OF A HAPPY LIVE

There is not anything in this world, perhaps, that is more talked of, and less understood, than the business of a happy life. It is every man’s wish and design; and yet not one of a thousand that knows wherein that happiness consists. We live, however, in a blind and eager pursuit of it; and the more haste we make in a wrong way, the further we are from our journey’s end.

Let us therefore, first, consider what it is we should be at; and, secondly, which is the readiest way to compass it. If we be right, we shall find every day how much we improve; but if we either follow the cry, or the track, of people that are out of the way, we must expect to be misled, and to continue our days in wandering and error. Wherefore, it highly concerns us to take along with us a skill­ful guide; for it is not in this, as in other voyages, where the highway brings us to our place of repose; or if a man should happen to be out, where the inhabitants might set him right again; but on the contrary, the beaten road is here the most dangerous, and the people, instead of helping us, misguide us. Let us therefore not follow, like beasts, but rather govern ourselves by reason, than by example.

It fares with us in human life as in a routed army; one stumbles first, and then another falls upon him, and so they follow, one upon the neck of another, until the whole field comes to be but one heap of miscarriages. And the mischief is that the number of the multitude carries it against truth and justice. So that we must leave the crowd if we would be happy: for the question of a happy life is not to be decided by vote: nay, so far from it, that plurality of voices is still an argument of the wrong; the common people find it easier to believe than to judge, and content themselves with what is usual, never examin­ing whether it is good or not.

It fares with us in human life as in a routed army; one stumbles first, and then another falls upon him, and so they follow, one upon the neck of another, until the whole field comes to be but one heap of miscarriages. And the mischief is that the number of the multitude carries it against truth and justice. So that we must leave the crowd if we would be happy: for the question of a happy life is not to be decided by vote: nay, so far from it, that plurality of voices is still an argument of the wrong; the common people find it easier to believe than to judge, and content themselves with what is usual, never examin­ing whether it is good or not.

By the common people is intended the man of title as well as the clouted shoe: for I do not distinguish them by the eye, but by the mind, which is the proper judge of the man. Worldly felicity, I know, makes the head giddy; but if ever a man comes to himself again he will confess that whatsoever he has done, he wishes undone; and that the things he feared were better than those he prayed for.

The true felicity of life is to be free from perturbations; to understand our duties toward God and man; to enjoy the present without any anxious dependence upon the future. Not to amuse ourselves with either hopes or fears, but to rest satisfied with what we have, which is abundantly sufficient; for he that is so wants nothing. The great blessings of mankind are within us, and within our reach; but we shut our eyes and, like people in the dark, we fall foul upon the very thing we search for without finding it.

Tranquility is a certain equality of mind, which no condition of fortune can either exalt or depress. Nothing can make it less, for it is the state of human perfection: it raises us as high as we can go; and makes every man his own supporter. Whereas he that is borne up by anything else may fall. He that judges aright, and perseveres in it, enjoys a perpet­ual calm: he takes a true prospect of things; he observes an order, measure, a decorum in all his actions; he has a benevolence in his nature; he squares his life in accordance with reason; and draws to himself love and admiration: but he that always wills or nills the same things is undoubtedly in the right.

Liberty and serenity of mind must necessarily ensue upon the mastering of those things which either allure or affright us when, instead of those flashy pleasures (which even at the best are both vain and hurtful together), we shall find ourselves possessed of joy transporting and everlasting.

It must be a sound mind that makes a happy man; there must be a constancy in all conditions, a care for the things of this world, but without trouble; and such an indifferency for the bounties of fortune, that either with them, or without them, we may live contentedly. There must be neither lamentation, nor quarrelling, nor sloth, nor fear; for it makes a discord in a man’s life. He that fears, serves.

The joy of a wise man stands firm without interruption. In all places, at all times and in all conditions, his thoughts are cheerful and quiet. As it never came in to him from without, so it will never leave him; but it is born within him, and inseparable from him. It is a solicitous life that is egged on with the hope of anything, though never so open and easy, nay, though a man should never suffer any sort of disappointment. I do not speak this either as a bar to the fair enjoyment of lawful pleasures, or to the gentle flatteries of reasonable expectations; but, on the contrary, I would have men to be always in good humor, provided that it arises from their own souls, and be cherished in their own breasts. Other delights are trivial; they may smooth the brow, but they do not fill and affect the heart.

True joy is a serene and sober motion, and they are miserably out that take laughing for rejoicing. The seat of it is within, and there is no cheerful­ness like the resolution of a brave mind, that has fortune under his feet. He that can look death in the face and bid it welcome; open his door to poverty, and bridle his appetites; this is the man whom Providence has established in the possession of inviolable delights.

The pleasures of the vulgar are ungrounded, thin, and superficial; but the other are solid and eternal. As the body itself is rather a necessary thing than a great, so the comforts of it are but temporary and vain; besides that, without extra­ordinary moderation, their end is only pain and repentance; whereas a peaceful conscience, honest thoughts, virtuous actions, and an indifference for casual events, are blessings without end, satiety, or measure.

This consummated state of felicity is only a submission to the dictate of right nature. The foundation of it is wisdom and virtue; the knowledge of what we ought to do, and the conformity of the will to that knowledge.

Happiness Founded Upon Wisdom

Taking for granted that human happiness is founded upon wisdom and virtue, we shall treat of these two points in order as they lie: and, first, of wisdom; not in the latitude of its various opera­tions, but as it has only a regard to a good life, and the happiness of mankind.

Wisdom is a right understanding, a faculty of discerning good from evil; what is to be chosen and what rejected; a judgment grounded upon the value of things, and not the common opinion of them; an equality of force, and a strength of resolution. It sets a watch over our words and deeds, it takes us up with the contemplation of the works of nature, and makes us invincible by either good or evil fortune. It is large and spacious, and requires a great deal of room to work in; it ransacks heaven and earth; it has for its object things past and to come, trans­itory and eternal. It examines all the circumstances of time, what it is, when it began, and how long it will continue: and so for the mind; whence it came; what it is; when it begins; how long it lasts; whether or not it passes from one form to another, or serves only one, and wanders when it leaves us; whether it abides in a state of separation, and what the action of it; what use it makes of its liberty; whether or not it retains the memory of things past, and comes to the knowledge of itself.

To be wise is the use of wisdom, as seeing is the use of eyes, and well-speaking the use of elo­quence. He that is perfectly wise is perfectly happy; nay, the very beginning of wisdom makes life easy to us. Neither is it enough to know this, unless we print it in our minds by daily meditation, and so bring a good-will to a good habit.

And we must practice what we preach: for philoso­phy is not a subject for popular ostentation; nor does it rest in words, but in things. It is not an entertainment taken up for delight, or to give a taste to our leisure; but it fashions the mind, governs our actions, tells us what we are to do, and what not. It sits at the helm, and guides us through all hazards: nay, we cannot be safe without it, for every hour gives us occasion to make use of it. It informs us in all the duties of life, piety to our parents, faith to our friends, charity to the miser­able, judgment in counsel; it gives us peace by fearing nothing, and riches by coveting nothing.

There is no condition of life that excludes a wise man from discharging his duty. If his fortune be good, he tempers it; if bad, he masters it; if he has an estate, he will exercise his virtue in plenty; if none, in poverty: if he cannot do it in his country, he will do it in banishment; if he has no command, he will do the office of a common soldier.

Wisdom does not teach our fingers, but our minds: fiddling and dancing, arms and fortifications, were the works of luxury and discord; but wisdom instructs us in the way of nature, and in the arts of unity and concord, not in the instruments, but in the government of life; not to make us live only, but to live happily. She teaches us what things are good, what evil, and what only appear so; and to distin­guish betwixt true greatness and tumor. She clears our minds of dross and vanity; she raises up our thoughts to heaven, and carries them down to hell: she discourses of the nature of the soul, the powers and faculties of it; the first principles of things; the order of Providence: she exalts us from things corporeal to things incorporeal and retrieves the truth of all: she searches nature, gives laws to life; and tells us that it is not enough to know God, unless we obey him. She looks upon all accidents as acts of Providence: sets a true value upon things; delivers us from false opinions, and condemns all pleasures that are attended with repentance. She allows nothing to be good that will not be so for ever: no man to be happy but he that needs no other happiness than what he has within himself; no man to be great or powerful that is not master of himself.

This is the felicity of human life; a felicity that can neither be corrupted nor extinguished: it inquires into the nature of the heavens, the influ­ence of the stars; how far they operate upon our minds and bodies: which thoughts, though they do not form our manners, they do yet raise and dispose us for glorious things.

It is agreed upon at all hands, that right reason is the perfection of human nature, and wisdom only the dictate of it. The greatness that arises from it is solid and unmovable, the resolutions of wisdom being free, absolute, and constant; whereas folly is never long pleased with the same thing, but still shifting of counsels and sick of itself. There can be no happiness without constancy and prudence.

He that demurs and hesitates is not yet compos­ed: but wherever virtue interposes upon the main, there must be concord and consent in the parts: for all virtues are in agreement, as well as all vices are at variance.

A wise man, in what condition soever he is, will be still happy; for he subjects all things to him­self, because he submits himself to reason, and governs his actions by counsel, not by passion. He is not moved with the utmost violences of fortune, nor with the extremities of fire and sword; whereas a fool is afraid of his own shadow, and surprised at ill accidents, as if they were all leveled at him. He does nothing unwillingly: for whatever he finds necessary, he makes it his choice. He propounds to himself the certain scope and end of human life; he follows that which conduces to it, and avoids that which hinders it. He is content with his lot, whatever it be, without wishing what he has not; though of the two, he had rather abound than want.

The great business of his life, like that of nature, is performed without tumult or noise. He neither fears danger, nor provokes it; but it is his caution, not any want of courage; for captivity, wounds and chains he only looks upon as false and lymphatical terrors. He does not pretend to go through with whatever he undertakes; but to do that well which he does. Arts are but the servants, wisdom connn.ands; and where the matter fails, it is none of the workman’s fault. He is cautious in doubtful cases, in prosperity temperate, and resolute in adversity; still making the best of every condi­tion, and improving all occasions to make them serviceable to his fate.

Some accidents there are, which I confess may affect him, but not overthrow him; as bodily pains, loss of children and friends; the ruin and desolation of a man’s country. One must be made of stone, or iron, not to be sensible of these calamities; and besides, it were no virtue to bear them, if a body did not feel them.

There are three degrees of proficients in the school of wisdom. The first are those that come within sight of it, but not up to it; they have learned what they ought to do, but they have not put

their knowledge in practice: they are past the hazard of a relapse, but they have still the grudges of a disease, though they are out of the danger of it. By a disease, I do understand an obstinacy in evil, or an ill habit, that makes us over-eager upon things which are either not much to be desired, or not at all. A second sort are those that have subjected their appetites for a season, but are yet in fear of falling back. A third sort are those that are clear of many vices, but not of all. They are not covet­ous, but perhaps they are choleric; not lustful, but perchance ambitious; they are firm enough in some cases, but weak in others; there are many that despise death, and yet shrink at pain.

There are diversities in wise men, but no inequalities; one is more affable, another more ready, a third a better speaker: but the felicity of them all is equal. It is in this, as in heavenly bodies; there is a certain state in greatness.

In civil and domestic affairs, a wise man may stand in need of counsel, as of a physician, an advocate, a solicitor; but in greater matters, the blessing of wise men rests in the joy they take in the communication of their virtues.

If there were nothing else in it, a man would apply himself of wisdom, because it settles him in a perpetual tranquillity of mind.

Happiness Founded Upon Virtue

Virtue is that perfect good, which is the complement of a happy life; the only immortal thing that belongs to mortality; it is the knowledge both of others and itself; it is an invincible greatness of mind, not to be elevated nor dejected with good or ill fortune. It is sociable and gentle, free, steady, and fearless; content within itself; full of inexhaustible delights; and it is valued for itself.

