So far we have done little else than to bring Epicurus’ opinions into full view.

Now we must advance the matter further.  To see whether or not he had a reason to say that pleasure is the end, it is first necessary to examine two of his principal maxims.  One is that any pleasure is in itself a natural good while any pain is an evil.  The other is that nevertheless certain pains are sometimes required to be chosen over certain pleasures.

 
Whether all pleasure is good in and of itself

In regards to the first maxim, it is reasonable that Epicurus asserts that any pleasure is good in and of itself, though by accident some of them turn out to be bad.  For any creature, by its nature, seems to be so inclined towards pleasure (or gratification) that it is the foremost thing which it naturally desires.  There is no pleasure that it refuses, as long as it is not accompanied by some evil which would then cause it pain, and make it regret choosing the pleasure.  And certainly, as the nature of good consists of inspiring the desire to like it, and to pursue it, one cannot say why any pleasure, or any pleasure of itself, is not pleasant and desirable.  Thus, there is no pleasure in itself that one does not like – that is not pleasant and appetizing.  So if we reject some of them, it is not exactly pleasure that we reject, but the consequential nuisances that are connected with it.

To make an example: nobody would disagree that honey is naturally sweet; nevertheless, if one happened to mix poison into it so that the poison was sweetened, then we truly would have an aversion for the sweetness of honey.  But this would be by accident, because it is still by its own nature delightful and appealing.  Thus, one can say that if we have such an aversion, it is not really for sweetness itself.  It is caused instead by the harm of the poison mixed into it, for if the poison was separated from it, we would be quite willing to taste it.  Apply any sort of pleasure to this example, and you will notice that it will never turn out otherwise: the harm shall never come from the pleasure itself, but rather from the thing from which it shall be obtained, or a consequence which accompanies it, or the injury which shall result either from the thing or from the consequence, or the pain which shall follow the thing, the consequence, or the injury.

To make this point even more obvious, suppose that a particular kind of pleasure can be come from a thing or action, that neither law, custom, nor honor prohibit.  Suppose that from this thing or action, no loss of health, fame, or benefits results. Finally, suppose that it entails no pain, reprimand, or repentance – either in the present life or in the hereafter.  You will clearly recognize that nothing precludes it from being considered a good.  If it is not considered such, then this is not because of its nature, but because of the kinds of qualifications that I have mentioned above.

Aristotle also proves this by reasoning that pain is the opposite of pleasure.  “Everyone,” he says, “agrees that pain is a bad thing and should be avoided.”  Now, to build upon Aristotle’s reasoning, is it not obvious that any pain is generally evil and hurtful in and of itself, so that any animal has a natural aversion to it?  So if it sometimes is known as a good, it is only so by accident, and because it happens to have a good attached to it, which makes us like and embrace it.  But if you remove from such pain any hope of obtaining any honest, practical, or pleasant benefit from it, would there be a man foolish enough to desire it and who would elect to go after it?  Isn't it so obvious that if any pain is an evil in itself, though not one by accident, then any pleasure, being the opposite of pain, is a good in itself, and is an evil only by accident?

Some would object that a temperate man flees pleasures, and he who is prudent seeks only freedom from pain instead; that there are some pleasures which are impediments to prudence, especially those that are intense, as are generally the pleasures of love; that there are some pleasures which not only are harmful, in how they dull one’s awareness, generate diseases, and cause poverty, but are also debauched and infamous.

First off, those who are temperate and those who are prudent do not flee all pleasures, for sometimes they evidently pursue those pleasures which are pure and honorable.  And even if they flee some of them, they do not flee them just because they are pleasures, but because they are linked to consequential harm, so that a prudent and temperate man would not be seduced by the enjoyment of such pleasure when presented, in the same way that one regards poison that has been sweetened: not because it is sweet, but because it brings harm, which assuredly does not deserve acceptance for its sweetness.  Accordingly, pleasures alone do not hinder prudence, but rather the consequences which accompany them – consequences, I say, by which one’s spirits are exhausted, the strength of understanding is weakened, and judgment is clouded.  So when these evils are attributed to pleasure, it is a fallacy which Aristotle calls non causae ut causae (that which is not the cause, taken as the cause), just as when the harm that should be attributed to the poison is attributed to the honey, or its sweetness.

As for diseases, poverty, and other inconveniences which commonly accompany pleasure – pleasure, simply considered in itself, is not the cause of these evils.  It is gluttony, or the excessive consumption of wine and meats prepared with sauces, that results in indigestion, fevers, and other inconveniences.  By tempting us to exceed the bounds of moderation, these notorious maladies (and so many others) result.  Thus, it is ordinarily thought that pleasure is disreputable, because only the eventualities that accompany it are taken into account, which are themselves contrary to good manners and have a bad and shameful reputation.

