behold the internal Eternal,21 which having tasted I gnashed my teeth that I could not show It to them, while they brought me their heart in their eyes, roaming abroad from Thee, and said, “Who will show us any good?” But there, where I was angry with myself in my chamber, where I was inwardly pricked, where I had offered my “sacrifice,” slaying my old man, and beginning the resolution of a new life, putting my trust in Thee,22 —there hadst Thou begun to grow sweet unto me, and to “put gladness in my heart.”1 And I cried out as I read this outwardly, and felt it inwardly. Nor would I be increased2 with worldly goods, wasting time and being wasted by time; whereas I possessed in Thy eternal simplicity other corn, and wine, and oil.3
11. And with a loud cry from my heart, I called out in the following verse, “Oh, in peace!” and “the self-same!”4 Oh, what said he, “I will lay me down and sleep!”5 For who shall hinder us, when “shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory?”6 And Thou art in the highest degree “the self-same,” who changest not; and in Thee is the rest which forgetteth all labour, for there is no other beside Thee, nor ought we to seek after those many other things which are not what Thou art; but Thou, Lord, only makest me to dwell in hope.7 These things I read, and was inflamed; but discovered not what to do with those deaf and dead, of whom I had been a pestilent member,—a bitter and a blind declaimer against the writings be-honied with the honey of heaven and luminous with Thine own light; and I was consumed on account of the enemies of this Scripture.
12. When shall I call to mind all that took place in those holidays? Yet neither have I forgotten, nor will I be silent about the severity of Thy scourge, and the amazing quickness of Thy mercy.8 Thou didst at that time torture me with toothache;9 and when it had become so exceeding great that I was not able to speak, it came into my heart to urge all my friends who were present to pray for me to Thee, the God of all manner of health. And I wrote it down on wax,10 and gave it to them to read. Presently, as with submissive desire we bowed our knees, that pain departed. But what pain? Or how did it depart? I confess to being much afraid, my Lord my God, seeing that from my earliest years I had not experienced such pain. And Thy purposes were profoundly impressed upon me; and, rejoicing in faith, I praised Thy name. And that faith suffered me not to be at rest in regard to my past sins, which were not yet forgiven me by Thy baptism.
CHAP. V.—
AT THE RECOMMENDATION OF AMBROSE, HE READS THE PROPHECIES OF ISAIAH, BUT DOES NOT UNDERSTAND THEM.
13. The vintage vacation being ended, I gave the citizens of Milan notice that they might provide their scholars with another seller of words; because both of my election to serve Thee, and my inability, by reason of the difficulty of breathing and the pain in my chest, to continue the Professorship. And by letters I notified to Thy bishop,11 the holy man Ambrose, my former errors and present resolutions, with a view to his advising me which of Thy books it was best for me to read, so that I might be readier and fitter for the reception of such great grace. He recommended Isaiah the Prophet;12 I believe, because he foreshows more clearly than others the gospel, and the calling of the Gentiles. But I, not understanding the first portion of the book, and imagining the whole to be like it, laid it aside, intending to take it up hereafter, when better practised in our Lord’s words.
CHAP. VI.—
HE IS BAPTIZED AT MILAN WITH ALYPIUS AND HIS SON ADEODATUS. THE BOOK “DE MAGISTRO.”
14. Thence, when the time had arrived at which I was to give in my name,13 having left the country, we returned to Milan. Alypius also was pleased to be born again with me in Thee, being now clothed with the humility appropriate to Thy sacraments, and being so brave a tamer of the body, as with unusual fortitude to tread the frozen soil of Italy with his naked feet. We took into our company the boy Adeodatus, born of me carnally, of my sin. Well hadst Thou made him. He was barely fifteen years, yet in wit excelled many grave and learned men.1 I confess unto Thee Thy gifts, O Lord my God, Creator of all, and of exceeding power to reform our deformities; for of me was there naught in that boy but the sin. For that we fostered him in Thy discipline, Thou inspiredst us, none other,—Thy gifts I confess unto Thee. There is a book of ours, which is entitled The Master.2 It is a dialogue between him and me. Thou knowest that all things there put into the mouth of the person in argument with me were his thoughts in his sixteenth year. Many others more wonderful did I find in him. That talent was a source of awe to me. And who but Thou could be the worker of such marvels? Quickly didst Thou remove his life from the earth; and now I recall him to mind with a sense of security, in that I fear nothing for his childhood or youth, or for his whole self. We took him coeval with us in Thy grace, to be educated in Thy discipline; and we were baptized,3 and solicitude about our past life left us. Nor was I satiated in those days with the wondrous sweetness of considering the depth of Thy counsels concerning the salvation of the human race. How greatly did I weep in Thy hymns and canticles, deeply moved by the voices of Thy sweet-speaking Church! The voices flowed into mine ears, and the truth was poured forth into my heart, whence the agitation of my piety overflowed, and my tears ran over, and blessed was I therein.
CHAP. VII.—
OF THE CHURCH HYMNS INSTITUTED AT MILAN; OF THE AMBROSIAN PERSECUTION RAISED BY JUSTINA; AND OF THE DISCOVERY OF THE BODIES OF TWO MARTYRS.
15. Not long had the Church of Milan begun to employ this kind of consolation and exhortation, the brethren singing together with great earnestness of voice and heart. For it was about a year, or not much more, since Justina, the mother of the boy-Emperor Valentinian, persecuted4 Thy servant Ambrose in the interest of her heresy, to which she had been seduced by the Arians. The pious people kept guard in the church, prepared to die with their bishop, Thy servant. There my mother, Thy handmaid, bearing a chief part of those cares and watchings, lived in prayer. We, still unmelted by the heat of Thy Spirit, were yet moved by the astonished and disturbed city. At this time it was instituted that, after the manner of the Eastern Church, hymns and psalms should be sung, lest the people should pine away in the tediousness of sorrow; which custom, retained from then till now, is imitated by many, yea, by almost all of Thy congregations throughout the rest of the world.
16. Then didst Thou by a vision make known to Thy renowned bishop5 the spot where lay the bodies of Gervasius and Protasius, the martyrs (whom Thou hadst in Thy secret storehouse preserved uncorrupted for so many years), whence Thou mightest at the fitting time produce them to repress the feminine but royal fury. For when they were revealed and dug up and with due honour transferred to the Ambrosian Basilica, not only they who were troubled with unclean spirits (the devils confessing themselves) were healed, but a certain man also, who had been blind6 many years, a well-known citizen of that city, having asked and been told the reason of the people’s tumultuous joy, rushed forth, asking his guide to lead him thither. Arrived there, he begged to be permitted to touch with his handkerchief the bier of Thy saints, whose death is precious in Thy sight.7 When he had done this, and put it to his eyes, they were forthwith opened. Thence did the fame spread; thence did Thy praises burn,—shine; thence was the mind of that enemy, though not yet enlarged to the wholeness of believing, restrained from the fury of persecuting. Thanks be to Thee, O my God. Whence and whither hast Thou thus led my remembrance, that I should confess these things also unto Thee,—great, though I, forgetful, had passed them over? And yet then, when the “savour” of Thy “ointments” was so fragrant, did we not “run after Thee.”1 And so I did the more abundantly weep at the singing of Thy hymns, formerly panting for Thee, and at last breathing in Thee, as far as the air can play in this house of grass.
CHAP. VIII.—
OF THE CONVERSION OF EVODIUS, AND THE DEATH OF HIS MOTHER WHEN RETURNING WITH HIM TO AFRICA; AND WHOSE EDUCATION HE TENDERLY RELATES.
17. Thou, who makest men to dwell of one mind in a house,2 didst associate with us Evodius also, a young man of our city, who, when serving as an agent for Public Affairs,3 was converted unto Thee and baptized prior to us; and relinquishing his secular service, prepared himself for Thine. We were together,4 and together were we about to dwell with a holy purpose. We sought for some place where we might be most useful in our service to Thee, and were going back together to Africa. And when we were at the Tiberine Ostia my mother died. Much I omit, having much to hasten. Receive my confessions and thanksgivings, O my God, for innumerable things concerning which I am silent. But I will not omit aught that my soul has brought forth as to that Thy handmaid who brought me forth,—in her flesh, that I might be born to this temporal light, and in her heart, that I might be born to life eternal.5 I will speak not of her gifts, but Thine in her; for she neither made herself nor educated herself. Thou createdst her, nor did her father nor her mother know what a being was to proceed from them. And it was the rod of Thy Christ, the discipline of Thine only Son, that trained her in Thy fear, in the house of one of Thy faithful ones, who was a sound member of Thy Church. Yet this good discipline did she not so much attribute to the diligence of her mother, as that of a certain decrepid maid-servant, who had carried about her father when an infant, as little ones are wont to be carried on the backs of elder girls. For which reason, and on account of her extreme age and very good character, was she much respected by the heads of that Christian house. Whence also was committed to her the care of her master’s daughters, which she with diligence performed, and was earnest in restraining them when necessary, with a holy severity, and instructing them with a sober sagacity. For, excepting at the hours in which they were very temperately fed at their parents’ table, she used not to permit them, though parched with thirst, to drink even water; thereby taking precautions against an evil custom, and adding the wholesome advice, “You drink water only because you have not control of wine; but when you have come to be married, and made mistresses of storeroom and cellar, you will despise water, but the habit of drinking will remain.” By this method of instruction, and power of command, she restrained the longing of their tender age, and regulated the very thirst of the girls to such a becoming limit, as that what was not seemly they did not long for.
18. And yet—as Thine handmaid related to me, her son—there had stolen upon her a love of wine. For when she, as being a sober maiden, was as usual bidden by her parents to draw wine from the cask, the vessel being held under the opening, before she poured the wine into the bottle, she would wet the tips of her lips with a little, for more than that her inclination refused. For this she did not from any craving for drink, but out of the overflowing buoyancy of her time of life, which bubbles up with sportiveness, and is, in youthful spirits, wont to be repressed by the gravity of elders. And so unto that little, adding daily littles (for “he that contemneth small things shall fall by little and little”),6 she contracted such a habit as to drink off eagerly her little cup nearly full of wine. Where, then, was the sagacious old woman with her earnest restraint? Could anything prevail against a secret disease if Thy medicine, O Lord, did not watch over us? Father, mother, and nurturers absent, Thou present, who hast created, who callest, who also by those who are set over us workest some good for the salvation of our souls, what didst Thou at that time, O my God? How didst Thou heal her? How didst Thou make her whole? Didst Thou not out of another woman’s soul evoke a hard and bitter insult, as a surgeon’s knife from Thy secret store, and with one thrust remove all that putrefaction?1 For the maidservant who used to accompany her to the cellar, falling out, as it happens, with her little mistress, when she was alone with her, cast in her teeth this vice, with very bitter insult, calling her a “wine-bibber.” Stung by this taunt, she perceived her foulness, and immediately condemned and renounced it. Even as friends by their flattery pervert, so do enemies by their taunts often correct us. Yet Thou renderest not unto them what Thou dost by them, but what was proposed by them. For she, being angry, desired to irritate her young mistress, not to cure her; and did it in secret, either because the time and place of the dispute found them thus, or perhaps lest she herself should be exposed to danger for disclosing it so late. But Thou, Lord, Governor of heavenly and earthly things, who convertest to Thy purposes the deepest torrents, and disposest the turbulent current of the ages,2 healest one soul by the unsoundness of another; lest any man, when he remarks this, should attribute it unto his own power if another, whom he wishes to be reformed, is so through a word of his.
CHAP. IX.—
HE DESCRIBES THE PRAISEWORTHY HABITS OF HIS MOTHER; HER KINDNESS TOWARDS HER HUSBAND AND HER SONS.
19. Being thus modestly and soberly trained, and rather made subject by Thee to her parents, than by her parents to Thee, when she had arrived at a marriageable age, she was given to a husband whom she served as her lord. And she busied herself to gain him to Thee, preaching Thee unto him by her behaviour; by which Thou madest her fair, and reverently amiable, and admirable unto her husband. For she so bore the wronging of her bed as never to have any dissension with her husband on account of it. For she waited for Thy mercy upon him, that by believing in Thee he might become chaste. And besides this, as he was earnest in friendship, so was he violent in anger; but she had learned that an angry husband should not be resisted, neither in deed, nor even in word. But so soon as he was grown calm and tranquil, and she saw a fitting moment, she would give him a reason for her conduct, should he have been excited without cause. In short, while many matrons, whose husbands were more gentle, carried the marks of blows on their dishonoured faces, and would in private conversation blame the lives of their husbands, she would blame their tongues, monishing them gravely, as if in jest: “That from the hour they heard what are called the matrimonial tablets3 read to them, they should think of them as instruments whereby they were made servants; so, being always mindful of their condition, they ought not to set themselves in opposition to their lords.” And when they, knowing what a furious husband she endured, marvelled that it had never been reported, nor appeared by any indication, that Patricius had beaten his wife, or that there had been any domestic strife between them, even for a day, and asked her in confidence the reason of this, she taught them her rule, which I have mentioned above. They who observed it experienced the wisdom of it, and rejoiced; those who observed it not were kept in subjection, and suffered.
20. Her mother-in-law, also, being at first prejudiced against her by the whisperings of evil-disposed servants, she so conquered by submission, persevering in it with patience and meekness, that she voluntarily disclosed to her son the tongues of the meddling servants, whereby the domestic peace between herself and her daughter-in-law had been agitated, begging him to punish them for it. When, therefore, he had—in conformity with his mother’s wish, and with a view to the discipline of his family, and to ensure the future harmony of its members—corrected with stripes those discovered, according to the will of her who had discovered them, she promised a similar reward to any who, to please her, should say anything evil to her of her daughter-in-law. And, none now daring to do so, they lived together with a wonderful sweetness of mutual good-will.