One may be a good physician, a good grammarian, without being a good man; so that all things from without are only accessories: for the seat of it is a pure and holy mind. It consists of a congruity of actions which we can never expect so long as we are distracted by our passions.

Not but that a man may be allowed to change color and countenance, and suffer such impressions as are properly a kind of natural force upon the body, and not under the dominion of the mind: but all this while I will have his judgment firm, and he shall act steadily and boldly, without wavering betwixt the motions of his body and those of his mind.

It is not a thing indifferent, I know, whether a man lie at ease upon a bed, or in a torment upon a wheel: and yet the former may be the worse of the two, if he suffers the latter with honor, and enjoys the other with infamy.

It is not the matter, but the virtue, that makes the action good or ill; and he that is led in triumph may be yet greater than his conqueror. When we come once to value our flesh above our honesty, we are lost; and yet I would not press upon dangers, no, not so much as upon inconveniences, unless where the man and the brute come in competition: and in such case, rather than make a forfeiture of my credit, my reason, or my faith, I would run all extremities.

They are great blessings to have tender parents, dutiful children, and to live under a just and well-ordered government. Now, would it not trouble even a virtuous man to see his children butchered before his eyes, his father made a slave, and his country overrun by a barbarous enemy? There is a great difference betwixt the simple loss of a bless­ing, and the succeeding of a great mischief into the place of it over and above. The loss of health is followed with sickness, and the loss of sight with blindness: but this does not hold in the loss of friends and children, where there is rather something to the contrary to supply that loss; that is to say, virtue, which fills the mind, and takes away the desire of what we have not. What matters it whether the water be stopped or not, so long as the fountain is safe?

Is a man ever the wiser for a multitude of friends, or the more foolish for the loss of them? So neither is he the happier nor the more miserable.

Short life, grief, and pain are accessions that have no effect at all upon virtue.

If one could but see the mind of a good man, as it is illustrated with virtue; the beauty and the majesty of it, which is a dignity not so much as to be thought of without love and veneration; would not a man bless himself at the sight of such an object, as at the encounter of some supernatural power? A power so miraculous that it is a kind of charm upon the souls of those that are truly affected with it. There is so wonderful a grace and authority in it, that even the worst of men approve it, and set up for the reputation of being accounted virtuous them­selves. They covet the fruit indeed, and the profit of wickedness; but they hate and are ashamed of the impestation of it. It is by an impression of Nature that all men have a reverence for virtue; they know it, and they have a respect for it, though they do not practice it: nay, for the countenance of their very wickedness they miscall it virtue. Their injuries they call benefits, and expect a man should thank them for doing him a mischief; they cover their most notorious inequities with a pretext of justice.

He that robs upon the highway, had rather find his booty than force it. Ask any of them that live upon rapine, fraud, oppression, if they had not rather enjoy a fortune honestly gotten, and their consciences will not suffer them to deny it. Men are vicious only for the profit of villainy; for at the same time they commit it, they condemn it.

Nay, so powerful is virtue, and so gracious is Providence, that every man has a light set up within him for a guide; which we do all of us see and acknowledge, though we do not pursue it. This is it that makes the prisoner upon the torture happier than the executioner, and sickness better than health, if we bear it without yielding or repining: this is it that overcomes ill fortune, and moderates good; for it marches betwixt the one and the other with an equal contempt of both. It turns like fire all things into itself; our actions and our friendships are tinctured with it, and whatever it touches becomes amiable.

That which is frail and mortal rises and falls, grows, wastes, and varies from itself; but the state of things divine is always the same; and so is virtue, let the matter be what it will. It is never the worse for the difficulty of the action, nor the better for the easiness of it. It is the same in a rich man as in a poor; in a sickly man as in a sound; in a strong as in a weak. The virtue of the besieged is as great as that of the besiegers.

There are some virtues, I confess, which a good man cannot be without, and yet he had rather have no occasion to employ them. If there were any differ­ence, I should prefer the virtues of patience before those of pleasure; for it is braver to break through difficulties than to temper our delights.

But though the subject of virtue may possibly be against nature, as to be burnt or wounded, yet the virtue itself of an invincible patience is according to nature. We may seem, perhaps to promise more than human nature is able to perform; but we speak with respect to the mind, and not to the body.

If a man does not live up to his own rules, it is something yet to have virtuous meditations and good purposes, even without acting. It is generous, the very adventure of being good, and the bare proposal of an eminent course of life, though beyond the force of human frailty to accomplish. There is something of honor yet in the miscarriage; nay, in the naked contemplation of it. I would receive my own death with as little trouble as I would hear of another man’s; I would bear the same mind whether I be rich or poor, whether I get or lose in the world. What I have, I will not either sordidly spare, or prodigally squander away, and I will reckon upon benefits well-placed as the fairest part of my possession: not valuing them by number or weight, but by profit and esteem of the receiver; accounting myself never the poorer for that which I give to a worthy person.

What I do shall be done for conscience, not ostentation. I will eat and drink, not to gratify my palate, or only to fill and empty, but to satisfy nature. I will be cheerful to my friends, mild and placable to my enemies. I will prevent an honest request if I can foresee it, and I will grant it without asking.

I will look upon the whole world as my country, and upon the gods, both as the witnesses and the judges of my words and deeds.

I will live and die with this testimony: that I loved good studies, and a good conscience; that I never invaded another man’s liberty; and that I preserved my own. I will govern my life and my thoughts as if the whole world were to see the one, and to read the other; for what does it signify to make any thing a secret to my neighbor, when to God, who is the searcher of our hearts, all our privacies are open.

One part of virtue consists in discipline, the other in exercise; for we must first learn and then practice. The sooner we begin to apply ourselves to it, and the more haste we make, the longer shall we enjoy the comforts of a rectified mind; nay, we have the fruition of it in the very act of forming it: but it is another sort of delight, I must confess, that arises from the contemplation of a soul which is advanced into the possession of wisdom and virtue. If it were so great a comfort to pass from the subjection of our childhood into a state of liberty, how much greater will it be when we come to cast off the boyish levity of our minds, and range ourselves among the philosophers? We are past our minority, it is true, but not our indiscretions; and which is yet worse, we have the authority of seniors, and the weaknesses of children (I might have said of infants, for every little thing frights the one, and every trivial fancy the other). Whoever studies this point well will find that many things are the less to be feared the more terrible they appear.

To think anything good that is not honest were to reproach Providence; for good men suffer many inconveniences. But virtue, like the sun, goes on still with her work, let the air be never so cloudy, and finishes her course, extinguishing likewise all other splendors and oppositions; insomuch that calamity is no more to a virtuous mind than a shower into the sea.

That which is right is not to be valued by quantity, number, or time; a life of a day may be as honest as a life of a hundred years: but yet virtue in one man may have a larger field to show itself in than in another. One man, perhaps, may be in a station to administer unto cities and kingdoms; to contrive good laws,  and do beneficial offices to mankind. It is another man’s fortune to be straitened by poverty, or put out of the way by banishment: and yet the latter may be as virtuous as the former, and may have as great a mind, as exact a prudence, as inviolable a justice, and as large a knowledge of things, both divine and human, without which a man cannot be happy.

For virtue is open to all; as well to servants and exiles as to princes: it is profitable to the world and to itself at all distances and in all conditions; and there is no difficulty that can excuse a man from the exercise of it.

The Stoics hold all virtues to be equal; but yet there is great variety in the matter they have to work upon, according as it is larger or narrower, illustrious or less noble, of more or less extent. As all good men are equal, that is to say, as they are good, but yet one may be young, another old; one may be rich, another poor; one eminent and powerful, another unknown and obscure. There are many things which have little or no grace in themselves, and are yet glorious and remarkable by virtue. Nothing can be good which gives neither greatness nor security to the mind; but, on the contrary, infects it with insolence, arrogance, and tumor. Nor does virtue dwell upon the tip of the tongue, but in the temple of a purified heart. He that depends upon any other good becomes covetous of life and what belongs to it; which exposes a man to appetites that are vast, unlimited, and intolerable.

Virtue is free and indefatigible, and accompan­ied with concord and gracefulness; whereas pleasure is mean, servile, transitory, tiresome, and sickly, and scarce outlives the tasting of it. It is the good of the belly, and not of the man, and only the felicity of brutes. Who does not know that fools enjoy their pleasures, and that there is great variety in the entertainments of wickedness? Nay, the mind itself has its variety of perverse pleasures as well as the body: as insolence, self-conceit, pride, garrulity, laziness, and the abusive wit of turning everything into ridicule; whereas virtue weighs all this, and corrects it. It is the know­ledge both of others and of itself; it is to be learned from itself; and the very will itself may be taught; which will cannot be right, unless the whole habit of the mind be right from whence the will comes. It is by the impulse of virtue that we love virtue, so that the very way to virtue lies by virtue, which takes in also, at a view, the laws of human life.

Neither are we to value ourselves upon a day, or an hour, or any action, but upon the whole habit of the mind. Some men do one thing bravely, but not another; they will shrink at infamy and bear up against poverty. ... But the soul is never in the right place until it be delivered from the cares of human affairs. We must labor and climb the hill if we will arrive at virtue, whose seat is upon the top of it.

He that masters avarice, and is truly good, stands firm against ambition; he looks upon his last hour not as a punishment, but as the equity of a common fate.

He that subdues his carnal lusts shall easily keep himself untainted with any other; so that reason does not encounter this or that vice by itself, but beats down all at a blow.

What does he care for ignominy that only values himself upon conscience, and not opinion? Socrates looked a scandalous death in the face with the same constancy that he had before practiced toward the thirty tyrants; his virtue consecrated the very dungeon.

He that is wise will take delight even in an ill opinion that is well gotten. It is ostentation, not virtue, when a man will have his good deeds publish­ed; and it is not enough to be just where there is honor to be gotten, but to continue so, in defiance of infamy and danger.

But virtue cannot lie hid, for the time will come that shall raise it again even after it is buried and deliver it from the malignity of the age that oppressed it. Immortal glory is the shadow of it, and keeps it company whether we will or not; but sometimes the shadow goes before the substance, and other whiles it follows it. And the later it comes, the larger it is, when even envy itself shall have given way to it. It was a long time that Democritus was taken for a madman, and before Socrates had any esteem in the world. How long was it before Cato could be understood?  he was affronted, condemned, and rejected; and people never knew the value of him until they had lost him.

Now as the body is to be kept in upon the down­hill and forced upward, there are some virtues that require the rein and others the spur. In liberality, temperance, gentleness of nature, we are to check ourselves for fear of falling; but in patience, resolution, and perseverance, where we are to mount the hill, we stand in need of encouragement. Upon this division of the matter, I had rather steer the smoother course than pass through the experiments of sweat and blood: I know it is my duty to be content in all conditions; but yet if it were my election, I would choose the fairest.

When a man comes once to stand in need of fortune, his life is anxious, suspicious, timorous, dependent upon every moment, and in fear of all accidents. How can that man resign himself to God, or bear his lot, whatever it be, without murmuring, and cheerfully submit to Providence, that shrinks at every motion of pleasure or pain? It is virtue alone that raises us above griefs, hopes, fears, and chances, and makes us not only patient, but willing, as knowing that whatever we suffer is according to the decree of Heaven.

He that is overcome with pleasure (so contempt­ible and weak an enemy), what will become of him when he comes to grapple with dangers, necessities, torments, death, and the dissolution of nature itself?

Wealth, honor, and favor may come upon a man by chance; nay, they may even be cast upon him without so much as looking after them; and certainly it is worth the while to purchase that good which brings all others along with it.