It is also for this reason that the law, for example, does not forbid the pleasure of adultery, but rather the act of adultery.  It is because of the act, being forbidden and scandalous, that the pleasure which accompanies it is also supposed forbidden and scandalous.  Suppose, however, that there was no law against it, as in the state of pure nature.  Suppose it so happened that a married woman was the lover of the present adulterer.  He would have enjoyed the same pleasure, but would nevertheless avoid being defamed as wicked because the act of partaking in such pleasure was neither forbidden nor disgraced.  This nicely demonstrates that pleasure is not itself is not blameworthy, but rather the act which accompanies it.

Some may still object that just because pleasure is not an evil, it is nevertheless more useful to count it among evils because the populace, being inclined towards pleasure, ought to be bent, like crooked trees, in the opposite way so that they can be brought back into good standing.

But Aristotle counters that it is not productive to use these kinds of arguments with people, because when it concerns passions and actions (as in this case), one does not give more credence to words than to the thing itself.  When it happens that words do not agree with what is apprehended by the senses, they are discounted, and even if they contain some hidden good, they are detrimental.  This is why Aristotle seems to insinuate that it is best not to make much of counting pleasure among evils, since one’s inclination is obviously opposed to the idea precisely because it approves of pleasure and holds it to be good.  Rather, one should make known and emphasize the evils which accompany or follow some pleasures, the lesson being that a prudent and temperate man would rather abstain from these kinds of pleasures, because eventually great evils result.

If this response inspired by Aristotle does not satisfy, then nothing can inhibit us from arguing against pleasure itself, and being heard to speak about pleasures which cause much more evil than they contain any good.  For the sake of the argument, it is then just as useful to hear that pleasure or the action which accompanies pleasure is bad, in order to infer that one or the other is to be fled because of the evils which, by connection, follow one or the other. 

 
Whether the opinion of the Stoics, in respect to Good and Evil, is justifiable

We could, at this point, argue against the Stoics, who pretend that there is no other good than that which is “honest,” and no other evil than that which is “dishonest;” but that would be dallying on empty words, since it all boils down to semantics.  For they have limited these concepts in their own imagination – even though all of mankind holds them to be more generally applicable.  For most people count many things besides virtues as goods, like health, pleasure, glory, wealth, friends; and they count many things besides vices as evil, like disease, pain, disgrace, poverty, enemies, etc.

The Stoics preferred to call these things indifferent – neither good nor bad – and because it was so obviously absurd to maintain the equivalence of health and disease, pleasure and pain, etc., they were obliged to coin new terms, and to name health, pleasure, glory, and the others προήγμένα (promota – “assistants”), meaning that they were truly not goods, but such things that closely approached virtue, which was the chief and unique good.  They did likewise for disease and pain, naming them αποπροήγμένα (Abducta remota), which meant less noble things further away from the virtue, because whenever it is a matter of choice, those are preferred, but these are forsaken.

This is the way of their doctrine, but I would be ashamed to answer them in any other way than how Cicero does, when he exclaims, “Oh what great strength of mind, and what justification to create new doctrines!  (O magnam vim ingenii causamq; justam cur nova existeret disciplina!)  The Stoics argue, and with their weak reasoning, would maintain that pain is no evil (Concludunt ratiunculis Stoici cur dolor non sit malum, etc.), as if men were only troubled about the word, and not the thing itself!  Why must you, Zeno, deceive me with your subtle niceties, and newfangled words προήγμένα and αποπροήγμένα; for when you tell me that what looks grievous is no Evil, you put me on the stand.  I would desire to know how that which seems to me most prejudicial and hurtful, is no Evil in itself.  Nothing is Evil, as you pretend, but that which is dishonest and vicious.  These are but words; neither can you hereby remove the difficulty.  I understand very well, that Pain and Grief are not criminal Evils.  You need not trouble yourself to tell me that; but show me whether it be an indifferent thing to suffer pain, or to be free from it.  You say that it is different, as to the happiness of life, seeing that consists in virtue alone: but in the meanwhile, what you call pain is to be reckoned amongst those things that you are to avoid, and by consequence is an evil.  When you pretend that pain is no real evil, but only something uneasy to be suffered, etc., it is to speak at large what everyone else names in one word, Evil.  And when you say that ‘there is nothing good, but what is honest,’ and ‘nothing Evil, but what is dishonest,’ it is to vanquish in words, but not in sense; it is to express desires, and prove nothing.  Doubtless, this is an undeniable truth: all that nature hates, ought to be esteemed in the number of evils; and all that is grateful to it, is to be reckoned on the contrary.”