21. This great gift Thou bestowedst also, my God, my mercy, upon that good handmaid of Thine, out of whose womb Thou createdst me, even that, whenever she could, she showed herself such a peacemaker between any differing and discordant spirits, that when she had heard on both sides most bitter things, such as swelling and undigested discord is wont to give vent to, when the crudities of enmities are breathed out in bitter speeches to a present friend against an absent enemy, she would disclose nothing about the one unto the other, save what might avail to their reconcilement. A small good this might seem to me, did I not know to my sorrow countless persons, who, through some horrible and far-spreading infection of sin, not only disclose to enemies mutually enraged the things said in passion against each other, but add some things that were never spoken at all; whereas, to a generous man, it ought to seem a small thing not to incite or increase the enmities of men by ill-speaking, unless he endeavour likewise by kind words to extinguish them. Such a one was she,—Thou, her most intimate Instructor, teaching her in the school of her heart.
22. Finally, her own husband, now towards the end of his earthly existence, did she gain over unto Thee; and she had not to complain of that in him, as one of the faithful, which, before he became so, she had endured. She was also the servant of Thy servants. Whosoever of them knew her, did in her much magnify, honour, and love Thee; for that through the testimony of the fruits of a holy conversation, they perceived Thee to be present in her heart. For she had “been the wife of one man,” had requited her parents, had guided her house piously, was “well-reported of for good works,” had “brought up children,”1 as often travailing in birth of them2 as she saw them swerving from Thee. Lastly, to all of us, O Lord (since of Thy favour Thou sufferest Thy servants to speak), who, before her sleeping in Thee,3 lived associated together, having received the grace of Thy baptism, did she devote care such as she might if she had been mother of us all; served us as if she had been child of all.
CHAP. X.—
A CONVERSATION HE HAD WITH HIS MOTHER CONCERNING THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN.
23. As the day now approached on which she was to depart this life (which day Thou knewest, we did not), it fell out—Thou, as I believe, by Thy secret ways arranging it—that she and I stood alone, leaning in a certain window, from which the garden of the house we occupied at Ostia could be seen; at which place, removed from the crowd, we were resting ourselves for the voyage, after the fatigues of a long journey. We then were conversing alone very pleasantly; and, “forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before,”4 we were seeking between ourselves in the presence of the Truth, which Thou art, of what nature the eternal life of the saints would be, which eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath entered into the heart of man.5 But yet we opened wide the mouth of our heart, after those supernal streams of Thy fountain, “the fountain of life,” which is “with Thee;”6 that being sprinkled with it according to our capacity, we might in some measure weigh so high a mystery.
24. And when our conversation had arrived at that point, that the very highest pleasure of the carnal senses, and that in the very brightest material light, seemed by reason of the sweetness of that life not only not worthy of comparison, but not even of mention, we, lifting ourselves with a more ardent affection towards “the Self-same,”7 did gradually pass through all corporeal things, and even the heaven itself, whence sun, and moon, and stars shine upon the earth; yea, we soared higher yet by inward musing, and discoursing, and admiring Thy works; and we came to our own minds, and went beyond them, that we might advance as high as that region of unfailing plenty, where Thou feedest Israel8 for ever with the food of truth, and where life is that Wisdom by whom all these things are made, both which have been, and which are to come; and she is not made, but is as she hath been, and so shall ever be; yea, rather, to “have been,” and “to be hereafter,” are not in her, but only “to be,” seeing she is eternal, for to “have been” and “to be hereafter” are not eternal. And while we were thus speaking, and straining after her, we slightly touched her with the whole effort of our heart; and we sighed, and there left bound “the first-fruits of the Spirit;”9 and returned to the noise of our own mouth, where the word uttered has both beginning and end. And what is like unto Thy Word, our Lord, who remaineth in Himself without becoming old, and “maketh all things new”?10
25. We were saying, then, If to any man the tumult of the flesh were silenced,—silenced the phantasies of earth, waters, and air,—silenced, too, the poles; yea, the very soul be silenced to herself, and go beyond herself by not thinking of herself,—silenced fancies and imaginary revelations, every tongue, and every sign, and whatsoever exists by passing away, since, if any could hearken, all these say, “We created not ourselves, but were created by Him who abideth for ever:” If, having uttered this, they now should be silenced, having only quickened our ears to Him who created them, and He alone speak not by them, but by Himself, that we may hear His word, not by fleshly tongue, nor angelic voice, nor sound of thunder, nor the obscurity of a similitude, but might hear Him—Him whom in these we love—without these, like as we two now strained ourselves, and with rapid thought touched on that Eternal Wisdom which remaineth over all. If this could be sustained, and other visions of a far different kind be withdrawn, and this one ravish, and absorb, and envelope its beholder amid these inward joys, so that his life might be eternally like that one moment of knowledge which we now sighed after, were not this “Enter thou into the joy of Thy Lord”?1 And when shall that be? When we shall all rise again; but all shall not be changed.2
26. Such things was I saying; and if not after this manner, and in these words, yet, Lord, Thou knowest, that in that day when we were talking thus, this world with all its delights grew contemptible to us, even while we spake. Then said my mother, “Son, for myself, I have no longer any pleasure in aught in this life. What I want here further, and why I am here, I know not, now that my hopes in this world are satisfied. There was indeed one thing for which I wished to tarry a little in this life, and that was that I might see thee a Catholic Christian before I died.3 My God has exceeded this abundantly, so that I see thee despising all earthly felicity, made His servant,—what do I here?”
CHAP. XI.—
HIS MOTHER, ATTACKED BY FEVER, DIES AT OSTIA.
27. What reply I made unto her to these things I do not well remember. However, scarcely five days after, or not much more, she was prostrated by fever; and while she was sick, she one day sank into a swoon, and was for a short time unconscious of visible things. We hurried up to her; but she soon regained her senses, and gazing on me and my brother as we stood by her, she said to us inquiringly, “Where was I?” Then looking intently at us stupefied with grief, “Here,” saith she, “shall you bury your mother.” I was silent, and refrained from weeping; but my brother said something, wishing her, as the happier lot, to die in her own country and not abroad. She, when she heard this, with anxious countenance arrested him with her eye, as savouring of such things, and then gazing at me, “Behold,” saith she, “what he saith;” and soon after to us both she saith, “Lay this body anywhere, let not the care for it trouble you at all. This only I ask, that you will remember me at the Lord’s altar, wherever you be.” And when she had given forth this opinion in such words as she could, she was silent, being in pain with her increasing sickness.
28. But, as I reflected on Thy gifts, O thou invisible God, which Thou instillest into the hearts of Thy faithful ones, whence such marvellous fruits do spring, I did rejoice and give thanks unto Thee, calling to mind what I knew before, how she had ever burned with anxiety respecting her burial-place, which she had provided and prepared for herself by the body of her husband. For as they had lived very peacefully together, her desire had also been (so little is the human mind capable of grasping things divine) that this should be added to that happiness, and be talked of among men, that after her wandering beyond the sea, it had been granted her that they both, so united on earth, should lie in the same grave. But when this uselessness had, through the bounty of Thy goodness, begun to be no longer in her heart, I knew not, and I was full of joy admiring what she had thus disclosed to me; though indeed in that our conversation in the window also, when she said, “What do I here any longer?” she appeared not to desire to die in her own country. I heard afterwards, too, that at the time we were at Ostia, with a maternal confidence she one day, when I was absent, was speaking with certain of my friends on the contemning of this life, and the blessing of death; and when they—amazed at the courage which Thou hadst given to her, a woman—asked her whether she did not dread leaving her body at such a distance from her own city, she replied, “Nothing is far to God; nor need I fear lest He should be ignorant at the end of the world of the place whence He is to raise me up.” On the ninth day, then, of her sickness, the fifty-sixth year of her age, and the thirty-third of mine, was that religious and devout soul set free from the body.
CHAP. XII.—
HOW HE MOURNED HIS DEAD MOTHER.
29. I closed her eyes; and there flowed a great sadness into my heart, and it was passing into tears, when mine eyes at the same time, by the violent control of my mind, sucked back the fountain dry, and woe was me in such a struggle! But, as soon as she breathed her last, the boy Adeodatus burst out into wailing, but, being checked by us all, he became quiet. In like manner also my own childish feeling, which was, through the youthful voice of my heart, finding escape in tears, was restrained and silenced. For we did not consider it fitting to celebrate that funeral with tearful plaints and groanings;1 for on such wise are they who die unhappy, or are altogether dead, wont to be mourned. But she neither died unhappy, nor did she altogether die. For of this were we assured by the witness of her good conversation, her “faith unfeigned,”2 and other sufficient grounds.
30. What, then, was that which did grievously pain me within, but the newly-made wound, from having that most sweet and dear habit of living together suddenly broken off? I was full of joy indeed in her testimony, when, in that her last illness, flattering my dutifulness, she called me “kind,” and recalled, with great affection of love, that she had never heard any harsh or reproachful sound come out of my mouth against her. But yet, O my God, who madest us, how can the honour which I paid to her be compared with her slavery for me? As, then, I was left destitute of so great comfort in her, my soul was stricken, and that life torn apart as it were, which, of hers and mine together, had been made but one.
31. The boy then being restrained from weeping, Evodius took up the Psalter, and began to sing—the whole house responding—the Psalm, “I will sing of mercy and judgment: unto Thee, O Lord.”3 But when they heard what we were doing, many brethren and religious women came together; and whilst they whose office it was were, according to custom, making ready for the funeral, I, in a part of the house where I conveniently could, together with those who thought that I ought not to be left alone, discoursed on what was suited to the occasion; and by this alleviation of truth mitigated the anguish known unto Thee—they being unconscious of it, listened intently, and thought me to be devoid of any sense of sorrow. But in Thine ears, where none of them heard, did I blame the softness of my feelings, and restrained the flow of my grief, which yielded a little unto me; but the paroxysm returned again, though not so as to burst forth into tears, nor to a change of countenance, though I knew what I repressed in my heart. And as I was exceedingly annoyed that these human things had such power over me,4 which in the due order and destiny of our natural condition must of necessity come to pass, with a new sorrow I sorrowed for my sorrow, and was wasted by a twofold sadness.
32. So, when the body was carried forth, we both went and returned without tears. For neither in those prayers which we poured forth unto Thee when the sacrifice of our redemption5 was offered up unto Thee for her,—the dead body being now placed by the side of the grave, as the custom there is, prior to its being laid therein,—neither in their prayers did I shed tears; yet was I most grievously sad in secret all the day, and with a troubled mind entreated Thee, as I was able, to heal my sorrow, but Thou didst not; fixing, I believe, in my memory by this one lesson the power of the bonds of all habit, even upon a mind which now feeds not upon a fallacious word. It appeared to me also a good thing to go and bathe, I having heard that the bath [balneum] took its name from the Greek βαλανει̑ον, because it drives trouble from the mind. Lo, this also I confess unto Thy mercy, “Father of the fatherless,”6 that I bathed, and felt the same as before I had done so. For the bitterness of my grief exuded not from my heart. Then I slept, and on awaking found my grief not a little mitigated; and as I lay alone upon my bed, there came into my mind those true verses of Thy Ambrose, for Thou art—
- “Deus creator omnium,
- Polique rector, vestiens
- Diem decora lumine,
- Noctem sopora gratia;
- Artus solutos ut quies
- Reddat laboris usul,
- Mentesque fessas allevet,
- Luctusque solvat anxios.”1
33. And then little by little did I bring back my former thoughts of Thine handmaid, her devout conversation towards Thee, her holy tenderness and attentiveness towards us, which was suddenly taken away from me; and it was pleasant to me to weep in Thy sight, for her and for me, concerning her and concerning myself. And I set free the tears which before I repressed, that they might flow at their will, spreading them beneath my heart; and it rested in them, for Thy ears were nigh me,—not those of man, who would have put a scornful interpretation on my weeping. But now in writing I confess it unto Thee, O Lord! Read it who will, and interpret how he will; and if he finds me to have sinned in weeping for my mother during so small a part of an hour,—that mother who was for a while dead to mine eyes, who had for many years wept for me, that I might live in Thine eyes,—let him not laugh at me, but rather, if he be a man of a noble charity, let him weep for my sins against Thee, the Father of all the brethren of Thy Christ.
CHAP. XIII.—
HE ENTREATS GOD FOR HER SINS, AND ADMONISHES HIS READERS TO REMEMBER HER PIOUSLY.