A good man is happy within himself, and indepen­dent of fortune, kind to his friend, temperate to his enemy, religiously just, indefatigibly laborious; and he discharges all duties with a constancy and congru­ity of actions.

Philosophy the Guide of Life

Socrates places all philosophy in morals, and wisdom in the distinguishing of good and evil.

Philosophy is the art and law of life; it teaches us what to do in all cases and, like good marksmen, to hit the white at any distance. The force of it is incredible; for it gives us in the weakness of a man the security of a spirit: in sickness it is as good as a remedy to us; for whatever eases the mind is profitable also to the body. The physician may prescribe diet and exercise, and accommodate his rule and medicine to the disease, but it is philosophy that must bring us to a contempt of death which is the remedy of all diseases. In poverty it gives us riches, or such a state of mind as makes them super­fluous to us. It arms us against all difficulties: one man is pressed with death, another with poverty; some with envy, others are offended at Providence, and unsatisfied with the condition of mankind.

But philosophy prompts us to relieve the prison­er, the infirm, the necessitous, the condemned; to show the ignorant their errors and rectify their affections. It makes us inspect and govern our manners. It rouses us where we are faint and drowsy, it binds up what is loose, and humbles in us that which is contumacious. It delivers the mind from the bondage of the body, and raises it up to the contem­plation of its divine origin.

Honors, monuments, and all the works of vanity and ambition, are demolished and destroyed by time; but the reputation of wisdom is venerable to poster­ity; and those that were envied or neglected in their lives are adored in their memories, and exempted from the very laws of created nature, which has set bounds to all other things. The very shadow of glory carries a man of honor upon all dangers, to the contempt of fire and sword; and it were a shame if right reason should not inspire as generous resolu­tions into a man of virtue.

Neither is philosophy only profitable to the public, but one wise man helps another, even in the exercise of the virtues. The one has need of the other, both for conversation and counsel; for they kindle a mutual emulation in good offices. We are not so perfect yet, but that many new things remain still to be found out, which will give us the recipro­cal advantages of instructing one another; and the more vices are mingled the worse it is -- so is it on the contrary with good men and their virtues.

As men of letters are the most useful and excellent of friends, so are they the best of sub­jects, as being better judges of the blessings they enjoy under a well-ordered government, and of what they owe to the magistrate for their freedom and protection. They are men of sobriety and learning, and free from boasting and violence. They reprove the vice without reproaching the person; for they have learned to be wise without either pomp or envy.

That which we see in high mountains, we find in philosophers; they seem taller near at hand than at a distance. They are raised above other men, but their greatness is substantial. Nor do they stand upon tiptoe, that they may seem higher than they are, but content with their own stature, they reckon themselves tall enough when fortune cannot reach them.

It is the bounty of nature that we live, but of philosophy that we live well, which is in truth a greater benefit than life itself.

Not but that philosophy is also the gift of Heaven, so far as to the faculty, but not to the science; for that must be the business of industry.

No man is born wise; but wisdom and virtue require a tutor, though he can easily learn to be vicious without a master.

It is philosophy that gives us a veneration for God, a charity for our neighbor, that teaches us our duty to Heaven, and exhorts us to an agreement with one another. It unmasks things that are terrible to us, assuages our lusts, refutes our errors, restrains our luxury, reproves our avarice, and works strangely upon tender natures.

I could never hear Attalus upon the vices of the age and the errors of life, without a compassion for mankind; and in his discourses upon poverty there was something methought that was more human. “More than we use,” says he, “is more than we need, and only a burden to the bearer.” That saying of his put me out of countenance at the superfluities of my own fortune. And so in his invectives against vain pleasures, he did at such a rate advance the felicities of a sober table, a pure mind, and a chaste body , that a man could not hear him without a love for continence and moderation. Upon these lectures of his, I denied myself, for a while after, certain delicacies that I had formerly used: but in a short time I fell to them again, though so sparingly, that the proportion came little short of a total abstinence.

Philosophers are the tutors of mankind; if they have found out remedies for the mind, it must be our part to apply them. I cannot think of Cato, Lelius, Socrates, Plato, without veneration: their very names are sacred to me.

Philosophy is the health of the mind. Let us look to that health first, and in the second place to that of the body, which may be had upon easier terms; for a strong arm, a robust constitution or the skill of procuring this, is not a philosopher’s business. He does some things as a wise man and other things as he is a man; and he may have strength of body as well as of mind. But if he runs, or casts the sledge, it were injurious to ascribe that to his wisdom which is common to the greatest of fools. He studies rather to fill his mind than his coffers; and he knows that gold and silver were mingled with dirt until avarice or ambition parted them. His life is ordinate, fearless, equal, secure; he stands firm in all extremities, and bears the lot of his humanity with a divine temper.

There is a great difference betwixt the splendor of philosophy and of fortune; the one shines with the original light, the other with a borrowed one; besides that philosophy makes us happy and immortal: for learning shall outlive palaces and monuments.

The house of a wise man is safe, though narrow; there is neither noise nor furniture in it, no porter at the door, nor anything that is either vendible or mercenary, nor any business of fortune; for she has nothing to do where she has nothing to look after. This is the way to Heaven which Nature has chalked out, and it is both secure and pleasant; there needs no train of servants, no pomp or equipage, to make good our passage; no money or letters of credit for expenses upon the voyage; but the graces of an honest mind will serve us upon the way, and make us happy at our journey’s end.

To tell you my opinion now of the liberal sciences: I have no great esteem for anything that terminates in profit or money; and yet I shall allow them to be so far beneficial as they only prepare the understanding without detaining it. They are but the rudiments of wisdom, and only then to be learned when the mind is capable of nothing better, and the knowledge of them is better worth the keeping than the acquiring. They do not so much as pretend to the making of us virtuous, but only to give us an apti­tude or disposition to be so.

The grammarian’s business lies in a syntax of speech; or if he proceed to history, or the measuring of verse, he is at the end of his line. But what signifies a congruity of periods, the computing of syllables, or the modifying of numbers, to the taming of our passions or the repressing of our lusts? The philosopher proves the body of the sun to be large, but for the true dimensions of it we must ask the mathematician: geometry and music, if they do not teach us to master our hopes and fears, all the rest is to little purpose.

We take a great deal of pains to trace Ulysses in his wanderings; but were it not time as well spent to look to ourselves that we may not wander at all? Are not we ourselves tossed with tempestuous passions, and assaulted by terrible monsters on the one hand, and tempted by sirens on the other?

Teach me my duty to my country, to my father, to my wife, to mankind. What is it to me whether Penelope was honest or not — teach me to know how to be so myself, and to live according to that knowledge. What am I the better for putting so many parts together in music, and raising a harmony out of so many different tones? Teach me to tune my affections, and to hold constant to myself. Geometry teaches me the art of measuring acres; teach me to measure my appetites, and to know when I have had enough. Teach me to divide with my brother, and to rejoice in the prosperity of my neighbor. You teach me how I may hold my own and keep my estate; but I would rather learn how I may lose it all, and yet be contented.

Were I not a madman to sit wrangling about words, and putting of nice and impertinent questions, when the enemy has already made the breach, the town fired over my head, and the mine ready to play that shall blow me up into the air? Were this a time for fooleries? Let me rather fortify myself against death and inevitable necessities; let me understand that the good of life does not consist in the length or space, but in the use of it.

When I go to sleep, who knows whether ever I shall wake again; and when I wake, whether I shall ever sleep again? When I go abroad, whether ever I shall come home again; and when I return, whether ever go abroad again? It is not at sea only that life and death are within a few inches one of another; but they are as near everywhere else too, only we do not take so much notice of it. What have we to do with frivolous and captious questions, and impertin­ent niceties? Let us rather study how to deliver ourselves from sadness, fear, and the burden of all our secret lusts: let us pass over all our most solemn levities, and make haste to a good life, which is a thing that presses us.

Shall a man that goes for a midwife stand gaping upon a post to see what play today? Or, when his house is on fire, stay the curling of a periwig before he calls for help? Our houses are on fire, our country invaded, our goods taken away, our children in danger; and I might add to these the calamities of earthquakes, shipwrecks, and whatever else is most terrible. Is this a time for us now to be playing fast and loose with idle questions, which are in effect so many unprofitable riddles?

Our duty is the cure of the mind rather than the delight of it; but we have only the words of wisdom without the works, and turn philosophy into a pleasure that was given for a remedy.

We are sick and ulcerous, and must be lanced and scarified, and every man has as much business within himself as a physician in a common pestilence.

Misfortunes, in fine, cannot be avoided; but they may be sweetened, if not overcome; and our lives may be made happy by philosophy.

The Force of Precepts

There seems to be so near an affinity betwixt wisdom, philosophy, and good counsels, that it is rather matter of curiosity than of profit to divide them; philosophy being only a limited wisdom; and good counsels a communication of that wisdom, for the good of others as well as of ourselves, and to posterity, as well as to the present.

The wisdom of the ancients, as to the government of life, was no more than certain precepts, what to do and what not: and men were much better in that simplicity, for as they came to be more learned, they grew less careful of being good. That plain and open virtue is now turned into a dark and intricate science. We are taught to dispute rather than to live. So long as wickedness was simple, simple remedies also were sufficient against it; but now it has taken root and spread, we must make use of stronger.

If a man does what he ought to do, he will never do it constantly or equally without knowing why he does it; and if it be only chance or custom, he that does well by chance, may do ill so too. And farther, a precept may direct us what we ought to do, and yet fall short in the manner of doing it: an expensive entertainment may, in one case, be extravagance or gluttony, and yet a point of honor and discretion in another.

Precepts are idle, if we be not first taught what opinion we are to have of the matter in ques­tion: whether it be poverty, riches, disgrace, sickness, banishment, etc. Let us therefore examine them one by one; not what they are called, but what in truth they are.

It is to no purpose to set a high esteem upon prudence, fortitude, temperance, justice, if we do not first know what virtue is — whether one or more, or if he that has one has all, or how they differ.

Percepts are of great weight; and a few useful ones at hand do more toward a happy life than whole volumes or cautions, that we know not where to find. These salutary precepts should be our daily medita­tion, for they are the rules by which we ought to square our lives.

It is by precept that the understanding is nourished and augmented; the offices of prudence and justice are guided by them, and they lead us to the execution of our duties.

It is a great virtue to love, to give, and to follow good counsel; if it does not lead us to honesty, it does at least prompt us to it. As several parts make up one harmony, and the most agreeable music arises from discords, so should a wise man gather many acts, many precepts, and the examples of many arts, to inform his own life.

Our forefathers have left us in charge to avoid three things: hatred, envy, and contempt. Now, it is hard to avoid envy and not incur contempt; for in taking too much care not to usurp upon others, we become many times liable to be trampled upon our­selves.

Good counsel is the most needful service that we can do to mankind; and if we give it to many, it will be sure to profit some: for of many trials, some or other will undoubtedly succeed.

It is an eminent mark of wisdom for a man to be always like himself. You shall have some that keep a thrifty table, and lavish out upon building; profuse upon themselves, and forbid to others; niggardly at home, and lavish abroad. This diversity is vicious, and the effect of a dissatisfied and uneasy mind; whereas every wise man lives by rule.

In all our undertakings, let us first examine our own strength; the enterprise next; and, thirdly, the persons with whom we have to do. The first point is most important; for we are apt to overvalue ourselves, and reckon that we can do more than indeed we can.

We are all slaves to fortune: some only in loose and golden chains, others in strait ones, and coarser: nay, and they that bind us are slaves too themselves, some to honor, others to wealth; some to offices, and others to contempt; some to their superiors, others to themselves. Nay, life itself is a servitude: let us make the best of it then, and with our philosophy mend our fortunes.

