The Wisdom of the Stoics: Selections from Seneca, Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius

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.