34. But,—my heart being now healed of that wound, in so far as it could be convicted of a carnal2 affection,—I pour out unto Thee, O our God, on behalf of that Thine handmaid, tears of a far different sort, even that which flows from a spirit broken by the thoughts of the dangers of every soul that dieth in Adam. And although she, having been “made alive” in Christ3 even before she was freed from the flesh, had so lived as to praise Thy name both by her faith and conversation, yet dare I not say4 that from the time Thou didst regenerate her by baptism, no word went forth from her mouth against Thy precepts.5 And it hath been declared by Thy Son, the Truth, that “Whosoever shall say to his brother, Thou fool, shall be in danger of hell fire.”6 And woe even unto the praiseworthy life of man, if, putting away mercy, Thou shouldest investigate it. But because Thou dost not narrowly inquire after sins, we hope with confidence to find some place of indulgence with Thee. But whosoever recounts his true merits7 to Thee, what is it that he recounts to Thee but Thine own gifts? Oh, if men would know themselves to be men; and that “he that glorieth” would “glory in the Lord!”8
35. I then, O my Praise and my Life, Thou God of my heart, putting aside for a little her good deeds, for which I joyfully give thanks to Thee, do now beseech Thee for the sins of my mother. Hearken unto me, through that Medicine of our wounds who hung upon the tree, and who, sitting at Thy right hand, “maketh intercession for us.”9 I know that she acted mercifully, and from the heart10 forgave her debtors their debts; do Thou also forgive her debts,11 whatever she contracted during so many years since the water of salvation. Forgive her, O Lord, forgive her, I beseech Thee; “enter not into judgment” with her.1 Let Thy mercy be exalted above Thy justice,2 because Thy words are true, and Thou hast promised mercy unto “the merciful;”3 which Thou gavest them to be who wilt “have mercy” on whom Thou wilt “have mercy,” and wilt “have compassion” on whom Thou hast had compassion.4
36. And I believe Thou hast already done that which I ask Thee; but “accept the freewill offerings of my mouth, O Lord.”5 For she, when the day of her dissolution was near at hand, took no thought to have her body sumptuously covered, or embalmed with spices; nor did she covet a choice monument, or desire her paternal burial-place. These things she entrusted not to us, but only desired to have her name remembered at Thy altar, which she had served without the omission of a single day;6 whence she knew that the holy sacrifice was dispensed, by which the handwriting that was against us is blotted out;7 by which the enemy was triumphed over,8 who, summing up our offences, and searching for something to bring against us, found nothing in Him9 in whom we conquer. Who will restore to Him the innocent blood? Who will repay Him the price with which He bought us, so as to take us from Him? Unto the sacrament of which our ransom did Thy handmaid bind her soul by the bond of faith. Let none separate her from Thy protection. Let not the “lion” and the “dragon”10 introduce himself by force or fraud. For she will not reply that she owes nothing, lest she be convicted and got the better of by the wily deceiver; but she will answer that her “sins are forgiven”11 by Him to whom no one is able to repay that price which He, owing nothing, laid down for us.
37. May she therefore rest in peace with her husband, before or after whom she married none; whom she obeyed, with patience bringing forth fruit12 unto Thee, that she might gain him also for Thee. And inspire, O my Lord my God, inspire Thy servants my brethren, Thy sons my masters, who with voice and heart and writings I serve, that so many of them as shall read these confessions may at Thy altar remember Monica, Thy handmaid, together with Patricius, her sometime husband, by whose flesh Thou introducedst me into this life, in what manner I know not. May they with pious affection be mindful of my parents in this transitory light, of my brethren that are under Thee our Father in our Catholic mother, and of my fellow-citizens in the eternal Jerusalem, which the wandering of Thy people sigheth for from their departure until their return. That so my mother’s last entreaty to me may, through my confessions more than through my prayers, be more abundantly fulfilled to her through the prayers of many.13
BOOK X.
HAVING MANIFESTED WHAT HE WAS AND WHAT HE IS, HE SHOWS THE GREAT FRUIT OF HIS CONFESSION; AND BEING ABOUT TO EXAMINE BY WHAT METHOD GOD AND THE HAPPY LIFE MAY BE FOUND, HE ENLARGES ON THE NATURE AND POWER OF MEMORY. THEN HE EXAMINES HIS OWN ACTS, THOUGHTS AND AFFECTIONS, VIEWED UNDER THE THREEFOLD DIVISION OF TEMPTATION; AND COMMEMORATES THE LORD, THE ONE MEDIATOR OF GOD AND MEN.
CHAP. I.—
IN GOD ALONE IS THE HOPE AND JOY OF MAN.
1. Let me know Thee, O Thou who knowest me; let me know Thee, as I am known.1 O Thou strength of my soul, enter into it, and prepare it for Thyself, that Thou mayest have and hold it without “spot or wrinkle.”2 This is my hope, “therefore have I spoken;”3 and in this hope do I rejoice, when I rejoice soberly. Other things of this life ought the less to be sorrowed for, the more they are sorrowed for; and ought the more to be sorrowed for, the less men do sorrow for them. For behold, “Thou desirest truth,”4 seeing that he who does it “cometh to the light.”5 This wish I to do in confession in my heart before Thee, and in my writing before many witnesses.
CHAP. II.—
THAT ALL THINGS ARE MANIFEST TO GOD. THAT CONFESSION UNTO HIM IS NOT MADE BY THE WORDS OF THE FLESH, BUT OF THE SOUL, AND THE CRY OF REFLECTION.
2. And from Thee, O Lord, unto whose eyes the depths of man’s conscience are naked,6 what in me could be hidden though I were unwilling to confess to Thee? For so should I hide Thee from myself, not myself from Thee. But now, because my groaning witnesseth that I am dissatisfied with myself, Thou shinest forth, and satisfiest, and art beloved and desired; that I may blush for myself, and renounce myself, and choose Thee, and may neither please Thee nor myself, except in Thee. To Thee, then, O Lord, am I manifest, whatever I am, and with what fruit I may confess unto Thee I have spoken. Nor do I it with words and sounds of the flesh, but with the words of the soul, and that cry of reflection which Thine ear knoweth. For when I am wicked, to confess to Thee is naught but to be dissatisfied with myself; but when I am truly devout, it is naught but not to attribute it to myself, because Thou, O Lord, dost “bless the righteous;”7 but first Thou justifiest him “ungodly.”8 My confession, therefore, O my God, in Thy sight, is made unto Thee silently, and yet not silently. For in noise it is silent, in affection it cries aloud. For neither do I give utterance to anything that is right unto men which Thou hast not heard from me before, nor dost Thou hear anything of the kind from me which Thyself saidst not first unto me.
CHAP. III.—
HE WHO CONFESSETH RIGHTLY UNTO GOD BEST KNOWETH HIMSELF.
3. What then have I to do with men, that they should hear my confessions, as if they were going to cure all my diseases?9 A people curious to know the lives of others, but slow to correct their own. Why do they desire to hear from me what I am, who are unwilling to hear from Thee what they are? And how can they tell, when they hear from me of myself, whether I speak the truth, seeing that no man knoweth what is in man, “save the spirit of man which is in him”?10 But if they hear from Thee aught concerning themselves, they will not be able to say, “The Lord lieth.” For what is it to hear from Thee of themselves, but to know themselves? And who is he that knoweth himself and saith, “It is false,” unless he himself lieth? But because “charity believeth all things”11 (amongst those at all events whom by union with itself it maketh one), I too, O Lord, also so confess unto Thee that men may hear, to whom I cannot prove whether I confess the truth, yet do they believe me whose ears charity openeth unto me.
4. But yet do Thou, my most secret Physician, make clear to me what fruit I may reap by doing it. For the confessions of my past sins,—which Thou hast “forgiven” and “covered,”1 that Thou mightest make me happy in Thee, changing my soul by faith and Thy sacrament,—when they are read and heard, stir up the heart, that it sleep not in despair and say, “I cannot;” but that it may awake in the love of Thy mercy and the sweetness of Thy grace, by which he that is weak is strong,2 if by it he is made conscious of his own weakness. As for the good, they take delight in hearing of the past errors of such as are now freed from them; and they delight, not because they are errors, but because they have been and are so no longer. For what fruit, then, O Lord my God, to whom my conscience maketh her daily confession, more confident in the hope of Thy mercy than in her own innocency,—for what fruit, I beseech Thee, do I confess even to men in Thy presence by this book what I am at this time, not what I have been? For that fruit I have both seen and spoken of, but what I am at this time, at the very moment of making my confessions, divers people desire to know, both who knew me and who knew me not,—who have heard of or from me,—but their ear is not at my heart, where I am whatsoever I am. They are desirous, then, of hearing me confess what I am within, where they can neither stretch eye, nor ear, nor mind; they desire it as those willing to believe,—but will they understand? For charity, by which they are good, says unto them that I do not lie in my confessions, and she in them believes me.
CHAP. IV.—
THAT IN HIS CONFESSIONS HE MAY DO GOOD, HE CONSIDERS OTHERS.
5. But for what fruit do they desire this? Do they wish me happiness when they learn how near, by Thy gift, I come unto Thee; and to pray for me, when they learn how much I am kept back by my own weight? To such will I declare myself. For it is no small fruit, O Lord my God, that by many thanks should be given to Thee on our behalf,3 and that by many Thou shouldest be entreated for us. Let the fraternal soul love that in me which Thou teachest should be loved, and lament that in me which Thou teachest should be lamented. Let a fraternal and not an alien soul do this, nor that “of strange children, whose mouth speaketh vanity, and their right hand is a right hand of falsehood,”4 but that fraternal one which, when it approves me, rejoices for me, but when it disapproves me, is sorry for me; because whether it approves or disapproves it loves me. To such will I declare myself; let them breathe freely at my good deeds, and sigh over my evil ones. My good deeds are Thy institutions and Thy gifts, my evil ones are my delinquencies and Thy judgments.5 Let them breathe freely at the one, and sigh over the other; and let hymns and tears ascend into Thy sight out of the fraternal hearts—Thy censers.6 And do Thou, O Lord, who takest delight in the incense of Thy holy temple, have mercy upon me according to Thy great mercy,7 “for Thy name’s sake;”8 and on no account leaving what Thou hast begun in me, do Thou complete what is imperfect in me.
6. This is the fruit of my confessions, not of what I was, but of what I am, that I may confess this not before Thee only, in a secret exultation with trembling,9 and a secret sorrow with hope, but in the ears also of the believing sons of men,—partakers of my joy, and sharers of my mortality, my fellow-citizens and the companions of my pilgrimage, those who are gone before, and those that are to follow after, and the comrades of my way. These are Thy servants, my brethren, those whom Thou wishest to be Thy sons; my masters, whom Thou hast commanded me to serve, if I desire to live with and of Thee. But this Thy word were little to me did it command in speaking, without going before in acting. This then do I both in deed and word, this I do under Thy wings, in too great danger, were it not that my soul, under Thy wings, is subject unto Thee, and my weakness known unto Thee. I am a little one, but my Father liveth for ever, and my Defender is “sufficient”10 for me. For He is the same who begat me and who defends me; and Thou Thyself art all my good; even Thou, the Omnipotent, who art with me, and that before I am with Thee. To such, therefore, whom Thou commandest me to serve will I declare, not what I was, but what I now am, and what I still am. But neither do I judge myself.11 Thus then I would be heard.
CHAP. V.—
THAT MAN KNOWETH NOT HIMSELF WHOLLY.
7. For it is Thou, Lord, that judgest me;12 for although no “man knoweth the things of a man, save the spirit of man which is in him,”1 yet is there something of man which “the spirit of man which is in him” itself knoweth not. But Thou, Lord, who hast made him, knowest him wholly. I indeed, though in Thy sight I despise myself, and reckon “myself but dust and ashes,”2 yet know something concerning Thee, which I know not concerning myself. And assuredly “now we see through a glass darkly,” not yet “face to face.”3 So long, therefore, as I be “absent” from Thee, I am more “present” with myself than with Thee;4 and yet know I that Thou canst not suffer violence;5 but for myself I know not what temptations I am able to resist, and what I am not able.6 But there is hope, because Thou art faithful, who wilt not suffer us to be tempted above that we are able, but wilt with the temptation also make a way to escape, that we may be able to bear it.7 I would therefore confess what I know concerning myself; I will confess also what I know not concerning myself. And because what I do know of myself, I know by Thee enlightening me; and what I know not of myself, so long I know not until the time when my “darkness be as the noonday”8 in Thy sight.
CHAP. VI.—
THE LOVE OF GOD, IN HIS NATURE SUPERIOR TO ALL CREATURES, IS ACQUIRED BY THE KNOWLEDGE OF THE SENSES AND THE EXERCISE OF REASON.
8. Not with uncertain, but with assured consciousness do I love Thee, O Lord. Thou hast stricken my heart with Thy word, and I loved Thee. And also the heaven, and earth, and all that is therein, behold, on every side they say that I should love Thee; nor do they cease to speak unto all, “so that they are without excuse.”9 But more profoundly wilt Thou have mercy on whom Thou wilt have mercy, and compassion on whom Thou wilt have compassion,10 otherwise do both heaven and earth tell forth Thy praises to deaf ears. But what is it that I love in loving Thee? Not corporeal beauty, nor the splendour of time, nor the radiance of the light, so pleasant to our eyes, nor the sweet melodies of songs of all kinds, nor the fragrant smell of flowers, and ointments, and spices, not manna and honey, not limbs pleasant to the embracements of flesh. I love not these things when I love my God; and yet I love a certain kind of light, and sound, and fragrance, and food, and embracement in loving my God, who is the light, sound, fragrance, food, and embracement of my inner man—where that light shineth unto my soul which no place can contain, where that soundeth which time snatcheth not away, where there is a fragrance which no breeze disperseth, where there is a food which no eating can diminish, and where that clingeth which no satiety can sunder. This is what I love, when I love my God.
9. And what is this? I asked the earth; and it answered, “I am not He;” and whatsoever are therein made the same confession. I asked the sea and the deeps, and the creeping things that lived, and they replied, “We are not thy God, seek higher than we.” I asked the breezy air, and the universal air with its inhabitants answered, “Anaximenes11 was deceived, I am not God.” I asked the heavens, the sun, moon, and stars: “Neither,” say they, “are we the God whom thou seekest.” And I answered unto all these things which stand about the door of my flesh, “Ye have told me concerning my God, that ye are not He; tell me something about Him.” And with a loud voice they exclaimed, “He made us.” My questioning was my observing of them; and their beauty was their reply.12 And I directed my thoughts to myself, and said, “Who art thou?” And I answered, “A man.” And lo, in me there appear both body and soul, the one without, the other within. By which of these should I seek my God, whom I had sought through the body from earth to heaven, as far as I was able to send messengers—the beams of mine eyes? But the better part is that which is inner; for to it, as both president and judge, did all these my corporeal messengers render the answers of heaven and earth and all things therein, who said, “We are not God, but He made us.” These things was my inner man cognizant of by the ministry of the outer; I, the inner man, knew all this—I, the soul, through the senses of my body. I asked the vast bulk of the earth of my God, and it answered me, “I am not He, but He made me.”