Let us covet nothing out of our reach, but content ourselves with things hopeful and at hand; and without envying the advantages of others: for greatness stands upon a craggy precipice, and it is much safer and quieter living upon a level. How many great men are forced to keep their station upon mere necessity; because they find that there is no coming down from it but headlong? These men should do well to fortify themselves against ill consequences by such virtues and meditation as may make them less anxious for the future. The surest expedient in this case is to bound our desires, and to leave nothing to fortune which we may keep in our own power. Neither will this course wholly compose us, but it shows us at worst the end of our troubles.

It is but a main point to take care that we pro­pose nothing but what is hopeful and honest. For it will be equally troublesome to us, either not to succeed, or to be ashamed of the success. Wherefore let us be sure not to admit any ill design into our hearts; that we may lift up pure hands to heaven, and ask nothing which another shall be a loser by. Let us pray for a good mind, which is a wish to no man’s injury.

I will remember always that I am a man, and then consider that if I am happy, it will not last always; if unhappy, I may be other if I please. I will carry my life in my hand, and deliver it up readily when it shall be called for.

I will have a care of being a slave to myself; for it is a perpetual, a shameful, and the heaviest of all servitudes: and this may be done by moderate desires. I will say to myself, “What is it that I labor, sweat, and solicit for, when it is but very little that I want, and it will not be long that I shall need anything?”

He that would make a trial of the firmness of his mind, let him set certain days apart for the practice of his virtues. Let him mortify himself with fasting, coarse clothes, and hard lodging; and then say to himself, “Is this the thing now that I was afraid of?” In a state of security, a man may thus prepare himself against hazards, and in plenty fortify himself against want.

He that would live happily, must neither trust to good fortune nor submit to bad. He must stand upon his guard against all assaults; he must stick to himself, without any dependence upon other people.

Where the mind is tinctured with philosophy, there is no place for grief, anxiety, or superfluous vexations. It is prepossessed with virtue to the neglect of fortune, which brings us to a degree of security not to be disturbed.

It is easier to give counsel than to take it; and a common thing for one choleric man to condemn another. We may be sometimes earnest in advising, but not violent or tedious. Few words, with gentleness and efficacy, are best. The misery is, that the wise do not need counsel, and fools will not take it. A good man, it is true, delights in it; and it is a mark of folly and ill-nature to hate reproof.

To a friend I would be always frank and plain, and rather fail in the success than be wanting in the matter of faith and trust.

Do not tell me what a man should do in health or poverty, but show me the way to be either sound or rich. Teach me to master my vices: for it is to no purpose, so long as I am under their government, to tell me what I must do when I am clear of it.

In case of any avarice a little eased, a luxury moderated, a temerity restrained, a sluggish humor quickened; precepts will then help us forward, and tutor us how to behave ourselves.

He that pretends to a happy life must first lay a foundation of virtue, as a bond upon him, to live and die true to that cause. We do not find felicity in the veins of the earth where we dig for gold, nor in the bottom of the sea where we fish for pearls, but in a pure and untainted mind which, if it were not holy were not fit to entertain the Deity.

He that would be truly happy, must think his own lot best, and so live with men as considering that God sees him, and so speak to God as if men heard him.

No Felicity Like Peace of Conscience

A good conscience is the testimony of a good life, and the reward of it. This is it that forti­fies the mind against fortune, when a man has gotten the mastery of his passions, placed his treasure and his security within himself, learned to be content with his condition, and that death is no evil in itself, but only the end of man.

He that has dedicated his mind to virtue, and to the good of human society, whereof he is a member, has consummated all that is either profitable or necessary for him to know or to do toward the estab­lishment of his peace.

A great, a good, and a right mind is a kind of divinity lodged in flesh, and may be the blessing of a slave as well as of a prince; it came from heaven and to heaven it must return; and it is a kind of heavenly felicity which a pure and virtuous mind enjoys, in some degree, even upon earth: whereas temples of honor are but empty names, which, probab­ly, owe their beginning either to ambition or to violence.

I am strangely transported with the thoughts of eternity; nay, with the belief of it; for I have profound veneration for the opinions of great men, especially when they promise things so much to my satisfaction: for they do promise them, though they do not prove them. In the question of immortality of the soul, it goes very far with me, a general consent to the opinion of a future reward and punishment; which meditation raises me to the contempt of this life, in hopes of a better.

But still, though we know that we have a soul, yet what the soul is, how, and from whence, we are utterly ignorant. This only we understand, that all the good and ill we do is under the dominion of the mind; that a clear conscience states us in an inviol­able peace; and that the greatest blessing in Nature is that which every honest man may bestow upon himself.

The body is but the clog and prisoner of the mind, tossed up and down, and persecuted with punish­ments, violences, and diseases; but the mind itself is sacred and eternal, and exempt from the danger of all actual impression.

There is no man but approves of virtue, though but few pursue it. We see where it is, but we dare not venture to come at it: and the reason is, we overvalue that which we must quit to obtain it.

A good conscience fears no witnesses, but a guilty conscience is anxious even in solitude. If we do nothing but what is honest, let all the world know it; but if otherwise, what does it signify to have nobody else know it, so long as I know it myself: Miserable is he that slights that witness!

Wickedness, it is true, may escape the law, but not the conscience: for a private conviction is the first and the greatest punishment of offenders; so that sin plagues itself; and the fear of vengeance pursues even those that escape the stroke of it. It were ill for good men that iniquity may so easily evade the law, the judge, and the execution, if Nature had not set up torments and gibbets in the consciences of transgressors.

Those are the only certain and profitable delights, which arise from the consciousness of a well-acted life; no matter for noise abroad, so long as we are quiet within. But if our passions be seditious, that is enough to keep us waking without any other tumult.

He that would perfectly know himself, let him set aside his money, his fortune, his dignity, and examine himself naked, without being put to learn from others the knowledge of himself.

It is dangerous for a man too suddenly, or too easily, to believe himself. Wherefore let us examine, watch, observe, and inspect our own hearts; for we ourselves are our own greatest flatterers: we should every night call ourselves to account: “What infirm­ity have I mastered today? what passion opposed? what temptation resisted? what virtue acquired?” Our vices will abate of themselves, if they be brought every day to the shrift. Oh, the blessed sleep that follows such a diary! Oh, the tranquil­lity, liberty, and greatness of that mind that is a spy upon itself, and a private censor of its own manners!

It is my custom every night, so soon as the candle is out, to run over all the words and actions of the past day; and I let nothing escape me; for why should I fear the sight of my own errors, when I can admonish and forgive myself? “I was a little too hot in such a dispute: my opinion might have been as well spared, for it gave offense, and did no good at all. The thing was true, but all the truths are not to be spoken at all times. I would I had held my tongue, for there is no contending either with fools or our superiors. I have done ill, but it shall be so no more.” If every man would but thus look into himself, it would be the better for us all.

It is a great comfort that we are only condemned to the same fate with the universe. The heavens themselves are mortal as well as our bodies; Nature has made us passive, and to suffer is our lot. While we are in flesh, every man has his chain and his clog, only it is looser and lighter to one man than to another; and he is more at ease that takes it up and carries it, than he that drags it.

We are born to lose and to perish, to hope and to fear, to vex ourselves and others; and there is no antidote against a common calamity but virtue; for the foundation of true joy is in the conscience.

A Good Man Can Never Be Miserable

There is not in the scale of nature a more inseparable connection of cause and effect than in the case of happiness and virtue: nor anything that more naturally produces the one, or more necessarily presupposes the other. For what is it to be happy, but for a man to content himself with his lot, in a quiet and cheerful resignation to the appointments of God?

All the actions of our lives ought to be governed with respect to good and evil; and it is only reason that distinguishes; by which reason we are in such manner influenced, as if a ray of the Divinity were dipped in a mortal body, and that is the perfection of mankind.

It is not health, nobility, riches, that can justify a wicked man; nor is it the want of all these that can discredit a good one.

It is every man’s duty to make himself profit­able to mankind: if he can, to many; if not, to fewer; if not so neither, to his neighbor; but, however, to himself.

A good man may serve the public, his friend, and himself, in any station: if he be not for the sword, let him take the gown; if the bar does not agree with him, let him try the pulpit; if he is silenced abroad, let him give counsel at home, and discharge the part of a faithful friend and a temperate compan­ion. When he is no longer a citizen, he is yet a man; but the whole world is his country, and human nature never wants matter to work upon. Nay, he that spends his time well, even in a retirement, gives a great example.

We may enlarge indeed, or contract, according to the circumstances of time, place, or abilities; but, above all things, we must be sure to keep ourselves in action; for he that is slothful is dead indeed even while he lives.

Was there ever any state so desperate as that of Athens under the thirty tyrants, where it was capital to be honest, and the senate house was turned into a college of hangmen? Never was any government so wretched and so hopeless; and yet Socrates at the same time preached temperance to the tyrants, and courage to the rest, and afterward died an eminent example of faith and resolution, and a sacrifice for the common good.

Whensoever he that lent me myself, and what I have, shall call for all back again, it is not a loss but a restitution, and I must willingly deliver up what most undeservedly was bestowed upon me; and it will become me to return my mind better than I received it.

Demetrius, upon the taking of Megara, asked Stilpo the philosopher what he had lost. “Nothing,” says he, “for I had all that I could call my own about me.” And yet the enemy had then made himself master of his patrimony, his children, and his country; but these he looked upon only as adventi­tious goods, and under the command of Fortune.

A good man does his duty, let it be never so painful, so hazardous, or never so great a loss to him. And it is not all the money, the power, and the pleasure in the world, not any force of necessity, that can make him wicked. He considers what he is to do, not what he is to suffer, and will keep on his course, though there should be nothing but gibbets and torments in the way.

It is a certain mark of a brave mind not to be moved by any accidents. The upper region of the air admits neither clouds nor tempest, the thunder storms and meteors are formed below. And this is the dif­ference betwixt a mean and an exalted mind: the former is rude and tumultuous, the latter is modest, venerable, composed, and always quiet in its station.

In brief, it is the conscience that pronounces upon the man whether he be happy or miserable.

Let wickedness escape as it may at the bar, it never fails of doing justice upon itself. For every guilty person is his own hangman.

Providence the Cure of Misfortunes

It is not possible for us to comprehend what the Power is which has made all things. Some few sparks of that Divinity are discovered, but infinitely the greater part of it lies hid. We are all of us, however, thus far agreed, first, in the acknowledge­ment and belief of that almighty Being; and, second­ly, that we are to ascribe to it all majesty and goodness.

“If there be a Providence,: say some, “how comes it to pass that good men labor under affliction and adversity, and wicked men enjoy themselves in ease and plenty?” My answer is, that God deals by us as a good father does by his children. He tries us, he hardens us, and fits us for himself. He keeps a strict hand over those that he loves, and by the rest he does as we do by our slaves; he lets them go on in license and boldness. As the master gives his most hopeful scholars the hardest lessons, so does God deal with the most generous spirits. And the cross encounters of fortune we are not to look upon as a cruelty, but as a contest: the familiarity of dangers brings us to the contempt of them, and that part is strongest which is most exercised. The seaman’s hand is callous, the soldier’s arm is strong, and the tree that is most exposed to the wind takes the best root.

There is no state of life so miserable but there are in it remissions, diversions, nay, and delights too. Such is the benignity of Nature toward us, even in the severest accidents of human life. There were no living if adversity should hold on as it begins, and keep up the force of the first impression. All those terrible appearances that make us groan and tremble are but the tribute of life. We are neither to wish, nor to ask, nor to hope to escape them; for it is a kind of dishonesty to pay a tribute unwill­ingly.