10. Is not this beauty visible to all whose senses are unimpaired? Why then doth it not speak the same things unto all? Animals, the very small and the great, see it, but they are unable to question it, because their senses are not endowed with reason to enable them to judge on what they report. But men can question it, so that “the invisible things of Him . . . are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made;”1 but by loving them, they are brought into subjection to them; and subjects are not able to judge. Neither do the creatures reply to such as question them, unless they can judge; nor will they alter their voice (that is, their beauty),2 if so be one man only sees, another both sees and questions, so as to appear one way to this man, and another to that; but appearing the same way to both, it is mute to this, it speaks to that—yea, verily, it speaks unto all; but they only understand it who compare that voice received from without with the truth within. For the truth declareth unto me, “Neither heaven, nor earth, nor any body is thy God.” This, their nature declareth unto him that beholdeth them. “They are a mass; a mass is less in part than in the whole.” Now, O my soul, thou art my better part, unto thee I speak; for thou animatest the mass of thy body, giving it life, which no body furnishes to a body; but thy God is even unto thee the Life of life.
CHAP. VII.—
THAT GOD IS TO BE FOUND NEITHER FROM THE POWERS OF THE BODY NOR OF THE SOUL.
11. What then is it that I love when I love my God? Who is He that is above the head of my soul? By my soul itself will I mount up unto Him. I will soar beyond that power of mine whereby I cling to the body, and fill the whole structure of it with life. Not by that power do I find my God; for then the horse and the mule, “which have no understanding,”3 might find Him, since it is the same power by which their bodies also live. But there is another power, not that only by which I quicken, but that also by which I endow with sense my flesh, which the Lord hath made for me; bidding the eye not to hear, and the ear not to see; but that, for me to see by, and this, for me to hear by; and to each of the other senses its own proper seat and office, which being different, I, the single mind, do through them govern. I will soar also beyond this power of mine; for this the horse and mule possess, for they too discern through the body.
CHAP. VIII.—
OF THE NATURE AND THE AMAZING POWER OF MEMORY.
12. I will soar, then, beyond this power of my nature also, ascending by degrees unto Him who made me. And I enter the fields and roomy chambers of memory, where are the treasures of countless images, imported into it from all manner of things by the senses. There is treasured up whatsoever likewise we think, either by enlarging or diminishing, or by varying in any way whatever those things which the sense hath arrived at; yea, and whatever else hath been entrusted to it and stored up, which oblivion hath not yet engulfed and buried. When I am in this storehouse, I demand that what I wish should be brought forth, and some things immediately appear; others require to be longer sought after, and are dragged, as it were, out of some hidden receptacle; others, again, hurry forth in crowds, and while another thing is sought and inquired for, they leap into view, as if to say, “Is it not we, perchance?” These I drive away with the hand of my heart from before the face of my remembrance, until what I wish be discovered making its appearance out of its secret cell. Other things suggest themselves without effort, and in continuous order, just as they are called for,—those in front giving place to those that follows, and in giving place are treasured up again to be forthcoming when I wish it. All of which takes place when I repeat a thing from memory.
13. All these things, each of which entered by its own avenue, are distinctly and under general heads there laid up: as, for example, light, and all colours and forms of bodies, by the eyes; sounds of all kinds by the ears; all smells by the passage of the nostrils; all flavours by that of the mouth; and by the sensation of the whole body is brought in what is hard or soft, hot or cold, smooth or rough, heavy or light, whether external or internal to the body. All these doth that great receptacle of memory, with its many and indescribable departments, receive, to be recalled and brought forth when required; each, entering by its own door, is laid up in it. And yet the things themselves do not enter it, but only the images of the things perceived are there ready at hand for thought to recall. And who can tell how these images are formed, notwithstanding that it is evident by which of the senses each has been fetched in and treasured up? For even while I live in darkness and silence, I can bring out colours in memory if I wish, and discern between black and white, and what others I wish; nor yet do sounds break in and disturb what is drawn in by mine eyes, and which I am considering, seeing that they also are there, and are concealed,—laid up, as it were, apart. For these too I can summon if I please, and immediately they appear. And though my tongue be at rest, and my throat silent, yet can I sing as much as I will; and those images of colours, which notwithstanding are there, do not interpose themselves and interrupt when another treasure is under consideration which flowed in through the ears. So the remaining things carried in and heaped up by the other senses, I recall at my pleasure. And I discern the scent of lilies from that of violets while smelling nothing; and I prefer honey to grape-syrup, a smooth thing to a rough, though then I neither taste nor handle, but only remember.
14. These things do I within, in that vast chamber of my memory. For there are nigh me heaven, earth, sea, and whatever I can think upon in them, besides those which I have forgotten. There also do I meet with myself, and recall myself,—what, when, or where I did a thing, and how I was affected when I did it. There are all which I remember, either by personal experience or on the faith of others. Out of the same supply do I myself with the past construct now this, now that likeness of things, which either I have experienced, or, from having experienced, have believed; and thence again future actions, events, and hopes, and upon all these again do I meditate as if they were present. “I will do this or that,” say I to myself in that vast womb of my mind, filled with the images of things so many and so great, “and this or that shall follow upon it.” “Oh that this or that might come to pass!” “God avert this or that!” Thus speak I to myself; and when I speak, the images of all I speak about are present, out of the same treasury of memory; nor could I say anything at all about them were the images absent.
15. Great is this power of memory, exceeding great, O my God,—an inner chamber large and boundless! Who has plumbed the depths thereof? Yet it is a power of mine, and appertains unto my nature; nor do I myself grasp all that I am. Therefore is the mind too narrow to contain itself. And where should that be which it doth not contain of itself? Is it outside and not in itself? How is it, then, that it doth not grasp itself? A great admiration rises upon me; astonishment seizes me. And men go forth to wonder at the heights of mountains, the huge waves of the sea, the broad flow of the rivers, the extent of the ocean, and the courses of the stars, and omit to wonder at themselves; nor do they marvel that when I spoke of all these things, I was not looking on them with my eyes, and yet could not speak of them unless those mountains, and waves, and rivers, and stars which I saw, and that ocean which I believe in, I saw inwardly in my memory, and with the same vast spaces between as when I saw them abroad. But I did not by seeing appropriate them when I looked on them with my eyes; nor are the things themselves with me, but their images. And I knew by what corporeal sense each made impression on me.
CHAP. IX.—
NOT ONLY THINGS, BUT ALSO LITERATURE AND IMAGES, ARE TAKEN FROM THE MEMORY, AND ARE BROUGHT FORTH BY THE ACT OF REMEMBERING.
16. And yet are not these all that the illimitable capacity of my memory retains. Here also is all that is apprehended of the liberal sciences, and not yet forgotten—removed as it were into an inner place, which is not a place; nor are they the images which are retained, but the things themselves. For what is literature, what skill in disputation, whatsoever I know of all the many kinds of questions there are, is so in my memory, as that I have not taken in the image and left the thing without, or that it should have sounded and passed away like a voice imprinted on the ear by that trace, whereby it might be recorded, as though it sounded when it no longer did so; or as an odour while it passes away, and vanishes into wind, affects the sense of smell, whence it conveys the image of itself into the memory, which we realize in recollecting; or like food, which assuredly in the belly hath now no taste, and yet hath a kind of taste in the memory, or like anything that is by touching felt by the body, and which even when removed from us is imagined by the memory. For these things themselves are not put into it, but the images of them only are caught up, with a marvellous quickness, and laid up, as it were, in most wonderful garners, and wonderfully brought forth when we remember.
CHAP. X.—
LITERATURE IS NOT INTRODUCED TO THE MEMORY THROUGH THE SENSES, BUT IS BROUGHT FORTH FROM ITS MORE SECRET PLACES.
17. But truly when I hear that there are three kinds of questions, “Whether a thing is?—what it is?—of what kind it is?” I do indeed hold fast the images of the sounds of which these words are composed, and I know that those sounds passed through the air with a noise, and now are not. But the things themselves which are signified by these sounds I never arrived at by any sense of the body, nor ever perceived them otherwise than by my mind; and in my memory have I laid up not their images, but themselves, which, how they entered into me, let them tell if they are able. For I examine all the gates of my flesh, but find not by which of them they entered. For the eyes say, “If they were coloured, we announced them.” The ears say, “If they sounded, we gave notice of them.” The nostrils say, “If they smell, they passed in by us.” The sense of taste says, “If they have no flavour, ask not me.” The touch says, “If it have not body, I handled it not, and if I never handled it, I gave no notice of it.” Whence and how did these things enter into my memory? I know not how. For when I learned them, I gave not credit to the heart of another man, but perceived them in my own; and I approved them as true, and committed them to it, laying them up, as it were, whence I might fetch them when I willed. There, then, they were, even before I learned them, but were not in my memory. Where were they, then, or wherefore, when they were spoken, did I acknowledge them, and say, “So it is, it is true,” unless as being already in the memory, though so put back and concealed, as it were, in more secret caverns, that had they not been drawn forth by the advice of another I would not, perchance, have been able to conceive of them?
CHAP. XI.—
WHAT IT IS TO LEARN AND TO THINK.
18. Wherefore we find that to learn these things, whose images we drink not in by our senses, but perceive within as they are by themselves, without images, is nothing else but by meditation as it were to concentrate, and by observing to take care that those notions which the memory did before contain scattered and confused, be laid up at hand, as it were, in that same memory, where before they lay concealed, scattered and neglected, and so the more easily present themselves to the mind well accustomed to observe them. And how many things of this sort does my memory retain which have been found out already, and, as I said, are, as it were, laid up ready to hand, which we are said to have learned and to have known; which, should we for small intervals of time cease to recall, they are again so submerged and slide back, as it were, into the more remote chambers, that they must be evolved thence again as if new (for other sphere they have none), and must be marshalled [cogenda] again that they may become known; that is to say, they must be collected [colligenda], as it were, from their dispersion; whence we have the word cogitare. For cogo [I collect] and cogito [I re-collect] have the same relation to each other as ago and agito, facio and factito. But the mind has appropriated to itself this word [cogitation], so that not that which is collected anywhere, but what is collected,1 that is marshalled,2 in the mind, is properly said to be “cogitated.”3
CHAP. XII.—
ON THE RECOLLECTION OF THINGS MATHEMATICAL.
19. The memory containeth also the reasons and innumerable laws of numbers and dimensions, none of which hath any sense of the body impressed, seeing they have neither colour, nor sound, nor taste, nor smell, nor sense of touch. I have heard the sound of the words by which these things are signified when they are discussed; but the sounds are one thing, the things another. For the sounds are one thing in Greek, another in Latin; but the things themselves are neither Greek, nor Latin, nor any other language. I have seen the lines of the craftsmen, even the finest, like a spider’s web; but these are of another kind, they are not the images of those which the eye of my flesh showed me; he knoweth them who, without any idea whatsoever of a body, perceives them within himself. I have also observed the numbers of the things with which we number all the senses of the body; but those by which we number are of another kind, nor are they the images of these, and therefore they certainly are. Let him who sees not these things mock me for saying them; and I will pity him, whilst he mocks me.
CHAP. XIII.—
MEMORY RETAINS ALL THINGS.
20. All these things I retain in my memory, and how I learnt them I retain. I retain also many things which I have heard most falsely objected against them, which though they be false, yet is it not false that I have remembered them; and I remember, too, that I have distinguished between those truths and these falsehoods uttered against them; and I now see that it is one thing to distinguish these things, another to remember that I often distinguished them, when I often reflected upon them. I both remember, then, that I have often understood these things, and what I now distinguish and comprehend I store away in my memory, that hereafter I may remember that I understood it now. Therefore also I remember that I have remembered; so that if afterwards I shall call to mind that I have been able to remember these things, it will be through the power of memory that I shall call it to mind.
CHAP. XIV.—
CONCERNING THE MANNER IN WHICH JOY AND SADNESS MAY BE BROUGHT BACK TO THE MIND AND MEMORY.
21. This same memory contains also the affections of my mind; not in the manner in which the mind itself contains them when it suffers them, but very differently according to a power peculiar to memory. For without being joyous, I remember myself to have had joy; and without being sad, I call to mind my past sadness; and that of which I was once afraid, I remember without fear; and without desire recall a former desire. Again, on the contrary, I at times remember when joyous my past sadness, and when sad my joy. Which is not to be wondered at as regards the body; for the mind is one thing, the body another. If I, therefore, when happy, recall some past bodily pain, it is not so strange a thing. But now, as this very memory itself is mind (for when we give orders to have a thing kept in memory, we say, “See that you bear this in mind;” and when we forget a thing, we say, “It did not enter my mind,” and, “It slipped from my mind,” thus calling the memory itself mind), as this is so, how comes it to pass that when being joyful I remember my past sorrow, the mind has joy, the memory sorrow,—the mind, from the joy than is in it, is joyful, yet the memory, from the sadness that is in it, is not sad? Does not the memory perchance belong unto the mind? Who will say so? The memory doubtless is, so to say, the belly of the mind, and joy and sadness like sweet and bitter food, which, when entrusted to the memory, are, as it were, passed into the belly, where they can be reposited, but cannot taste. It is ridiculous to imagine these to be alike; and yet they are not utterly unlike.
22. But behold, out of my memory I educe it, when I affirm that there be four perturbations of the mind,—desire, joy, fear, sorrow; and whatsoever I shall be able to dispute on these, by dividing each into its peculiar species, and by defining it, there I find what I may say, and thence I educe it; yet am I not disturbed by any of these perturbations when by remembering them I call them to mind; and before I recollected and reviewed them, they were there; wherefore by remembrance could they be brought thence. Perchance, then, even as meat is in ruminating brought up out of the belly, so by calling to mind are these educed from the memory. Why, then, does not the disputant, thus recollecting, perceive in the mouth of his meditation the sweetness of joy or the bitterness of sorrow? Is the comparison unlike in this because not like in all points? For who would willingly discourse on these subjects, if, as often as we name sorrow or fear, we should be compelled to be sorrowful or fearful? And yet we could never speak of them, did we not find in our memory not merely the sounds of the names according to the images imprinted on it by the senses of the body, but the notions of the things themselves, which we never received by any door of the flesh, but which the mind itself, recognising by the experience of its own passions, entrusted to the memory, or else which the memory itself retained without their being entrusted to it.
CHAP. XV.—
IN MEMORY THERE ARE ALSO IMAGES OF THINGS WHICH ARE ABSENT.
23. But whether by images or no, who can well affirm? For I name a stone, I name the sun, and the things themselves are not present to my senses, but their images are near to my memory. I name some pain of the body, yet it is not present when there is no pain; yet if its image were not in my memory, I should be ignorant what to say concerning it, nor in arguing be able to distinguish it from pleasure. I name bodily health when sound in body; the thing itself is indeed present with me, but unless its image also were in my memory, I could by no means call to mind what the sound of this name signified. Nor would sick people know, when health was named, what was said, unless the same image were retained by the power of memory, although the thing itself were absent from the body. I name numbers whereby we enumerate; and not their images, but they themselves are in my memory. I name the image of the sun, and this, too, is in my memory. For I do not recall the image of that image, but itself, for the image itself is present when I remember it. I name memory, and I know what I name. But where do I know it, except in the memory itself? Is it also present to itself by its image, and not by itself?
CHAP. XVI.—
THE PRIVATION OF MEMORY IS FORGETFULNESS.
24. When I name forgetfulness, and know, too, what I name, whence should I know it if I did not remember it? I do not say the sound of the name, but the thing which it signifies; which, had I forgotten, I could not know what that sound signified. When, therefore, I remember memory, then is memory present with itself, through itself. But when I remember forgetfulness, there are present both memory and forgetfulness,—memory, whereby I remember, forgetfulness, which I remember. But what is forgetfulness but the privation of memory? How, then, is that present for me to remember, since, when it is so, I cannot remember? But if what we remember we retain in memory, yet, unless we remembered forgetfulness, we could never at the hearing of the name know the thing meant by it, then is forgetfulness retained by memory. Present, therefore, it is, lest we should forget it; and being so, we do forget. Is it to be inferred from this that forgetfulness, when we remember it, is not present to the memory through itself, but through its image; because, were forgetfulness present through itself, it would not lead us to remember, but to forget? Who will now investigate this? Who shall understand how it is?
25. Truly, O Lord, I labour therein, and labour in myself. I am become a troublesome soil that requires overmuch labour. For we are not now searching out the tracts of heaven, or measuring the distances of the stars, or inquiring about the weight of the earth. It is I myself—I, the mind—who remember. It is not much to be wondered at, if what I myself am not be far from me. But what is nearer to me than myself? And, behold, I am not able to comprehend the force of my own memory, though I cannot name myself without it. For what shall I say when it is plain to me that I remember forgetfulness? Shall I affirm that that which I remember is not in my memory? Or shall I say that forgetfulness is in my memory with the view of my not forgetting? Both of these are most absurd. What third view is there? How can I assert that the image of forgetfulness is retained by my memory, and not forgetfulness itself, when I remember it? And how can I assert this, seeing that when the image of anything is imprinted on the memory, the thing itself must of necessity be present first by which that image may be imprinted? For thus do I remember Carthage; thus, all the places to which I have been; thus, the faces of men whom I have seen, and things reported by the other senses; thus, the health or sickness of the body. For when these objects were present, my memory received images from them, which, when they were present, I might gaze on and reconsider in my mind, as I remembered them when they were absent. If, therefore, forgetfulness is retained in the memory through its image, and not through itself, then itself was once present, that its image might be taken. But when it was present, how did it write its image on the memory, seeing that forgetfulness by its presence blots out even what it finds already noted? And yet, in whatever way, though it be incomprehensible and inexplicable, yet most certain I am that I remember also forgetfulness itself, whereby what we do remember is blotted out.
CHAP. XVII.—
GOD CANNOT BE ATTAINED UNTO BY THE POWER OF MEMORY, WHICH BEASTS AND BIRDS POSSESS.
26. Great is the power of memory; very wonderful is it, O my God, a profound and infinite manifoldness; and this thing is the mind, and this I myself am. What then am I, O my God? Of what nature am I? A life various and manifold, and exceeding vast. Behold, in the numberless fields, and caves, and caverns of my memory, full without number of numberless kinds of things, either through images, as all bodies are; or by the presence of the things themselves, as are the arts; or by some notion or observation, as the affections of the mind are, which, even though the mind doth not suffer, the memory retains, while whatsoever is in the memory is also in the mind: through all these do I run to and fro, and fly; I penetrate on this side and that, as far as I am able, and nowhere is there an end. So great is the power of memory, so great the power of life in man, whose life is mortal. What then shall I do, O Thou my true life, my God? I will pass even beyond this power of mine which is called memory—I will pass beyond it, that I may proceed to Thee, O Thou sweet Light. What sayest Thou to me? Behold, I am soaring by my mind towards Thee who remainest above me. I will also pass beyond this power of mine which is called memory, wishful to reach Thee whence Thou canst be reached, and to cleave unto Thee whence it is possible to cleave unto Thee. For even beasts and birds possess memory, else could they never find their lairs and nests again, nor many other things to which they are used; neither indeed could they become used to anything, but by their memory. I will pass, then, beyond memory also, that I may reach Him who has separated me from the four-footed beasts and the fowls of the air, making me wiser than they. I will pass beyond memory also, but where shall I find Thee, O Thou truly good and assured sweetness? But where shall I find Thee? If I find Thee without memory, then am I unmindful of Thee. And how now shall I find Thee, if I do not remember Thee?
CHAP. XVIII.—
A THING WHEN LOST COULD NOT BE FOUND UNLESS IT WERE RETAINED IN THE MEMORY.
27. For the woman who lost her drachma, and searched for it with a lamp,1 unless she had remembered it, would never have found it. For when it was found, whence could she know whether it were the same, had she not remembered it? I remember to have lost and found many things; and this I know thereby, that when I was searching for any of them, and was asked, “Is this it?” “Is that it?” I answered “No,” until such time as that which I sought were offered to me. Which had I not remembered,—whatever it were,—though it were offered me, yet would I not find it, because I could not recognise it. And thus it is always, when we search for and find anything that is lost. Notwithstanding, if anything be by accident lost from the sight, not from the memory,—as any visible body,—the image of it is retained within, and is searched for until it be restored to sight; and when it is found, it is recognised by the image which is within. Nor do we say that we have found what we had lost unless we recognise it; nor can we recognise it unless we remember it. But this, though lost to the sight, was retained in the memory.
CHAP. XIX.—
WHAT IT IS TO REMEMBER.
28. But how is it when the memory itself loses anything, as it happens when we forget anything and try to recall it? Where finally do we search, but in the memory itself? And there, if perchance one thing be offered for another, we refuse it, until we meet with what we seek; and when we do, we exclaim, “This is it!” which we should not do unless we knew it again, nor should we recognise it unless we remembered it. Assuredly, therefore, we had forgotten it. Or, had not the whole of it slipped our memory, but by the part by which we had hold was the other part sought for; since the memory perceived that it did not revolve together as much as it was accustomed to do, and halting, as if from the mutilation of its old habit, demanded the restoration of that which was wanting. For example, if we see or think of some man known to us, and, having forgotten his name, endeavour to recover it, whatsoever other thing presents itself is not connected with it; because it was not used to be thought of in connection with him, and is consequently rejected, until that is present whereon the knowledge reposes fittingly as its accustomed object. And whence, save from the memory itself, does that present itself? For even when we recognise it as put in mind of it by another, it is thence it comes. For we do not believe it as something new, but, as we recall it, admit what was said to be correct. But if it were entirely blotted out of the mind, we should not, even when put in mind of it, recollect it. For we have not as yet entirely forgotten what we remember that we have forgotten. A lost notion, then, which we have entirely forgotten, we cannot even search for.
CHAP. XX.—
WE SHOULD NOT SEEK FOR GOD AND THE HAPPY LIFE UNLESS WE HAD KNOWN IT.
29. How, then, do I seek Thee, O Lord? For when I seek Thee, my God, I seek a happy life.1 I will seek Thee, that my soul may live.2 For my body liveth by my soul, and my soul liveth by Thee. How, then, do I seek a happy life, seeing that it is not mine till I can say, “It is enough!” in that place where I ought to say it? How do I seek it? Is it by remembrance, as though I had forgotten it, knowing too that I had forgotten it? or, longing to learn it as a thing unknown, which either I had never known, or had so forgotten it as not even to remember that I had forgotten it? Is not a happy life the thing that all desire, and is there any one who altogether desires it not? But where did they acquire the knowledge of it, that they so desire it? Where have they seen it, that they so love it? Truly we have it, but, how I know not. Yea, there is another way in which, when any one hath it, he is happy; and some there be that are happy in hope. These have it in an inferior kind to those that are happy in fact; and yet are they better off than they who are happy neither in fact nor in hope. And even these, had they it not in some way, would not so much desire to be happy, which that they do desire is most certain. How they come to know it, I cannot tell, but they have it by some kind of knowledge unknown to me, who am in much doubt as to whether it be in the memory; for if it be there, then have we been happy once; whether all individually, or as in that man who first sinned, in whom also we all died,3 and from whom we are all born with misery, I do not now ask; but I ask whether the happy life be in the memory? For did we not know it, we should not love it. We hear the name, and we all acknowledge that we desire the thing; for we are not delighted with the sound only. For when a Greek hears it spoken in Latin, he does not feel delighted, for he knows not what is spoken; but we are delighted,4 as he too would be if he heard it in Greek; because the thing itself is neither Greek nor Latin, which Greeks and Latins, and men of all other tongues, long so earnestly to obtain. It is then known unto all, and could they with one voice be asked whether they wished to be happy, without doubt they would all answer that they would. And this could not be unless the thing itself, of which it is the name, were retained in their memory.
CHAP. XXI.—
HOW A HAPPY LIFE MAY BE RETAINED IN THE MEMORY.
30. But is it so as one who has seen Carthage remembers it? No. For a happy life is not visible to the eye, because it is not a body. Is it, then, as we remember numbers? No. For he that hath these in his knowledge strives not to attain further; but a happy life we have in our knowledge, and, therefore, do we love it, while yet we wish further to attain it that we may be happy. Is it, then, as we remember eloquence? No. For although some, when they hear this name, call the thing to mind, who, indeed, are not yet eloquent, and many who wish to be so, whence it appears to be in their knowledge; yet have these by their bodily perceptions noticed that others are eloquent, and been delighted with it, and long to be so,—although they would not be delighted save for some interior knowledge, nor desire to be so unless they were delighted,—but a happy life we can by no bodily perception make experience of in others. Is it, then, as we remember joy? It may be so; for my joy I remember, even when sad, like as I do a happy life when I am miserable. Nor did I ever with perception of the body either see, hear, smell, taste, or touch my joy; but I experienced it in my mind when I rejoiced; and the knowledge of it clung to my memory, so that I can call it to mind, sometimes with disdain and at others with desire, according to the difference of the things wherein I now remember that I rejoiced. For even from unclean things have I been bathed with a certain joy, which now calling to mind, I detest and execrate; at other times, from good and honest things, which, with longing, I call to mind, though perchance they be not nigh at hand, and then with sadness do I call to mind a former joy.
31. Where and when, then, did I experience my happy life, that I should call it to mind, and love and long for it? Nor is it I alone or a few others who wish to be happy, but truly all; which, unless by certain knowledge we knew, we should not wish with so certain a will. But how is this, that if two men be asked whether they would wish to serve as soldiers, one, it may be, would reply that he would, the other that he would not; but if they were asked whether they would wish to be happy, both of them would unhesitatingly say that they would; and this one would wish to serve, and the other not, from no other motive but to be happy? Is it, perchance, that as one joys in this, and another in that, so do all men agree in their wish for happiness, as they would agree, were they asked, in wishing to have joy,—and this joy they call a happy life? Although, then, one pursues joy in this way, and another in that, all have one goal, which they strive to attain, namely, to have joy. This life, being a thing which no one can say he has not experienced, it is on that account found in the memory, and recognised whenever the name of a happy life is heard.
CHAP. XXII.—
A HAPPY LIFE IS TO REJOICE IN GOD, AND FOR GOD.
32. Let it be far, O Lord,—let it be far from the heart of Thy servant who confesseth unto Thee; let it be far from me to think myself happy, be the joy what it may. For there is a joy which is not granted to the “wicked,”1 but to those who worship Thee thankfully, whose joy Thou Thyself art. And the happy life is this,—to rejoice unto Thee, in Thee, and for Thee; this it is, and there is no other.2 But those who think there is another follow after another joy, and that not the true one. Their will, however, is not turned away from some shadow of joy.