Am I troubled with the stone, or afflicted with continual losses? Nay, is my body in danger? All this is no more than what I prayed for when I prayed for old age. All these things are as familiar in a long life as dust and dirt in a long way. Life is a warfare. And what brave man would not rather choose to be in a tent than in shambles?

It is only in adverse fortune, and in bad times, that we find great examples.

In suffering for virtue, it is not the torment but the cause that we are to consider; and the more pain, the more renown.

When any hardship befalls us, we must look upon it as an act of Providence, which many times suffers particulars to be wounded for the conservation of the whole.

How many casualties and difficulties are there that we dread as insupportable mischiefs, which, upon further thoughts, we find to be mercies and benefits; as, banishment, poverty, loss of relations, sickness, disgrace. Some are cured by the lance, by fire, hunger, thirst, taking out of bones, lopping off limbs, and the like. Nor do we only fear things that are many times beneficial to us; but, on the other side, we hanker after and pursue things that are deadly and pernicious. We are poisoned in the very pleasures of our luxury, and betrayed to a thousand diseases by the indulging of our palate.

No man knows his own strength or value but by being put to the proof. The pilot is tried in a storm, the soldier in a battle, the rich man knows not how to behave himself in poverty. He that has lived in popularity and applause knows not how he would bear infamy and reproach, nor he that never had children how he would bear the loss of them. Calam­ity is the occasion of virtue, and a spur to a great mind.

There is nothing falls amiss to a good man that can be charged against Providence; for wicked actions, lewd thoughts, ambitious projects, blind lusts, and insatiable avarice, against all these he is armed by the benefit of reason. And do we expect now that God should look to our luggage too? (I mean our bodies).

Many afflictions may befall a good man, but no evil, for contraries will never incorporate. All the rivers in the world are never able to change the taste or quality of the sea.

Providence and religion are above accidents, and draw good out of everything. Affliction keeps a man in use, and makes him strong, patient, and hardy.

No man can be happy that does not stand firm against all contingencies, and say to himself in all extremities, “I should have been content if it might have been so or so, but since it is otherwise deter­mined, God will provide better.”

The more we struggle with our necessities, we draw that knot the harder, and the worse it is with us. And the more the bird flaps and flutters in the snare, the surer she is caught. So that the best way is to submit and lie still, under this double consid­eration, that the proceedings of God are unquestion­able, and his decrees are not to be resisted.

Of Levity of Mind

We have showed what happiness is, and wherein it consists; that it is founded upon wisdom and virtue, for we must first know what we ought to do, and then live according to that knowledge. We have also discoursed the helps of philosophy and precept toward a happy life, the blessing of a good conscience, that a good man can never be miserable nor a wicked man happy, nor any man unfortunate that cheerfully submits to Providence.

We shall now examine how it comes to pass that, when a certain way to happiness lies so fair before us, men will yet steer their course on the other side, which as manifestly leads to ruin.

There are some that live without any design at all, and only pass in the world like straws upon a river. They do not go, but they are carried. Others only deliberate upon the parts of life, and not upon the whole, which is a great error; for there is no disposing of the circumstances of it, unless we first propound the main scope. How shall any man take his aim without a mark? Or what wind will serve him that is not yet resolved upon his port?

We live as it were by chance, and by chance we are governed. Some there are that torment themselves afresh with the memory of what is past: “Lord! What did I endure? Never was any man in my condition. Everybody gave me over, my very heart was ready to break,” etc. Others, again, afflict themselves with the apprehension of evils to come: and very ridicu­lously both: for the one does not now concern us, and the other not yet. Besides that, there may be remedies for mischiefs likely to happen, for they give us warning by signs and symptoms of their approach.

A rash seaman never considers what wind blows, or what course he steers, but runs at a venture, as if he would brave the rocks and the eddies. Whereas he that is careful and considerate informs himself beforehand where the danger lies, and what weather it is likely to be. He consults his compass, and keeps aloof from those places that are infamous for wrecks and miscarriages. So does a wise man in the common business of life. He keeps out of the way from those that may do him hurt; but it is a point of prudence not to let them take notice that he does it on purpose; for that which a man shuns he tacitly condemns.

There are many proprieties and diversities of vice; but it is one never-failing effect of it to live displeased. We do all of us labor under inordin­ate desires; we are either timorous and dare not venture, or venturing we do not succeed. Or else we put ourselves upon uncertain hopes, where we are perpetually anxious and in suspense. And when we have taken great pains to no purpose, we come then to repent of our undertakings. We are afraid to go on, and we can neither master our appetites nor obey them. We live and die restless and irresolute.

This is it that puts us upon rambling voyages. The town pleases us today, the country tomorrow; the splendors of the court at one time, the horrors of a wilderness at another. But all this while we carry our plague about us.

It must be the change of mind, not of the climate, that will remove the heaviness of the heart; our voices go along with us, and we carry in our­selves the causes of our disquiets. There is a great weight lies upon us, and the bare shocking of it makes it the more uneasy. Changing of countries, in this case, is not travelling, but wandering.

We must keep on our course, if we would gain our journey’s end. He that cannot live happily anywhere, will live happily nowhere.

What, is a man the better for travelling? As if his cares could not find him out wherever he goes? Is there any retiring from the fear of death, or of torments, or from those difficulties which beset a man wherever he is?

It is only philosophy that makes the mind invincible, and places us out of the reach of for­tune, so that all her arrows fall short of us. This it is that reclaims the rage of our lusts, and sweetens the anxiety of our fears. Frequent changing of places or councils shows an instability of mind; and we must fix the body before we can fix the soul. We can hardly stir abroad, or look about us, without encountering something or other that revives our appetites.

As he that would cast off an unhappy love avoids whatsoever may put him in mind of the person, so he that would wholly deliver himself from his beloved lusts must shun all objects that may put them in his head again, and remind him of them.

We travel, as children run up and down after strange sights, for novelty, not profit. We return neither the better nor the sounder. Nay, and the very agitation hurts us. We learn to call towns and places by their names, and to tell stories of mountains and rivers. But had not our time been better spent in the study of wisdom and of virtue? In the learning of what is already discovered, and in the quest of things not yet found out?

It is not the place, I hope, that makes either an orator or a physician. Will any man ask upon the road, Pray, which is the way to prudence, to justice, to temperance, to fortitude?

A great traveller was complaining that he was never the better for his travels. “That is very true,” said Socrates, “because you traveled with yourself.” Now, had he not better have made himself another man than to transport himself to another place?

We divide our lives betwixt a dislike of the present and a desire of the future. But he that lives as he should orders himself so as neither to fear nor to wish for tomorrow: if it come, it is welcome; but if not, there is nothing lost. For that which is come is but the same over again with what is past.

There are some things we would be thought to desire, which we are so far from desiring that we dread them. We do not deal candidly even with God himself. We should say to ourselves in these cases, “This I have drawn upon myself. I could never be quiet until I had gotten this woman, this place, this estate, this honor, and now see what is come of it.”

One sovereign remedy against all misfortunes is constancy of mind. The changing of parties and countenances looks as if a man were driven with the wind. Nothing can be above him that is above for­tune.

A Wise Man Proof Against Calamities

It is not violence, reproach, contempt, or whatever else from without that can make a wise man quit his ground, but he is proof against calamities, both great and small. Only our error is, that what we cannot do ourselves, we think nobody else can; so that we judge of the wise by the measures of the weak.

Place me among princes or among beggars, the one shall not make me proud, nor the other ashamed. I can take as sound a sleep in a barn as in a palace, and a bundle of hay makes me as good a lodging as a bed of down. Should every day succeed to my wish, it should not transport me; nor would I think myself miserable if I should not have one quiet hour in my life. I will not transport myself with pain or pleasure. But yet for all that, I could wish that I had an easier game to play, and that I would put rather to moderate my joys than my sorrows. If I were an imperial prince, I had rather take than be taken; and yet I would bear the same mind under the chariot of my conqueror that I had in my own.

It is no great matter to trample upon those things that are most coveted or feared by the common people. There are those that will laugh upon the wheel, and cast themselves upon a certain death, only upon a transport of love, perhaps anger, avarice, or revenge; but how much more than upon an instinct of virtue, which is invincible and steady! If a short obstinacy of mind can do this, how much more shall a composed and deliberate virtue, whose force is equal and perpetual.

To secure ourselves in this world, first, we must aim at nothing that men count worth the wrangl­ing for. Secondly, we must not value the possession of anything that even a common thief would think worth the stealing. A man’s body is no booty. Let the way be never so dangerous for robberies, the poor and the naked pass quietly.

Of Sincerity of Manners

A plain dealing sincerity of manners makes a man’s life happy, even in despite of scorn and contempt, which is every clear man’s fate. But we had better yet be contemned for simplicity than lie perpetually upon the torture of a counterfeit, provided that care be taken not to confound simplic­ity with negligence. And it is, moreover, an uneasy life, that of a disguise, for a man to seem to be what he is not, to keep a perpetual guard upon himself, and to live in fear of a discovery.

Of all others, a studious life is the least tiresome. It makes us easy to  ourselves and to others, and gains us both friends and reputation.

Happiness Can Never Depend Upon Fortune

Never pronounce any man happy that depends upon fortune for his happiness; for nothing can be more preposterous than to place the good of a reasonable creature in unreasonable things.

It is a common mistake to account those things necessary that are superfluous and to depend upon fortune for the felicity of life, which arises only from virtue. There is no trusting to her smiles. The sea swells and rages in a moment, and the ships are swallowed at night, in the very place where they sported themselves in the morning. And fortune has the same power over princes that it has over empires, over nations that it has over cities, and the same power over cities that it has over private men.

Where is that estate that may not be followed upon the heel with famine and beggary; that dignity which the next moment may not be laid in the dust; that kingdom that is secure from desolation and ruin? The period of all things is at hand, as well that which casts out the fortunate as the other that delivers the unhappy. And that which may fall out at any time may fall out this very day.

What shall come to pass I know not, but what may come to pass I know; so that I will despair of nothing, but expect everything; and whatever Providence remits is clear gain.

Every moment, if it spares me, deceives me. And yet in some sort it does not deceive me, for though I know that anything may happen, yet I know likewise that everything will not. I will hope the best, and provide for the worst.

Methinks we should not find so much fault with fortune for her inconstancy, when we ourselves suffer a change every moment that we live; only other changes make more noise, and this steals upon us like the shadow upon a dial, every jot as certainly, but more insensibly.

Nay, we are to dread our peace and felicity more than violence, because we are here taken unprovided; unless in a state of peace we do the duty of men in war, and say to ourselves, Whatever may be, will be. I am today safe and happy in the love of my country; I am tomorrow banished. Today in pleasure, peace, health; tomorrow broken upon a wheel, led in triumph, and in the agony of sickness. Let us therefore prepare for a shipwreck in the port, and for a tempest in a calm.

Wherefore let us set before our eyes the whole condition of human nature, and consider as well what may happen as what connnonly does. The way to make future calamities easy to us in the sufferance, is to make them familiar to us in the contemplation. How many cities in Asia, Achaia, Assyria, Macedonia, have been swallowed up by earthquakes? Nay, whole coun­tries are lost, and large provinces laid under water. But time brings all things to an end; for all the works of mortals are mortal; all possessions and their possessors are  uncertain and perishable; and what wonder is it to lose anything at any time when we must one day lose all?

That which fortune gives us this hour she may take away the next; and he that trusts to her favors shall either find himself deceived, or, if he be not, he will at least be troubled because he may be so. There is no defense in walls, fortifications, and engines, against the power of fortune. We must provide ourselves within, and when we are safe there, we are invincible. We may be battered, but not taken.

But the best of it is, if a man cannot mend his fortune, he may yet mend his manners, and put himself so far out of fortune’s reach that whether she gives or takes it shall be all one to us; for we are neither the greater for one, nor the less for the other.