CHAP. XXIII.—
ALL WISH TO REJOICE IN THE TRUTH.
33. It is not, then, certain that all men wish to be happy, since those who wish not to rejoice in Thee, which is the only happy life, do not verily desire the happy life. Or do all desire this, but because “the flesh lusteth against the spirit, and the spirit against the flesh,” so that they “cannot do the things that they would,”3 they fall upon that which they are able to do, and with that are content; because that which they are not able to do, they do not so will as to make them able?4 For I ask of every man, whether he would rather rejoice in truth or in falsehood. They will no more hesitate to say, “in truth,” than to say, “that they wish to be happy.” For a happy life is joy in the truth. For this is joy in Thee, who art “the truth,”5 O God, “my light,”6 “the health of my countenance, and my God.”7 All wish for this happy life; this life do all wish for, which is the only happy one; joy in the truth do all wish for.8 I have had experience of many who wished to deceive, but not one who wished to be deceived. Where, then, did they know this happy life, save where they knew also the truth? For they love it, too, since they would not be deceived. And when they love a happy life, which is naught else but joy in the truth, assuredly they love also the truth; which yet they would not love were there not some knowledge of it in the memory. Wherefore, then, do they not rejoice in it? Why are they not happy? Because they are more entirely occupied with other things which rather make them miserable, than that which would make them happy, which they remember so little of. For there is yet a little light in men; let them walk—let them “walk,” that the “darkness” seize them not.9
34. Why, then, doth truth beget hatred,1 and that man of thine,2 preaching the truth, become an enemy unto them, whereas a happy life is loved, which is naught else but joy in the truth; unless that truth is loved in such a sort as that those who love aught else wish that to be the truth which they love, and, as they are willing to be deceived, are unwilling to be convinced that they are so? Therefore do they hate the truth for the sake of that thing which they love instead of the truth. They love truth when she shines on them, and hate her when she rebukes them. For, because they are not willing to be deceived, and wish to deceive, they love her when she reveals herself, and hate her when she reveals them. On that account shall she so requite them, that those who were unwilling to be discovered by her she both discovers against their will, and discovers not herself unto them. Thus, thus, truly thus doth the human mind, so blind and sick, so base and unseemly, desire to lie concealed, but wishes not that anything should be concealed from it. But the opposite is rendered unto it,—that itself is not concealed from the truth, but the truth is concealed from it. Yet, even while thus wretched, it prefers to rejoice in truth rather than in falsehood. Happy then will it be, when, no trouble intervening, it shall rejoice in that only truth by whom all things else are true.
CHAP. XXIV.—
HE WHO FINDS TRUTH, FINDS GOD.
35. Behold how I have enlarged in my memory seeking Thee, O Lord; and out of it have I not found Thee. Nor have I found aught concerning Thee, but what I have retained in memory from the time I learned Thee. For from the time I learned Thee have I never forgotten Thee. For where I found truth, there found I my God, who is the Truth itself,3 which from the time I learned it have I not forgotten. And thus since the time I learned Thee, Thou abidest in my memory; and there do I find Thee whensoever I call Thee to remembrance, and delight in Thee. These are my holy delights, which Thou hast bestowed upon me in Thy mercy, having respect unto my poverty.
CHAP. XXV.—
HE IS GLAD THAT GOD DWELLS IN HIS MEMORY.
36. But where in my memory abidest Thou, O Lord, where dost Thou there abide? What manner of chamber hast Thou there formed for Thyself? What sort of sanctuary hast Thou erected for Thyself? Thou hast granted this honour to my memory, to take up Thy abode in it; but in what quarter of it Thou abidest, I am considering. For in calling Thee to mind,4 I soared beyond those parts of it which the beasts also possess, since I found Thee not there amongst the images of corporeal things; and I arrived at those parts where I had committed the affections of my mind, nor there did I find Thee. And I entered into the very seat of my mind, which it has in my memory, since the mind remembers itself also—nor wert Thou there. For as Thou art not a bodily image, nor the affection of a living creature, as when we rejoice, condole, desire, fear, remember, forget, or aught of the kind; so neither art Thou the mind itself, because Thou art the Lord God of the mind; and all these things are changed, but Thou remainest unchangeable over all, yet vouchsafest to dwell in my memory, from the time I learned Thee. But why do I now seek in what part of it Thou dwellest, as if truly there were places in it? Thou dost dwell in it assuredly, since I have remembered Thee from the time I learned Thee, and I find Thee in it when I call Thee to mind.
CHAP. XXVI.—
GOD EVERYWHERE ANSWERS THOSE WHO TAKE COUNSEL OF HIM.
37. Where, then, did I find Thee, so as to be able to learn Thee? For Thou wert not in my memory before I learned Thee. Where, then, did I find Thee, so as to be able to learn Thee, but in Thee above me? Place there is none; we go both “backward” and “forward,”5 and there is no place. Everywhere, O Truth, dost Thou direct all who consult Thee, and dost at once answer all, though they consult Thee on divers things. Clearly dost Thou answer, though all do not with clearness hear. All consult Thee upon whatever they wish, though they hear not always that which they wish. He is Thy best servant who does not so much look to hear that from Thee which he himself wisheth, as to wish that which he heareth from Thee.
CHAP. XXVII.—
HE GRIEVES THAT HE WAS SO LONG WITHOUT GOD.
38. Too late did I love Thee, O Fairness, so ancient, and yet so new! Too late did I love Thee! For behold, Thou wert within, and I without, and there did I seek Thee; I, unlovely, rushed heedlessly among the things of beauty Thou madest.6 Thou wert with me, but I was not with Thee. Those things kept me far from Thee, which, unless they were in Thee, were not. Thou calledst, and criedst aloud, and forcedst open my deafness. Thou didst gleam and shine, and chase away my blindness. Thou didst exhale odours, and I drew in my breath and do pant after Thee. I tasted, and do hunger and thirst. Thou didst touch me, and I burned for Thy peace.
CHAP. XXVIII.—
ON THE MISERY OF HUMAN LIFE.
39. When I shall cleave unto Thee with all my being, then shall I in nothing have pain and labour; and my life shall be a real life, being wholly full of Thee. But now since he whom Thou fillest is the one Thou liftest up, I am a burden to myself, as not being full of Thee. Joys of sorrow contend with sorrows of joy; and on which side the victory may be I know not. Woe is me! Lord, have pity on me. My evil sorrows contend with my good joys; and on which side the victory may be I know not. Woe is me! Lord, have pity on me. Woe is me! Lo, I hide not my wounds; Thou art the Physician, I the sick; Thou merciful, I miserable. Is not the life of man upon earth a temptation?1 Who is he that wishes for vexations and difficulties? Thou commandest them to be endured, not to be loved. For no man loves what he endures, though he may love to endure. For notwithstanding he rejoices to endure, he would rather there were naught for him to endure.2 In adversity, I desire prosperity; in prosperity, I fear adversity. What middle place, then, is there between these, where human life is not a temptation? Woe unto the prosperity of this world, once and again, from fear of misfortune and a corruption of joy! Woe unto the adversities of this world, once and again, and for the third time, from the desire of prosperity; and because adversity itself is a hard thing, and makes shipwreck of endurance! Is not the life of man upon earth a temptation, and that without intermission?3
CHAP. XXIX.—
ALL HOPE IS IN THE MERCY OF GOD.
40. And my whole hope is only in Thy exceeding great mercy. Give what Thou commandest, and command what Thou wilt. Thou imposest continency upon us,4 “nevertheless, when I perceived,” saith one, “that I could not otherwise obtain her, except God gave her me; . . . that was a point of wisdom also to know whose gift she was.”5 For by continency are we bound up and brought into one, whence we were scattered abroad into many. For he loves Thee too little who loves aught with Thee, which he loves not for Thee,6 O love, who ever burnest, and art never quenched! O charity, my God, kindle me! Thou commandest continency; give what Thou commandest, and command what Thou wilt.
CHAP. XXX.—
OF THE PERVERSE IMAGES OF DREAMS, WHICH HE WISHES TO HAVE TAKEN AWAY.
41. Verily, Thou commandest that I should be continent from the “lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life.”7 Thou hast commanded me to abstain from concubinage; and as to marriage itself, Thou hast advised something better than Thou hast allowed. And because Thou didst give it, it was done; and that before I became a dispenser of Thy sacrament. But there still exist in my memory—of which I have spoken much—the images of such things as my habits had fixed there; and these rush into my thoughts, though strengthless, when I am awake; but in sleep they do so not only so as to give pleasure, but even to obtain consent, and what very nearly resembles reality.8 Yea, to such an extent prevails the illusion of the image, both in my soul and in my flesh, that the false persuade me, when sleeping, unto that which the true are not able when waking. Am I not myself at that time, O Lord my God? And there is yet so much difference between myself and myself, in that instant wherein I pass back from waking to sleeping, or return from sleeping to waking! Where, then, is the reason which when waking resists such suggestions? And if the things themselves be forced on it, I remain unmoved. Is it shut up with the eyes? Or is it put to sleep with the bodily senses? But whence, then, comes it to pass, that even in slumber we often resist, and, bearing our purpose in mind, and continuing most chastely in it, yield no assent to such allurements? And there is yet so much difference that, when it happeneth otherwise, upon awaking we return to peace of conscience; and by this same diversity do we discover that it was not we that did it, while we still feel sorry that in some way it was done in us.
42. Is not Thy hand able, O Almighty God, to heal all the diseases of my soul,1 and by Thy more abundant grace to quench even the lascivious motions of my sleep? Thou wilt increase in me, O Lord, Thy gifts more and more, that my soul may follow me to Thee, disengaged from the bird-lime of concupiscence; that it may not be in rebellion against itself, and even in dreams not simply not, through sensual images, commit those deformities of corruption, even to the pollution of the flesh, but that it may not even consent unto them. For it is no great thing for the Almighty, who is “able to do . . . above all that we ask or think,”2 to bring it about that no such influence—not even so slight a one as a sign might restrain—should afford gratification to the chaste affection even of one sleeping; and that not only in this life, but at my present age. But what I still am in this species of my ill, have I confessed unto my good Lord; rejoicing with trembling3 in that which Thou hast given me, and bewailing myself for that wherein I am still imperfect; trusting that Thou wilt perfect Thy mercies in me, even to the fulness of peace, which both that which is within and that which is without4 shall have with Thee, when death is swallowed up in victory.5
CHAP. XXXI.—
ABOUT TO SPEAK OF THE TEMPTATIONS OF THE LUST OF THE FLESH, HE FIRST COMPLAINS OF THE LUST OF EATING AND DRINKING.
43. There is another evil of the day that I would were “sufficient” unto it.6 For by eating and drinking we repair the daily decays of the body, until Thou destroyest both food and stomach, when Thou shalt destroy my want with an amazing satiety, and shalt clothe this corruptible with an eternal incorruption.7 But now is necessity sweet unto me, and against this sweetness do I fight, lest I be enthralled; and I carry on a daily war by fastings,8 oftentimes “bringing my body into subjection,”9 and my pains are expelled by pleasure. For hunger and thirst are in some sort pains; they consume and destroy like unto a fever, unless the medicine of nourishment relieve us. The which, since it is at hand through the comfort we receive of Thy gifts, with which land and water and air serve our infirmity, our calamity is called pleasure.
44. This much hast Thou taught me, that I should bring myself to take food as medicine. But during the time that I am passing from the uneasiness of want to the calmness of satiety, even in the very passage doth that snare of concupiscence lie in wait for me. For the passage itself is pleasure, nor is there any other way of passing thither, whither necessity compels us to pass. And whereas health is the reason of eating and drinking, there joineth itself as an handmaid a perilous delight, which mostly tries to precede it, in order that I may do for her sake what I say I do, or desire to do, for health’s sake. Nor have both the same limit; for what is sufficient for health is too little for pleasure. And oftentimes it is doubtful whether it be the necessary care of the body which still asks nourishment, or whether a sensual snare of desire offers its ministry. In this uncertainty does my unhappy soul rejoice, and therein prepares an excuse as a defence, glad that it doth not appear what may be sufficient for the moderation of health, that so under the pretence of health it may conceal the business of pleasure. These temptations do I daily endeavour to resist, and I summon Thy right hand to my help, and refer my excitements to Thee, because as yet I have no resolve in this matter.
45. I hear the voice of my God commanding, let not “your hearts be overcharged with surfeiting and drunkenness.”10 “Drunkenness,” it is far from me; Thou wilt have mercy, that it approach not near unto me. But “surfeiting” sometimes creepeth upon Thy servant; Thou wilt have mercy, that it may be far from me. For no man can be continent unless Thou give it.11 Many things which we pray for dost Thou give us; and what good soever we receive before we prayed for it, do we receive from Thee, and that we might afterwards know this did we receive it from Thee. Drunkard was I never, but I have known drunkards to be made sober men by Thee. Thy doing, then, was it, that they who never were such might not be so, as from Thee it was that they who have been so heretofore might not remain so always; and from Thee, too, was it, that both might know from whom it was. I heard another voice of Thine, “Go not after thy lusts, but refrain thyself from thine appetites.”1 And by Thy favour have I heard this saying likewise, which I have much delighted in, “Neither if we eat, are we the better; neither if we eat not, are we the worse;”2 which is to say, that neither shall the one make me to abound, nor the other to be wretched. I heard also another voice, “For I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content, I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound. . . . I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.”3 Lo! a soldier of the celestial camp—not dust as we are. But remember, O Lord, “that we are dust,”4 and that of dust Thou hast created man;5 and he “was lost, and is found.”6 Nor could he do this of his own power, seeing that he whom I so loved, saying these things through the afflatus of Thy inspiration, was of that same dust. “I can,” saith he, “do all things through Him which strengtheneth me.”7 Strengthen me, that I may be able. Give what Thou commandest, and command what Thou wilt.8 He confesses to have received, and when he glorieth, he glorieth in the Lord.9 Another have I heard entreating that he might receive,—“Take from me,” saith he, “the greediness of the belly;”10 by which it appeareth, O my holy God, that Thou givest when what Thou commandest to be done is done.
46. Thou hast taught me, good Father, that “unto the pure all things are pure;”11 but “it is evil for that man who eateth with offence;”12 “and that every creature of Thine is good, and nothing to be refused, if it be received with thanksgiving;”13 and that “meat commendeth us not to God;”14 and that no man should “judge us in meat or in drink;”15 and that he that eateth, let him not despise him that eateth not; and let not him that eateth not judge him that eateth.16 These things have I learned, thanks and praise be unto Thee, O my God and Master, who dost knock at my ears and enlighten my heart; deliver me out of all temptation. It is not the uncleanness of meat that I fear, but the uncleanness of lusting. I know that permission was granted unto Noah to eat every kind of flesh17 that was good for food;18 that Elias was fed with flesh;19 that John, endued with a wonderful abstinence, was not polluted by the living creatures (that is, the locusts20 ) which he fed on. I know, too, that Esau was deceived by a longing for lentiles,21 and that David took blame to himself for desiring water,22 and that our King was tempted not by flesh but bread.23 And the people in the wilderness, therefore, also deserved reproof, not because they desired flesh, but because, in their desire for food, they murmured against the Lord.24
47. Placed, then, in the midst of these temptations, I strive daily against longing for food and drink. For it is not of such a nature as that I am able to resolve to cut it off once for all, and not touch it afterwards, as I was able to do with concubinage. The bridle of the throat, therefore, is to be held in the mean of slackness and tightness.25 And who, O Lord, is he who is not in some degree carried away beyond the bounds of necessity? Whoever he is, he is great; let him magnify Thy name. But I am not such a one, “for I am a sinful man.”26 Yet do I also magnify Thy name; and He who hath “overcome the world”27 maketh intercession to Thee for my sins,28 accounting me among the “feeble members” of His body,29 because Thine eyes saw that of him which was imperfect; and in Thy book all shall be written.30
CHAP. XXXII.—
OF THE CHARMS OF PERFUMES WHICH ARE MORE EASILY OVERCOME.
48. With the attractions of odours I am not much troubled. When absent I do not seek them; when present I do not refuse them; and am prepared ever to be without them. At any rate thus I appear to myself; perchance I am deceived. For that also is a lamentable darkness wherein my capacity that is in me is concealed, so that my mind, making inquiry into herself concerning her own powers, ventures not readily to credit herself; because that which is already in it is, for the most part, concealed, unless experience reveal it. And no man ought to feel secure1 in this life, the whole of which is called a temptation,2 that he, who could be made better from worse, may not also from better be made worse. Our sole hope, our sole confidence, our sole assured promise, is Thy mercy.
CHAP. XXXIII.—
HE OVERCAME THE PLEASURES OF THE EAR, ALTHOUGH IN THE CHURCH HE FREQUENTLY DELIGHTED IN THE SONG, NOT IN THE THING SUNG.
49. The delights of the ear had more powerfully inveigled and conquered me, but Thou didst unbind and liberate me. Now, in those airs which Thy words breathe soul into, when sung with a sweet and trained voice, do I somewhat repose; yet not so as to cling to them, but so as to free myself when I wish. But with the words which are their life do they, that they may gain admission into me, strive after a place of some honour in my heart; and I can hardly assign them a fitting one. Sometimes I appear to myself to give them more respect than is fitting, as I perceive that our minds are more devoutly and earnestly elevated into a flame of piety by the holy words themselves when they are thus sung, than when they are not; and that all affections of our spirit, by their own diversity, have their appropriate measures in the voice and singing, wherewith by I know not what secret relationship they are stimulated. But the gratification of my flesh, to which the mind ought never to be given over to be enervated, often beguiles me, while the sense does not so attend on reason as to follow her patiently; but having gained admission merely for her sake, it strives even to run on before her, and be her leader. Thus in these things do I sin unknowing, but afterwards do I know it.
50. Sometimes, again, avoiding very earnestly this same deception, I err out of too great preciseness; and sometimes so much as to desire that every air of the pleasant songs to which David’s Psalter is often used, be banished both from my ears and those of the Church itself; and that way seemed unto me safer which I remembered to have been often related to me of Athanasius, Bishop of Alexandria, who obliged the reader of the psalm to give utterance to it with so slight an inflection of voice, that it was more like speaking than singing. Notwithstanding, when I call to mind the tears I shed at the songs of Thy Church, at the outset of my recovered faith, and how even now I am moved not by the singing but by what is sung, when they are sung with a clear and skilfully modulated voice, I then acknowledge the great utility of this custom. Thus vacillate I between dangerous pleasure and tried soundness; being inclined rather (though I pronounce no irrevocable opinion upon the subject) to approve of the use of singing in the church, that so by the delights of the ear the weaker minds may be stimulated to a devotional frame. Yet when it happens to me to be more moved by the singing than by what is sung, I confess myself to have sinned criminally, and then I would rather not have heard the singing. See now the condition I am in! Weep with me, and weep for me, you who so control your inward feelings as that good results ensue. As for you who do not thus act, these things concern you not. But Thou, O Lord my God, give ear, behold and see, and have mercy upon me, and heal me,3 —Thou, in whose sight I am become a puzzle to myself; and “this is my infirmity.”4
CHAP. XXXIV.—
OF THE VERY DANGEROUS ALLUREMENTS OF THE EYES; ON ACCOUNT OF BEAUTY OF FORM, GOD, THE CREATOR, IS TO BE PRAISED.
51. There remain the delights of these eyes of my flesh, concerning which to make my confessions in the hearing of the ears of Thy temple, those fraternal and devout ears; and so to conclude the temptations of “the lust of the flesh”5 which still assail me, groaning and desiring to be clothed upon with my house from heaven.6 The eyes delight in fair and varied forms, and bright and pleasing colours. Suffer not these to take possession of my soul; let God rather possess it, He who made these things “very good”1 indeed; yet is He my good, not these. And these move me while awake, during the day; nor is rest from them granted me, as there is from the voices of melody, sometimes, in silence, from them all. For that queen of colours, the light, flooding all that we look upon, wherever I be during the day, gliding past me in manifold forms, doth soothe me when busied about other things, and not noticing it. And so strongly doth it insinuate itself, that if it be suddenly withdrawn it is looked for longingly, and if long absent doth sadden the mind.
52. O Thou Light, which Tobias saw,2 when, his eyes being closed, he taught his son the way of life; himself going before with the feet of charity, never going astray. Or that which Isaac saw, when his fleshly “eyes were dim, so that he could not see”3 by reason of old age; it was permitted him, not knowingly to bless his sons, but in blessing them to know them. Or that which Jacob saw, when he too, blind through great age, with an enlightened heart, in the persons of his own sons, threw light upon the races of the future people, presignified in them; and laid his hands, mystically crossed, upon his grandchildren by Joseph, not as their father, looking outwardly, corrected them, but as he himself distinguished them.4 This is the light, the only one, and all those who see and love it are one. But that corporeal light of which I was speaking seasoneth the life of the world for her blind lovers, with a tempting and fatal sweetness. But they who know how to praise Thee for it, “O God, the world’s great Architect,”5 take it up in Thy hymn, and are not taken up with it6 in their sleep. Such desire I to be. I resist seductions of the eyes, lest my feet with which I advance on Thy way be entangled; and I raise my invisible eyes to Thee, that Thou wouldst be pleased to “pluck my feet out of the net.”7 Thou dost continually pluck them out, for they are ensnared. Thou never ceasest to pluck them out, but I constantly remain fast in the snares set all around me; because Thou “that keepest Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.”8
53. What numberless things, made by divers arts and manufactures, both in our apparel, shoes, vessels, and every kind of work, in pictures, too, and sundry images, and these going far beyond necessary and moderate use and holy signification, have men added for the enthralment of the eyes; following outwardly what they make, forsaking inwardly Him by whom they were made, yea, and destroying that which they themselves were made! But I, O my God and my Joy, do hence also sing a hymn unto Thee, and offer a sacrifice of praise unto my Sanctifier,9 because those beautiful patterns, which through the medium of men’s souls are conveyed into their artistic hands,10 emanate from that Beauty which is above our souls, which my soul sigheth after day and night. But as for the makers and followers of those outward beauties, they from thence derive the way of approving them, but not of using them.11 And though they see Him not, yet is He there, that they might not go astray, but keep their strength for Thee,12 and not dissipate it upon delicious lassitudes. And I, though I both say and perceive this, impede my course with such beauties, but Thou dost rescue me, O Lord, Thou dost rescue me; “for Thy loving-kindness is before mine eyes.”13 For I am taken miserably, and Thou rescuest me mercifully; sometimes not perceiving it, in that I had come upon them hesitatingly; at other times with pain, because I was held fast by them.
CHAP. XXXV.—
ANOTHER KIND OF TEMPTATION IS CURIOSITY, WHICH IS STIMULATED BY THE LUST OF THE EYES.
54. In addition to this there is another form of temptation, more complex in its peril. For besides that concupiscence of the flesh which lieth in the gratification of all senses and pleasures, wherein its slaves who “are far from Thee perish,”14 there pertaineth to the soul, through the same senses of the body, a certain vain and curious longing, cloaked under the name of knowledge and learning, not of having pleasure in the flesh, but of making experiments through the flesh. This longing, since it originates in an appetite for knowledge, and the sight being the chief amongst the senses in the acquisition of knowledge, is called in divine language, “the lust of the eyes.”15 For seeing belongeth properly to the eyes; yet we apply this word to the other senses also, when we exercise them in the search after knowledge. For we do not say, Listen how it glows, smell how it glistens, taste how it shines, or feel how it flashes, since all these are said to be seen. And yet we say not only, See how it shineth, which the eyes alone can perceive; but also, See how it soundeth, see how it smelleth, see how it tasteth, see how hard it is. And thus the general experience of the senses, as was said before, is termed “the lust of the eyes,” because the function of seeing, wherein the eyes hold the pre-eminence, the other senses by way of similitude take possession of, whensoever they seek out any knowledge.
55. But by this is it more clearly discerned, when pleasure and when curiosity is pursued by the senses; for pleasure follows after objects that are beautiful, melodious, fragrant, savoury, soft; but curiosity, for experiment’s sake, seeks the contrary of these,—not with a view of undergoing uneasiness, but from the passion of experimenting upon and knowing them. For what pleasure is there to see, in a lacerated corpse, that which makes you shudder? And yet if it lie near, we flock thither, to be made sad, and to turn pale. Even in sleep they fear lest they should see it. Just as if when awake any one compelled them to go and see it, or any report of its beauty had attracted them! Thus also is it with the other senses, which it were tedious to pursue. From this malady of curiosity are all those strange sights exhibited in the theatre. Hence do we proceed to search out the secret powers of nature (which is beside our end), which to know profits not,1 and wherein men desire nothing but to know. Hence, too, with that same end of perverted knowledge we consult magical arts. Hence, again, even in religion itself, is God tempted, when signs and wonders are eagerly asked of Him,—not desired for any saving end, but to make trial only.
56. In this so vast a wilderness, replete with snares and dangers, lo, many of them have I lopped off, and expelled from my heart, as Thou, O God of my salvation, hast enabled me to do. And yet when dare I say, since so many things of this kind buzz around our daily life,—when dare I say that no such thing makes me intent to see it, or creates in me vain solicitude? It is true that the theatres never now carry me away, nor do I now care to know the courses of the stars, nor hath my soul at any time consulted departed spirits; all sacrilegious oaths I abhor. O Lord my God, to whom I owe all humble and single-hearted service, with what subtlety of suggestion does the enemy influence me to require some sign from Thee! But by our King, and by our pure and chaste country Jerusalem, I beseech Thee, that as any consenting unto such thoughts is far from me, so may it always be farther and farther. But when I entreat Thee for the salvation of any, the end I aim at is far otherwise, and Thou who doest what Thou wilt, givest and wilt give me willingly to “follow” Thee.2
57. Nevertheless, in how many most minute and contemptible things is our curiosity daily tempted, and who can number how often we succumb? How often, when people are narrating idle tales, do we begin by tolerating them, lest we should give offence unto the weak; and then gradually we listen willingly! I do not now-a-days go to the circus to see a dog chasing a hare;3 but if by chance I pass such a coursing in the fields, it possibly distracts me even from some serious thought, and draws me after it,—not that I turn the body of my beast aside, but the inclination of my mind. And except Thou, by demonstrating to me my weakness, dost speedily warn me, either through the sight itself, by some reflection to rise to Thee, or wholly to despise and pass it by, I, vain one, am absorbed by it. How is it, when sitting at home, a lizard catching flies, or a spider entangling them as they rush into her nets, oftentimes arrests me? Is the feeling of curiosity not the same because these are such tiny creatures? From them I proceed to praise Thee, the wonderful Creator and Disposer of all things; but it is not this that first attracts my attention. It is one thing to get up quickly, and another not to fall, and of such things is my life full; and my only hope is in Thy exceeding great mercy. For when this heart of ours is made the receptacle of such things, and bears crowds of this abounding vanity, then are our prayers often interrupted and disturbed thereby; and whilst in Thy presence we direct the voice of our heart to Thine ears, this so great a matter is broken off by the influx of I know not what idle thoughts.