What Befalls One May Befall All

We call this a dark room, or that a light one; when it is in itself neither the one nor the other, but only as the day and the night render it. And so it is in riches, strength of body, beauty, honor, command; and likewise in sickness, pain, banishment, death, which are in themselves middle and indifferent things, and only good or bad as they are influenced by virtue.

When Zeno was told that all his goods were drowned, “Why then,” says he, “fortune has a mind to make me a philosopher.” It is a great matter for a man to advance his mind above her threats or flat­teries; for he that has once gotten the better of her is safe forever.

When we see any man banished, beggared, tortur­ed, we are to account that though the mischief fell upon another, it was levelled at us. What wonder is it if, of so many thousands of dangers that are constantly hovering over us, one comes to hit us at last? That which befalls any man, may befall every man.

The things that are often contemned by the inconsiderate, and always by the wise, are in them­selves neither good nor evil: as, pleasure and pains, prosperity and adversity, which can only operate upon our outward condition, without any proper and neces­sary effect upon the mind.

A Sensual Life is a Miserable Life

What if a body might have all the pleasures in the world for the asking; who would so much unman himself as by accepting of them to desert his soul, and become a perpetual slave to his senses?

It is a shame for a man to place his felicity in those entertainments and appetites that are stronger in brutes. Do not beasts eat with a better stomach? Have they not more satisfaction in their lusts? And they have not only a quicker relish of their plea­sures, but they enjoy them without either scandal or remorse. If sensuality were happiness, beasts were happier than men; but human felicity is lodged in the soul, not in the flesh.

They that deliver themselves up to luxury are still either tormented with too little, or oppressed with too much; and equally miserable.

So long as our bodies were hardened with labor, or tired with exercise or hunting, our food was plain and simple; many dishes have made many diseases.

The most miserable mortals are they that deliver themselves up to their palates, or to their lusts. The pleasure is short and turns presently nauseous, and in the end it is either shame or repentance.

It is a brutal entertainment, and unworthy of a man, to place his felicity in the service of his senses.

Deliver me from the superstition of taking those things which are light and vain for felicities.

Of Avarice and Ambition

There is no avarice without some punishment, over and above that which it is to itself. How miserable is it in the desirel How miserable even in the attaining of our ends! For money is a greater torment in the possession than it is in the pursuit. The fear of losing it is a great trouble, the loss of it a greater, and it is made a greater yet by opin­ion.

Neither does avarice make us only unhappy in ourselves, but malevolent also to mankind. The soldier wishes for war, the husbandman would have his corn dear, the lawyer prays for dissension, the physician for a sickly year.

One man lives by the loss of another. Some few, perhaps, have the fortune to be detected; but they are all wicked alike.

Ambition puffs us up with vanity and wind: and we are equally troubled either to see anybody before us, or nobody behind us; so that we lie under a double envy, for whosoever envies another is also envied himself.

I will never envy those that the people call great and happy. A sound mind is not to be shaken with a popular and vain applause; nor is it in the power of their pride to disturb the state of our happiness.

Nay, in the very moment of our despising ser­vants, we may be made so ourselves.

The Blessings of Temperance and Moderation

There is not anything that is necessary to us but we have it either cheap or gratis. And this is the provision that our heavenly Father has made for us, whose bounty was never wanting to our needs.

He that lives according to reason shall never be poor; and he that governs his life by opinion shall never be rich. If nothing will serve a man but rich clothes and furniture, statues and plate, a numerous train of servants, and the rarities of all nations, it is not fortune’s fault, but his own, that he is not satisfied. For his desires are insatiable, and this is not a thirst but a disease.

It is the mind that makes us rich and happy, in what condition whatsoever we are; and money signifies no more to it than it does to the gods.

Coarse bread and water to a temperate man is as good as a feast, and the very herbs of the field yield a nourishment to man as well as to beasts. It was not by choice meats and perfumes that our fore­fathers recommended themselves, but in virtuous actions, and the sweat of honest, military, and of manly labors.

Nature does not give virtue, and it is a kind of art to become good.

The end of eating and of drinking is satiety. Now what matters it though one eats and drinks more and another less, so long as the one is not a-hungry, nor the other a-thirst? Epicurus, who limits plea­sure to nature, as the Stoics do to virtue, is undoubtedly in the right; and those that cite him to authorize their voluptuousness do exceedingly mistake him, and only seek a good authority for an evil cause. For their pleasures of sloth, gluttony, and lust have no afinity at all with his precepts or meaning.

It is the practice of the multitude to bark at eminent men, as little dogs do at strangers, for they look upon other men’s virtues as the upbraiding of their own wickedness. We should do well to commend those that are good; if not, let us pass them over.

The Blessings of Friendship

Of all felicities, the most charming is that of a firm and gentle friendship. It sweetens all our cares, dispels our sorrows, and counsels us in all extremities. Nay, if there were no other comfort in it than the bare exercise of so generous a virtue, even for that single reason a man would not be without it. Besides that, it is a sovereign antidote against all calamities, even against the fear of death itself.

That friendship where men’s affections are cemented by an equal and by a connnon love of good­ness, it is not either hope or fear, or any private interest, that can ever dissolve it.

My conversation lies among my books, but yet in the letters of a friend, methinks I have his company; and when I answer them I do not only write, but speak. In effect a friend is an eye, a heart, a tongue, a hand, at all distances.

He that is a friend to himself is also a friend to mankind. Even in my very studies, the greatest delight I take in what I learn is the teaching of it to others. For there is no relish, methinks, in the possession of anything without a partner. Nay, if wisdom itself were offered me upon condition only of keeping it to myself, I should undoubtedly refuse it.

Consolations Against Death

This life is only a prelude to eternity, where we are to expect another original, and another state of things. We have no prospect of heaven here but at a distance; let us therefore expect our last hour with courage.

The last, I say, to our bodies, but not to our minds. Our luggage we leave behind us, and return as naked out of the world as we came into it. The day which we fear as our last is but the birthday of our eternity; and it is the only way to it. So that what we fear as a rock, proves to be but a port, in many cases to be desired, never to be refused. And he that dies young has only made a quick voyage of it.

Nay, suppose that all the business of this world should be forgotten, or my memory traduced, what is all this to me? “I have done my duty.”

Why do we not as well lament that we did not live a thousand years ago, as that we shall not be alive a thousand years hence? It is but travelling the great road, and to the place whither we must all go at last. It is but submitting to the law of Nature, and to that lot which the whole world has suffered that has gone before us; and so must they too that are to come after us. Nay, how many thou­sands, when our time comes, will expire in the same moment with us!

Let us live in our bodies, therefore, as if we were only to lodge in them this night, and leave them tomorrow.

It is the care of a wise and good man to look to his manners and actions; and rather how well he lives than how long. For to die sooner or later is not the business, but to die well or ill; for death brings us to immortality.

It is necessary to provide against hunger, thirst, and cold; and somewhat for a covering to shelter us against other inconveniences; but not a pin matter whether it be of turf or of marble. A man may lie as warm and as dry under a thatched as under a gilded roof. Let the mind be great and glorious, and all other things are despicable in comparison.

The future is uncertain; and I had rather beg of myself not to desire anything, than of fortune to bestow it.

OF BENEFITS

A benefit is a good office, done with intention and judgment; that is to say, with a due regard to all the circumstances of what, how, why, when, where, to whom, how much, and the like. Or, otherwise, it is a voluntary and benevolent action, that delights the giver in the comfort it brings to the receiver. The very meditation of it breeds good blood and generous thoughts, and instructs us in all the parts of honor, humanity, friendship, piety, gratitude, prudence and justice.

In short, the art and skill of conferring benefits is, of all human duties, the most absolutely necessary to the well-being both of reasonable nature and of every individual; as the very cement of all communities, and the blessing of particular ones.

He that does good to another man does good also to himself; not only in the consequence, but in the very act of doing it; for the conscience of well­doing is an ample reward.

Of Intentions and Effects

The good-will of the benefactor is the fountain of all benefits; Nay, it is the benefit itself, or at least the stamp that makes it valuable and current. The obligation rests in the mind, not in the matter; and all those advantages which we see, handle, or hold in actual possession by the courtesy of another are but several modes or ways of explaining and putting the good-will in execution.

There needs no great subtlety to prove that both benefits and injuries receive their value from the intention, when even brutes themselves are able to decide this question. Tread upon a dog by chance, or put him to pain upon the dressing of a wound; the one he passes by as an accident, and the other, in his fashion, he acknowledges as a kindness. But offer to strike at him, though you do him no hurt at all, he flies yet in the face of you, even for the mischief that you barely meant him.

My friend is taken by pirates; I redeem him; and after that he falls into other pirates’ hands. His obligation to me is the same still as if he had preserved his freedom. And so, if I save a man from any misfortune, and he falls into another; if I give him a sum of money which is afterward taken away by thieves; it comes to the same case. Fortune may deprive us of the matter of a benefit, but the benefit itself remains inviolable.

If the benefit resided in the matter, that which is good for one man would be so for another. Whereas many times the very same thing given to several persons works contrary effects, even to the differ­ence of life or death; and that which is one body’s cure proves another body’s poison. Besides that, the timing of it alters the value; and a crust of bread, upon a pinch, is a greater present than an imperial crown.

And the same reason holds good even in religion itself. It is not the incense, or the offering, that is acceptable to God, but the purity and devotion of the worshipper. Neither is the bare will, without action, sufficient, that is, where we have the means of acting; for in that case it signifies as little to wish well without well-doing, as to do good without willing it. There must be effect as well as inten­tion, to make me owe a benefit.

In fine, the conscience alone is the judge, both of benefits and injuries.

And so it is with the good we receive, either without, or beside, or contrary to intention. It is the mind, and not the event, that distinguishes from an injury.

Of Judgment in the Bestowal of Benefits

We are to give by choice, and not by hazard. My inclination bids me oblige one man; I am bound in duty and justice to serve another. Here it is a charity, there it is pity; and elsewhere, perhaps, encouragement.

There are some that want, to whom I would not give; because, if I did, they would still want. To one man I would barely offer a benefit, but I would press it upon another.

To say the truth, we do not employ money to more profit than that which we bestow; and it is not to our friends, our acquaintances or countrymen, nor to this or that condition of men, that we are to restrain our bounties, but wheresoever there is a man, there is a place and an occasion for a benefit. We give to some that are good already; to others, in hope to make them so; but we must do all with discretion. For we are as well answerable for what we give as for what we receive. Nay, the misplacing of a benefit is worse than the not receiving of it; for the one is another man’s fault, but the other is mine.

The error of the giver does oft-times excuse the ingratitude of the receiver; for a favor ill-placed is rather a profusion than a benefit.

I will choose a man of integrity, sincere, con­siderate, grateful, temperate, well-natured, neither covetous nor sordid; and when I have obliged such a man, though not worth a groat in the world, I have gained my end. ,

If we give only to receive, we lose the fairest objects for our charity: the absent, the sick, the captive, and the needy. When we oblige those that can never pay us again in kind, as a stranger upon his last farewell, or a necessitous person upon his death-bed, we make Providence our debtor, and rejoice in the conscience even of a fruitless benefit. So long as we are affected with passions, and distracted with hopes and fears, and with our pleasures, we are incompetent judges where to place our bounties. But when death presents itself, and that we come to our last will and testament, we leave our fortunes to the most worthy. He that gives nothing but in hopes of receiving, must die intestate.

But what shall I do, you will say, to know whether a man will be grateful or not? I will follow probability, and hope the best. He that sows is not sure to reap, nor the seaman to reach his port, nor the soldier to win the field. He that weds is not sure his wife shall be honest, or his children dutiful. But shall we therefore neither sow, sail, bear arms, nor marry?

Nay, if I knew a man to be incurably thankless, I would yet be so kind as to put him in his way, or let him light a candle at mine, or draw water at my well; which may stand him perhaps in great stead, and yet not be reckoned as a benefit from me; for I do it carelessly and not for his sake but my own, as an office of humanity, without any choice or kindness.

Of the Matter of Obligations

Alexander bestowed a city upon one of his favorites who, modestly excusing himself, “That it was too much for him to receive.” “Well, but,” says Alexander, “it is not too much for me to give.” A haughty certainly and an imprudent speech; for that which was not fit for the one to take could not be fit for the other to give.

It passes in the world for greatness of mind to be perpetually giving and loading of people with bounties. But it is one thing to know how to give, and another thing not to know how to keep. Give me a heart that is easy and open, but I will have no holes in it. Let it be bountiful with judgment, but I will have nothing run out of it I know not how. How much greater was he that refused the city than the other that offered it.

Those favors are, in some sort, scandalous that make a man ashamed of his patron.

It is a matter of great prudence for the benefactor to suit the benefit to the condition of the receiver, who must be either his superior, his inferior, or his equal; and that which would be the highest obligation imaginable to the one, would perhaps be as great a mockery and affront to the other. A plate of broken meat to a rich man were an indignity, which to a poor man is a charity.

Whatsoever the present be, or to whomsoever we offer it, this general rule must be observed; that we always design the good and satisfaction of the receiv­er, and never grant anything to his detriment.

I will no more undo a man with his will, than forbear saving him against it. It is a benefit in some cases to grant, and in others to deny; so that we are rather to consider the advantage than the desire of the petitioner. For we may in a passion earnestly beg for (and take it ill to be denied to) that very thing which, upon second thoughts, we may come to curse, as the occasion of a most pernicious bounty.

He that lends a man money to carry to a bawdy­house, or a weapon for his revenge, makes himself a partaker of his crime.

The Manner of Obliging

In the first place, whatsoever we give, let us do it frankly. A kind benefactor makes a man happy as soon as he can, and as much as he can. There should be no delay in a benefit but the modesty of the receiver. If we cannot foresee the request, let us, however, immediately grant it, and by no means suffer the repeating of it. It is so grievous a thing to say, I BEG. The very word puts a man out of countenance. And it is a double kindness to do the thing, and save an honest man the confusion of a blush. It comes too late that comes for the asking; for nothing costs us so dear as that we purchase with our prayers. It is all we give, even for heaven itself; and even there too, where our petitions are at the fairest, we choose rather to present them in secret ejaculations than by word of mouth. That is the lasting and the acceptable benefit that meets the receiver half-way.

The rule is, we are to give as we would receive, cheerfully, quickly, and without hesitation; for there is no grace in a benefit that sticks to the fingers.

It was well said of him that called a good office, that was done harshly, and with an ill will, a stony piece of bread. It is necessary for him that is hungry to receive it, but it almost chokes a man in the going down. There must be no pride, arrogance of looks, or tumor of words in the bestowing of benefits.

Whatsoever we bestow, let it be done with a frank and cheerful countenance. A man must not give with his hand, and deny with his looks. He that gives quickly, gives willingly.

Many benefits are great in show, but little or nothing in effect when they come hard, slow, or at unawares. That which is given with pride and ostentation, is rather an ambition than a bounty.

He must be a wise, a friendly, and a well-bred man that perfectly acquits himself in the art and duty of obliging; for all his actions must be squared according to the measures of civility, good-nature, and discretion.

Of Requital

Diogenes walked naked and unconcerned through the middle of Alexander’s treasures and was, as well

in other men’ s opinions as in his own, even above Alexander himself, who at that time had the whole world at his feet. For there was more that the one scorned to take than the other had it in his power to give; and it is a greater generosity for a beggar to refuse money than for a price to bestow it.

Nor is it to be said that “I cannot requite such a benefactor because I am poor, and have it not.” I can give good counsel, a conversation wherein he may take both delight and profit, freedom of discourse without flattery, kind attention, where he deliber­ates, and faith inviolable where he trusts. I may bring him to a love and knowledge of truth, deliver him from the errors of his credulity, and teach him to distinguish betwixt friends and parasites.

Of How the Receiver Should Act

There are certain rules in common betwixt the giver and the receiver. We must do both cheerfully, that the giver may receive the fruit of his benefit in the very act of bestowing it. The more glorious part, in appearance, is that of the giver; but the receiver has undoubtedly the harder game to play in many regards.

There are some from whom I would not accept a benefit; that is to say, from those upon whom I would not bestow one. For why should I not scorn to receive a benefit where I am ashamed to own it?

It is a pain to an honest and a generous mind to lie under a duty of affection against inclination. I do not speak here of wise men, that love to do what they ought to do, that have their passions at command, that prescribe laws for themselves and keep them when they have done; but of men in a state of imperfection, that may have a good will perhaps to be honest, and yet be overborne by the contumacy of their affections.

We must therefore have a care to whom we become obliged; and I would be much stricter yet in the choice of a creditor for benefits than for money. In the one case, it is but paying what I had, and the debt is discharged. In the other, I do not only owe more, but when I have paid that, I am still in arrear; and this law is the very foundation of friendship.

To match this scruple of receiving money, with another of keeping it:

There was a certain Pythagorean that contracted with a .cobbler for a pair of shoes, and some three or four days after, going to pay him his money, the shop was shut up. When he had knocked a great while at the door, “Friend,” says a fellow, “you may hammer your heart out there, for the man that you look for is dead.” Upon this the philosopher went away, with his money clinking in his hand, and well enough content to save it. At last, his conscience took check at it; and, upon reflection, “Though the man be dead,” says he, “to others, he is alive to thee. Pay him what thou owest him.” And so he went back presently and thrust it into his shop through the chink of the door.

Whatever we owe, it is our part to find where to pay it, and do it without asking, too; for whether the creditor be good or bad, the debt is still the same.

But whatever we do, let us be sure always to keep a grateful mind. It is not enough to say, what requital shall a poor man offer to a prince, or a slave to his patron, when it is the glory of grati­tude that it depends only upon the good will.

For my own part , when I come to cast up my account, and know what I owe and to whom, though I make my return sooner to some, and later to others, as occasion or fortune will give me leave, yet I will be just to all. I will be grateful to God, to man, to those that have obliged me; nay, even to those that have obliged my friends. I am bound in honor and in conscience to be thankful for what I have received; and if it be not yet full, it is some pleasure still that I may hope for more. For the requital of a favor there must be virtue, occasion, means, and fortune.

Of Ingratitude

The principal causes of ingratitude are pride and self-conceit, avarice, envy, etc. It is a familiar exclamation, “It is true he did this or that for me, but it came so late, and it was so little, I had even as good have been without it. If he had not given it to me, he must have given it to somebody else; it was nothing out of his own pocket.” Nay, we are so ungrateful that he that gives us all we have, if he leaves anything to himself, we reckon that he does us an injury.

Not to return one good office for another is inhuman; but to return evil for good is diabolical. There are too many even of this sort who, the more they owe, the more they hate. There is nothing more dangerous than to oblige those people; for when they are conscious of not paying the debt, they wish the creditor out of the way.

But what is all this to those who are so made, as to dispute even the goodness of Heaven, which gives us all, and expects nothing again, but continues giving to the most unthankful and complaining.

Without the exercise and the commerce of mutual offices we can be neither happy nor safe, for it is only society that secures us. Take us one by one, a prey even to brutes as well as to one another. Nature has brought us into the world naked and unarmed. We have not the teeth or the paws of lions or bears to make ourselves terrible. But by the two blessings of reason and union we secure and defend ourselves against violence and fortune. This it is that makes man the master of all other creatures, who otherwise were scarce a match for the weakest of them. This it is that comforts us in sickness, in age, in misery, in pains, and in the worst of calami­ties. Take away this combination, and mankind is dissociated and falls to pieces.

Of Anger

Anger is not only a vice, but a vice point-blank against nature, for it divides instead of joining, and, in some measure, frustrates the end of Providence in human society. One man was born to help another. Anger makes us destroy one another. The one unites, the other separates. The one is beneficial to us, the other mischievous. The one succors even strang­ers, the other destroys even the most intimate friends. The one ventures all to save another, the other ruins himself to undo another. Nature is bountiful, but anger is pernicious; for it is not fear, but mutual love that binds up mankind.

The bravest man in the world may look pale when he puts on his armor, his knees knock and his heart works before the battle is joined; but these are only motions: whereas anger is an excursion, and proposes revenge or punishment, which cannot be without the mind.

As fear flies, so anger assaults. And it is not possible to resolve either upon violence or caution, without the concurrence of the will.

Suppressing Anger

It is an idle thing to pretend that we cannot govern our anger: for some things that we do are much harder than others that we ought to do. The wildest affections may be tamed by discipline, and there is hardly anything which the mind wills to do but it may do.

It is most certain that we might govern our anger if we would, for the same thing that galls us at home gives us no offense at all abroad. And what is the reason of it, but that we are patient in one place, and forward in another?

It was a strong provocation that was given to Philip of Macedon, the father of Alexander. The Athenians sent their ambassadors to him, and they were received with this compliment: “Tell me, gentlemen,” says Philip, “what is there that I can do to oblige the Athenians?” Democharas, one of the

ambassadors, told him that they would take it for a great obligation if he would be pleased to hang himself. This insolence gave an indignation to the bystanders; but Philip bade them not to meddle with him, but even to let that foul-mouthed fellow go as he came. “And for you, the rest of the ambassadors,” says he, “pray tell the Athenians that it is worse to speak such things than to hear and forgive them.”

This wonderful patience under contumelies was a great means of Philip’s security.

Anger a Short Madness

He was much in the right, whoever he was, that first called anger a short madness; for they have both of them the same symptoms. And there is so wonderful a resemblance betwixt the transports of choler and those of frenzy, that it is a hard matter to know one from the other.

Neither is anger a bare resemblance only of madness, but many times an irrevocable transition into the thing itself. How many persons have we known, read, and heard of that have lost their wits in a passion and never came to themselves again? It is therefore to be avoided, not only for moderation’s sake, but also for health.

Now, if the outward appearance of anger be so foul and hideous, how deformed must that miserable mind be that is harrassed with it. For it leaves no place either for counsel or friendship, honesty or good manners; no place either for the exercise of reason, or for the offices of life. If I were to describe it, I would draw a tiger bathed in blood, sharp set, and ready to take a leap at his prey. Or, dress it up as the poets represent the furies, with whips, snakes, and flames.

Anger, alas, is but a wild impetuous blast, an empty tumor, the very infirmity of women and child­ren; a brawling, clamorous evil. And the more noise the less courage, as we find it commonly that the boldest tongues have the faintest hearts.

The Effect of Anger

“It is a sad thing,” we cry, “to put up with these injuries, and we are not able to bear them.” As if any man that can bear anger could not bear an injury, which is much more supportable.

But “May not an honest man then be allowed to be angry at the murder of his father, or the ravishing of his sister or daughter before his face?” No, not at all. I will defend my parents, and I will repay the injuries done them; but it is my piety, and not my anger, that moves me to it. I will do my duty without fear or confusion, I will not rage, I will not weep, but discharge the of office of a good man without forfeiting the dignity of a man. If my father be assaulted, I will endeavor to rescue him. If he be killed, I will do right to his memory. And in all this, not in any transport of passion, but in honor and conscience.

Reason judges according to right. Anger will have everything seem right, whatever it does, and when it has once pitched upon a mistake, it is never to be convinced, but prefers a pertinacity, even in the greatest evil, before the most necessary repen­tance.

If anger were sufferable in any case, it might be allowed against an incorrigible criminal under the hand of justice. But punishment is not a matter of anger but of caution. The law is without passion and strikes malefactors as we do serpents and venemous creatures, for fear of greater mischief.