CHAP. XXXVI.—
A THIRD KIND IS “PRIDE,” WHICH IS PLEASING TO MAN, NOT TO GOD.
58. Shall we, then, account this too amongst such things as are to be lightly esteemed, or shall anything restore us to hope, save Thy complete mercy, since Thou hast begun to change us? And Thou knowest to what extent Thou hast already changed me, Thou who first healest me of the lust of vindicating myself, that so Thou mightest forgive all my remaining “iniquities,” and heal all my “diseases,” and redeem my life from corruption, and crown me with “loving-kindness and tender mercies,” and satisfy my desire with “good things;”1 who didst restrain my pride with Thy fear, and subdue my neck to Thy “yoke.” And now I bear it, and it is “light”2 unto me, because so hast Thou promised, and made it, and so in truth it was, though I knew it not, when I feared to take it up. But, O Lord,—Thou who alone reignest without pride, because Thou art the only true Lord, who hast no lord,—hath this third kind of temptation left me, or can it leave me during this life?
59. The desire to be feared and loved of men, with no other view than that I may experience a joy therein which is no joy, is a miserable life, and unseemly ostentation. Hence especially it arises that we do not love Thee, nor devoutly fear Thee. And therefore dost Thou resist the proud, but givest grace unto the humble;3 and Thou thunderest upon the ambitious designs of the world, and “the foundations of the hills” tremble.4 Because now certain offices of human society render it necessary to be loved and feared of men, the adversary of our true blessedness presseth hard upon us, everywhere scattering his snares of “well done, well done;” that while acquiring them eagerly, we may be caught unawares, and disunite our joy from Thy truth, and fix it on the deceits of men; and take pleasure in being loved and feared, not for Thy sake, but in Thy stead, by which means, being made like unto him, he may have them as his, not in harmony of love, but in the fellowship of punishment; who aspired to exalt his throne in the north,5 that dark and cold they might serve him, imitating Thee in perverse and distorted ways. But we, O Lord, lo, we are Thy “little flock;”6 do Thou possess us, stretch Thy wings over us, and let us take refuge under them. Be Thou our glory; let us be loved for Thy sake, and Thy word feared in us. They who desire to be commended of men when Thou blamest, will not be defended of men when Thou judgest; nor will they be delivered when Thou condemnest. But when not the sinner is praised in the desires of his soul, nor he blessed who doeth unjustly,7 but a man is praised for some gift that Thou hast bestowed upon him, and he is more gratified at the praise for himself, than that he possesses the gift for which he is praised, such a one is praised while Thou blamest. And better truly is he who praised than the one who was praised. For the gift of God in man was pleasing to the one, while the other was better pleased with the gift of man than that of God.
CHAP. XXXVII.—
HE IS FORCIBLY GOADED ON BY THE LOVE OF PRAISE.
60. By these temptations, O Lord, are we daily tried; yea, unceasingly are we tried. Our daily “furnace”8 is the human tongue. And in this respect also dost Thou command us to be continent. Give what Thou commandest, and command what Thou wilt. Regarding this matter, Thou knowest the groans of my heart, and the rivers9 of mine eyes. For I am not able to ascertain how far I am clean of this plague, and I stand in great fear of my “secret faults,”10 which Thine eyes perceive, though mine do not. For in other kinds of temptations I have some sort of power of examining myself; but in this, hardly any. For, both as regards the pleasures of the flesh and an idle curiosity, I see how far I have been able to hold my mind in check when I do without them, either voluntarily or by reason of their not being at hand;11 for then I inquire of myself how much more or less troublesome it is to me not to have them. Riches truly which are sought for in order that they may minister to some one of these three “lusts,”12 or to two, or the whole of them, if the mind be not able to see clearly whether, when it hath them, it despiseth them, they may be cast on one side, that so it may prove itself. But if we desire to test our power of doing without praise, need we live ill, and that so flagitiously and immoderately as that every one who knows us shall detest us? What greater madness than this can be either said or conceived? But if praise both is wont and ought to be the companion of a good life and of good works, we should as little forego its companionship as a good life itself. But unless a thing be absent, I do not know whether I shall be contented or troubled at being without it.
61. What, then, do I confess unto Thee, O Lord, in this kind of temptation? What, save that I am delighted with praise, but more with the truth itself than with praise? For were I to have my choice, whether I had rather, being mad, or astray on all things, be praised by all men, or, being firm and well-assured in the truth, be blamed by all, I see which I should choose. Yet would I be unwilling that the approval of another should even add to my joy for any good I have. Yet I admit that it doth increase it, and, more than that, that dispraise doth diminish it. And when I am disquieted at this misery of mine, an excuse presents itself to me, the value of which Thou, God, knowest, for it renders me uncertain. For since it is not continency alone that Thou hast enjoined upon us, that is, from what things to hold back our love, but righteousness also, that is, upon what to bestow it, and hast wished us to love not Thee only, but also our neighbour,1 —often, when gratified by intelligent praise, I appear to myself to be gratified by the proficiency or towardliness of my neighbour, and again to be sorry for evil in him when I hear him dispraise either that which he understands not, or is good. For I am sometimes grieved at mine own praise, either when those things which I am displeased at in myself be praised in me, or even lesser and trifling goods are more valued than they should be. But, again, how do I know whether I am thus affected, because I am unwilling that he who praiseth me should differ from me concerning myself—not as being moved with consideration for him, but because the same good things which please me in myself are more pleasing to me when they also please another? For, in a sort, I am not praised when my judgment of myself is not praised; since either those things which are displeasing to me are praised, or those more so which are less pleasing to me. Am I then uncertain of myself in this matter?
62. Behold, O Truth, in Thee do I see that I ought not to be moved at my own praises for my own sake, but for my neighbour’s good. And whether it be so, in truth I know not. For concerning this I know less of myself than dost Thou. I beseech Thee now, O my God, to reveal to me myself also, that I may confess unto my brethren, who are to pray for me, what I find in myself weak. Once again let me more diligently examine myself.2 If, in mine own praise, I am moved with consideration for my neighbour, why am I less moved if some other man be unjustly dispraised than if it be myself? Why am I more irritated at that reproach which is cast upon myself, than at that which is with equal injustice cast upon another in my presence? Am I ignorant of this also? or does it remain that I deceive myself,3 and do not the “truth”4 before Thee in my heart and tongue? Put such madness far from me, O Lord, lest my mouth be to me the oil of sinners, to anoint my head.5
CHAP. XXXVIII.—
VAIN-GLORY IS THE HIGHEST DANGER.
63. “I am poor and needy,”6 yet better am I while in secret groanings I displease myself, and seek for Thy mercy, until what is lacking in me be renewed and made complete, even up to that peace of which the eye of the proud is ignorant. Yet the word which proceedeth out of the mouth, and actions known to men, have a most dangerous temptation from the love of praise, which, for the establishing of a certain excellency of our own, gathers together solicited suffrages. It tempts, even when within I reprove myself for it, on the very ground that it is reproved; and often man glories more vainly of the very scorn of vain-glory; wherefore it is not any longer scorn of vain-glory whereof it glories, for he does not truly contemn it when he inwardly glories.
CHAP. XXXIX.—
OF THE VICE OF THOSE WHO, WHILE PLEASING THEMSELVES, DISPLEASE GOD.
64. Within also, within is another evil, arising out of the same kind of temptation; whereby they become empty who please themselves in themselves, although they please not, or displease, or aim at pleasing others. But in pleasing themselves, they much displease Thee, not merely taking pleasure in things not good as if they were good, but in Thy good things as though they were their own; or even as if in Thine, yet as though of their own merits; or even as if though of Thy grace, yet not with friendly rejoicings, but as envying that grace to others.7 In all these and similar perils and labours Thou perceivest the trembling of my heart, and I rather feel my wounds to be cured by Thee than not inflicted by me.
CHAP. XI.—
THE ONLY SAFE RESTING-PLACE FOR THE SOUL IS TO BE FOUND IN GOD.
65. Where hast Thou not accompanied me, O Truth,1 teaching me both what to avoid and what to desire, when I submitted to Thee what I could perceive of sublunary things, and asked Thy counsel? With my external senses, as I could, I viewed the world, and noted the life which my body derives from me, and these my senses. Thence I advanced inwardly into the recesses of my memory,—the manifold rooms, wondrously full of multitudinous wealth; and I considered and was afraid, and could discern none of these things without Thee, and found none of them to be Thee. Nor was I myself the discoverer of these things,—I, who went over them all, and laboured to distinguish and to value everything according to its dignity, accepting some things upon the report of my senses, and questioning about others which I felt to be mixed up with myself, distinguishing and numbering the reporters themselves, and in the vast storehouse of my memory investigating some things, laying up others, taking out others. Neither was I myself when I did this (that is, that ability of mine whereby I did it), nor was it Thou, for Thou art that never-failing light which I took counsel of as to them all, whether they were what they were, and what was their worth; and I heard Thee teaching and commanding me. And this I do often; this is a delight to me, and, as far as I can get relief from necessary duties, to this gratification do I resort. Nor in all these which I review when consulting Thee, find I a secure place for my soul, save in Thee, into whom my scattered members may be gathered together, and nothing of me depart from Thee.2 And sometimes Thou dost introduce me to a most rare affection, inwardly, to an inexplicable sweetness, which, if it should be perfected in me, I know not to what point that life might not arrive. But by these wretched weights3 of mine do I relapse into these things, and am sucked in by my old customs, and am held, and sorrow much, yet am much held. To such an extent does the burden of habit press us down. In this way I can be, but will not; in that I will, but cannot,—on both ways miserable.
CHAP. XLI.—
HAVING CONQUERED HIS TRIPLE DESIRE, HE ARRIVES AT SALVATION.
66. And thus have I reflected upon the wearinesses of my sins, in that threefold “lust,”4 and have invoked Thy right hand to my aid. For with a wounded heart have I seen Thy brightness, and being beaten back I exclaimed, “Who can attain unto it?” “I am cut off from before Thine eyes.”5 Thou art the Truth, who presidest over all things, but I, through my covetousness, wished not to lose Thee, but with Thee wished to possess a lie; as no one wishes so to speak falsely as himself to be ignorant of the truth. So then I lost Thee, because Thou deignest not to be enjoyed with a lie.
CHAP. XLII.—
IN WHAT MANNER MANY SOUGHT THE MEDIATOR.
67. Whom could I find to reconcile me to Thee? Was I to solicit the angels? By what prayer? By what sacraments? Many striving to return unto Thee, and not able of themselves, have, as I am told, tried this, and have fallen into a longing for curious visions,6 and were held worthy to be deceived. For they, being exalted, sought Thee by the pride of learning, thrusting themselves forward rather than beating their breasts, and so by correspondence of heart drew unto themselves the princes of the air,7 the conspirators and companions in pride, by whom, through the power of magic,8 they were deceived, seeking a mediator by whom they might be cleansed; but none was there. For the devil it was, transforming himself into an angel of light.9 And he much allured proud flesh, in that he had no fleshly body. For they were mortal, and sinful; but Thou, O Lord, to whom they arrogantly sought to be reconciled, art immortal, and sinless. But a mediator between God and man ought to have something like unto God, and something like unto man; lest being in both like unto man, he should be far from God; or if in both like unto God, he should be far from man, and so should not be a mediator. That deceitful mediator, then, by whom in Thy secret judgments pride deserved to be deceived, hath one thing in common with man, that is, sin; another he would appear to have with God, and, not being clothed with mortality of flesh, would boast that he was immortal.10 But since “the wages of sin is death,”11 this hath he in common with men, that together with them he should be condemned to death.
CHAP. XLIII.—
THAT JESUS CHRIST, AT THE SAME TIME GOD AND MAN, IS THE TRUE AND MOST EFFICACIOUS MEDIATOR.
68. But the true Mediator, whom in Thy secret mercy Thou hast pointed out to the humble, and didst send, that by His example1 also they might learn the same humility—that “Mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus,”2 appeared between mortal sinners and the immortal Just One—mortal with men, just with God; that because the reward of righteousness is life and peace, He might, by righteousness conjoined with God, cancel the death of justified sinners, which He willed to have in common with them.3 Hence He was pointed out to holy men of old; to the intent that they, through faith in His Passion to come,4 even as we through faith in that which is past, might be saved. For as man He was Mediator; but as the Word He was not between,5 because equal to God, and God with God, and together with the Holy Spirit6 one God.
69. How hast Thou loved us,7 O good Father, who sparedst not Thine only Son, but deliveredst Him up for us wicked ones!8 How hast Thou loved us, for whom He, who thought it no robbery to be equal with Thee, “became obedient unto death, even the death of the cross;”9 He alone “free among the dead,”10 that had power to lay down His life, and power to take it again;11 for us was He unto Thee both Victor and Victim, and the Victor as being the Victim; for us was He unto Thee both Priest and Sacrifice, and Priest as being the Sacrifice; of slaves making us Thy sons, by being born of Thee, and serving us. Rightly, then, is my hope strongly fixed on Him, that Thou wilt heal all my diseases12 by Him who sitteth at Thy right hand and maketh intercession for us;13 else should I utterly despair.14 For numerous and great are my infirmities, yea, numerous and great are they; but Thy medicine is greater. We might think that Thy Word was removed from union with man, and despair of ourselves had He not been “made flesh and dwelt among us.”15
70. Terrified by my sins and the load of my misery, I had resolved in my heart, and meditated flight into the wilderness;16 but Thou didst forbid me, and didst strengthen me, saying, therefore, Christ “died for all, that they which live should not henceforth live unto themselves, but unto Him which died for them.”17 Behold, O Lord, I cast my care upon Thee,