It is not for the dignity of a judge, when he comes to pronounce the fatal sentence, to express any motions of anger in his looks, words, or gestures; for he condemns the vice, not the man, and looks upon the wickedness without anger, as he does upon the prosperity of wicked men without envy. But though he be not angry, I would have him a little moved in point of humanity, but yet without any offense either to his place or wisdom.

Our passions vary, but reason is equal. And it were a great folly, for that which is stable, faith­ful, and sound, to repair for succor to that which is uncertain, false, and distempered.

If the of fender is incurable, take him out of the world, that if he will not be good he may cease to be evil; but this must be without anger too.

A good and wise man is not to be an enemy of wicked men, but a reprover of them. And he is to look upon all the drunkards, the lustful, the thank­less, covetous, and ambitious that he meets with, not otherwise than as a physician looks upon his patients.

Besides, if we will needs be quarrelsome, it must be either with our superior, our equal, or inferior. To contend with our superior is folly and madness; with our equals, it is doubtful and dangerous; and with our inferiors, it is base.

Anger is so potent a passion that Socrates durst not trust himself with it. “Sirrah,” says he to his man, “now would I beat you, if I were not angry with you!”

How prone and eager are we in our hatred, and how backward in our love! Were it not much better now to be making of friendships, pacifying of enemies, doing of good offices both private and public, than to be still meditating of mischief, and designing how to wound one man in his fame, another in his fortune, a third in his person? The one being so innocent, and safe, and the other so difficult, impious, and hazardous.

Let this be a rule to us, never to deny a pardon that does not hurt either the giver or receiver.

And, to wind up all in one word, the great lesson of mankind, as well in this as in all other cases, is to do as we would be done by.

EPISTLES

Of Writing and Speaking

No man takes satisfaction in a flux of words without choice, where the noise is more than the value. Nay, let a man have words never so much at will, he will no more speak fast than he will run, for fear his tongue should get before his wit.

The speech of a philosopher should be, like his life, composed, without pressing or stumbling, which is fitter for a mountebank than a man of sobriety and business.

You say well that in speaking the very ordering of the voice (to say nothing of the actions, counten­ances, and other circumstances accompanying it) is a consideration worthy of a wise man.

He that has a precipitate speech is commonly violent in his manners. And besides that, there is in it much of vanity and emptiness.

Truth and morality should be delivered in words plain, and without affectation; for, like remedies, unless they stay with us, we are never the better for them.

A wantonness and effeminacy of speech denotes luxury, and self-indulgence, for the wit follows the mind: if the latter be sound, composed, temperate, and grave, the wit is dry and sober too; but if the one is corrupted, the other is likewise unsound.

A finical temper is read in the very gestures and clothes. If a man be choleric and violent, it is also discovered in his motions. An angry man speaks short and quick. The speech of an effeminate man is loose and melting. A quaint and solicitous way of speaking is the sign of a weak mind; but a great man speaks with ease and freedom, and with more assurance, though less care.

Speech is the index of the mind.

It does not become a man to be delicate. As it is in drink, the tongue never trips till the mind be overborne, so it is with speech; so long as the mind is whole and sound, the speech is masculine and strong, but if one fails, the other follows.

Some are raised and startled at words, as a horse is at a drum, and indulge the very passion of the speaker. Others are moved with the beauty of things; and when they hear anything bravely urged against death or fortune, they do secretly wish for some occasion of experimenting that generosity in themselves. But not one of a thousand of them that carries the resolution home with him that he had conceived. It is an easy matter to excite an aud­itory to the love of goodness, having already the foundation and seeds of virtue within themselves; so that it is but awakening the consideration of it, where all men are agreed beforehand upon the main. Who is so sordid as not to be roused at such a speech as this: “The poor man wants many things, but the covetous man wants all.” Can any flesh forbear being delighted with this saying, though a satire against his own vice?

In the matter of composition, I would write as I speak, with ease and freedom, for it is more friendly as well as more natural.

If I put my thoughts in good sense, the matter of ornament I shall leave to the orators.

Of authors, be sure to make a choice of the best; and to stick close to them. And though you take up others by and by, reserve some select ones however for your study and retreat. In your reading, you will every day meet with some consolation and support against poverty, death, and other calamities incident to human life. Extract what you like, and then single out some particular from the rest, for that day’s meditation.

And so it fares with our studies; so long as they lie whole, they pass into the memory without affecting the understanding; but upon meditation they become our own, and supply us with strength and virtue.

There are some writings that stir up some generous resolutions, and do, as it were, inspire a man with a new soul. They display the blessings of a happy life, and possess me at the same time with admiration and hope. They give me a veneration for the oracles of antiquity, and a claim to them as a common heritage; for they are the treasure of man­kind, and it must be my duty to improve the stock, and transmit it to posterity.

I do not pretend all this while to be the master of truth, but I am yet a most obstinate inquisitor after it. I am no man’s slave; but as I ascribe much to great men, I challenge something to myself. Our forefathers have left us not only their invention, but matter also for farther inquiry.

Is not this a fine time for us to be fiddling and fooling about words? How many useful and neces­sary things are there, that we are first to learn, and, secondly, to imprint in our minds. For it is not enough to remember and to understand, unless we do what we know.

Sometimes, all of a sudden, in the middle of my meditations, my ears are struck with the shout of a thousand people together, from some spectacle or other; the noise does not all discompose my thought; it is no more to me than the dashing of waves, or the wind in a wood; but possibly sometimes it may divert them. “Good Lord,” think I, “if men would but exercise their brains as they do their bodies; and take as much pains for virtue as they do for plea­sure!”. For difficulties strengthen the mind as well as labor does the body.

Upon these thoughts I betake myself to my philosophy; and then, methinks, I am not well unless I put myself into some public employment; not for the honor or the profit of it, but only to place myself in a station where I may be serviceable to my country and to my friends. But when I come, on the other side, to consider the uneasiness, the abuses, and the loss of time, that attend public affairs, I get me home again as fast as I can, and take up a resolution of spending the remainder of my days within the privacy of my own walls.

How great a madness is it to set our hearts upon trifles; especially to the neglect of the most serious offices of our lives, and the most important end of our being!

How miserable, as well as short, is their life, that compass with great labor what they possess with greater; and hold with anxiety what they acquire with trouble!

But we are governed in all things by opinion, and everything is to us as we believe it.

The Knowledge of Virtue

Be true to yourself, and examine yourself whether you be of the same mind to-day that you were yesterday; for that is a sign of perfect wisdom.

It is for young men to gather knowledge, and for old men to use it: and assure yourself that no man gives a fairer account of his time than he that makes it his daily study to make himself better.

There is no age better adapted to virtue than that which comes by many experiments, and long sufferings, to the knowledge of it: for our lusts are then weak, and our judgment strong; and wisdom is the effect of time.

We are led to the understanding of virtue by the congruity we find in such and such actions to nature and right reason; by the order, grace, and constancy of them, and by a certain majesty and greatness that surpass all other things. From hence proceeds a happy life, to which nothing comes amiss; but, on the contrary, everything succeeds to our very wish.

Shall I tell you now, in a word, the sum of human duty? Patience, where we are to suffer; and prudence in things we do.

That only may properly be said to be the long life that draws all ages into one; and that a short one that forgets the past, neglects the present, and is solicitous for the time to come.

We are best with dangers; and therefore a wise man should have his virtues in continual readiness to encounter them. Whether poverty, loss of friends, pains, sickness, or the like, he still maintains his post; whereas a fool is surprised at everything, and afraid of his very succors; either he makes no resistance at all, or else he does it by halves. He will neither take advice from others, nor look to himself: he reckons upon philosophy as a thing not worth his time; and if he can but get the reputation of a good man among the common people, he takes no farther care, but accounts that he has done his duty.

There are not many men that know their own minds but in the very instant of willing anything. We are for one thing to-day, another thing to-morrow; so that we live and die without coming to any resol­ution; still seeking elsewhere that which we may give ourselves, that is to say, a good mind.

The time will come when we shall wonder that mankind should be so long ignorant of things that lay so open and so easy to be made known. Truth is offered to all; but we must yet content ourselves with what is already found; and leave some truths to be retrieved by after ages. The exact truth of things is only known to God: but it is yet lawful for us to inquire, and to conjecture, though not with too much confidence, not yet altogether without hope.

The short of the question betwixt you and me is this, “Whether a man had better part with himself, or something else that belongs to him?” And it is easily resolved, in all competitions betwixt the goods of sense and fortune, and those of honor and conscience. Those things which all men covet are but specious outsides; and there is nothing in them of substantial satisfaction. Nor is there anything so hard and terrible in the contrary.

A wise man either repels or elects, as he sees the matter before him, without fearing the ill which he rejects, or admiring what he chooses. He is never surprised; but in the midst of plenty he prepares for poverty, as a prudent prince does for war in the depth of peace. Our condition is good enough, if we make the best of it; and our felicity is in our own power.

We say commonly, that every man has his weak side: but give me leave to tell you, that he that masters one vice may master all the rest. He that subdues avarice may conquer ambition.

Justice is a natural principle. I must live thus with my friend, thus with my fellow-citizen, thus with my companion: and why? because it is just; not for design or reward: for it is virtue itself, and nothing else, that pleases us. There is no law extant for keeping the secrets of a friend, or for not breaking faith with an enemy; and yet there is just cause of complaint if a body betray a trust. If a wicked man call upon me for money that I owe him, I will make no scruple of pouring it into the lap of a common prostitute, if she be appointed to receive it. For my business is to return the money, not to order him how he shall dispose of it. I must pay it upon demand to a good man when it is expedient, and to a bad when he calls for it.

There is not so disproportionate a mixture in any creature as that is in man, of soul and body. There is intemperance joined with divinity, folly with severity, sloth with activity, and uncleanness with purity: but a good sword is never the worse for an ill scabbard. We are moved more by imaginary fears than truths; for truth has a certainty and foundation; but in the other, we are exposed to the license and conjecture of a distracted mind; and our enemies are not more imperious than our pleasures.

We set our hearts upon transitory things, as if they themselves were everlasting; or we, on the other side, to possess them forever. Why do we not rather advance our thoughts to things that are eternal, and contemplate the heavenly original of all beings? Why do we not, by the divinity of reason, triumph over the weakness of flesh and blood?

The sovereign good of man is a mind that sub­jects all things to itself, and is itself subject to nothing: his pleasures are modest, severe, and reserved: and rather the sauce or the diversion of life than the entertainment of it. It may be some question whether such a man goes to heaven, or heaven comes to him: for a good man is influenced by God himself, and has a kind of divinity within him. What if one good man lives in pleasure and plenty, and another in want and misery? It is no virtue to contemn superfluities, but necessities: and they are both of them equally good, though under several circumstances, and in different stations.

Who is there that, upon sober thoughts, would not be an honest man, even for the reputation of it. Virtue you shall find in the temple, in the field, or upon walls, covered with dust and blood, in the defence of the public. Pleasures you shall find sneaking in the stews, sweating-houses, powdered and painted, etc. Not that pleasures are wholly to be disclaimed, but to be used with moderation, and to be made subservient to virtue. Good manners always please us; but wickedness is restless, and perpetual­ly changing; not for the better, but for variety. We 

are torn to pieces betwixt hopes and fears; by which means Providence (which is the greatest blessing of Heaven) is turned into a mischief. Wild beasts, when they see their dangers, fly from them: and when they have escaped them they are quiet: but wretched man is equally tormented, both with things past and to come; for the memory brings back the anxiety of our past fears, and our foresight anticipates the future; whereas the present makes no man miserable. If we fear all things that are possible, we live without any bounds to our miseries.