 
Whether one might prefer pain over pleasure on occasion

The second thing which must be examined before reaching a conclusion about the opinion of Epicurus is: if it is sometimes necessary to forsake pleasure for pain.  It is a question that depends entirely upon the preceding one.  For if there is an prospect for pleasure of the kind that Plato called “pure, and separated from grief and trouble,” i.e., such that it must never bring any consequential pain, neither presently nor in the future, not in this life nor in the hereafter, one has every reason to embrace it.  And if there is a prospect for pain which could also be known as “pure,” separated from any pleasure and which could never be followed by any pleasure, it is reasonable to avoid it.  Conversely, if there is a prospect for pleasure which happens to be an obstacle to obtaining some greater pleasure, or which has painful consequences that are justifiably regrettable, it is also reasonable to avoid it.  And if a prospect entailing some pain would circumvent some greater pain, or would bring on a considerable amount of pleasure, it is reasonable to embrace it.

This is why, as even Aristotle saw, that pleasure and pain are the criteria, the standard, or the scale by which one must judge if a thing should be accepted or avoided.  So, anyone who is wise will abandon pleasure, or accept pain, if he sees that a regrettable consequence will follow a particular pleasure, or that by accepting some minor pain he will thereby avoid a greater one.   Torquatus explains it clearly:

I must explain to you how all this mistaken idea of reprobating pleasure and extolling pain arose. To do so, I will give you a complete account of the system, and expound the actual teachings of the great explorer of the truth, the master-builder of human happiness [Epicurus]. No one rejects, dislikes or avoids pleasure itself, because it is pleasure, but because those who do not know how to pursue pleasure rationally encounter consequences that are extremely painful. Nor again is there anyone who loves or pursues or desires to obtain pain of itself, because it is pain, but because occasionally circumstances occur in which toil and pain can procure him some great pleasure. To take a trivial example, which of us ever undertakes laborious physical exercise, except to obtain some advantage from it? But who has any right to find fault with a man who chooses to enjoy a pleasure that has no annoying consequences, or one who avoids a pain that produces no resultant pleasure? On the other hand, we denounce with righteous indignation and dislike men who are so beguiled and demoralized by the charms of the pleasure of the moment, so blinded by desire, that they cannot foresee the pain and trouble that are bound to ensue; and equal blame belongs to those who fail in their duty through weakness of will, which is the same as saying through shrinking from toil and pain. These cases are perfectly simple and easy to distinguish. In a free hour, when our power of choice is untrammeled and when nothing prevents our being able to do what we like best, every pleasure is to be welcomed and every pain avoided. But in certain emergencies and owing to the claims of duty or the obligations of business it will frequently occur that pleasures have to be repudiated and annoyances accepted. The wise man therefore always holds in these matters to this principle of selection: he rejects pleasures to secure other greater pleasures, or else he endures pains to avoid worse pains.

We may add the general consent of Plato, Socrates, and Aristotle, who all make use of the same standard and the same criterion.  And even Cicero supposes that one thinks about it as if all pleasures and all displeasures, either present or to come, were put in front of you, as if one weighs the balance by hand.  For he says, “If you weigh present pleasures with future one, we are always to choose the greatest and the most plentiful; but if we weigh evils with evils, we choose the least and the fewest.  But if you weigh present pleasures with future evils, or present evils with future pleasures, in such a case, you should choose the pleasures if they tip the balance, but not if the evils do.”

 
On the chief good intended by nature

Coming finally to Epicurus’ opinion that pleasure is the end, it should be noted that the reasoning which brought him to this conclusion is partly because he considers pleasure as simply and plainly self-evident, and partly because he considers that it must be managed by the intellect.  Hence, Alexander observes that the matter should be distinguished, when he says that “pleasure, according to Epicurus, is truly the chief good that nature prescribes, or the chief good to which we are naturally inclined, but afterwards this pleasure is kept in order, and directed by wisdom and prudence.” (Effe quidem voluptatem ex mente Epicuri primum familiare, primum, et congenitum bonum, primum aptum accomodatumque naturae; verum deinceps quasi in ordinem redigi talem voluptatem.)  We will speak later on about this last part, which for Epicurus is nothing other than freedom from pain and peace of mind.  Let us now say something about the first part, and see whether this self-evident pleasure is indeed the primum naturae familiare, or the first and chief good that nature requires.  For it is a great question among philosophers, and it moreover seems that within the range of the goods which are desirable, there should indeed be an ultimate good – which may be the beginning of all our desires.  “Some,” Cicero says, “conceive of pleasure or delight to be the first good, others an exemption, or a freedom from pain; for as soon as any creature is born, it naturally desires and seeks freedom from pain.  Others place the chief goods of nature amongst those things called our ‘being,’ ‘life,’ ‘integrity,’ i.e., the preservation of our entire body, or our health, senses, strength, beauty, and so forth.”

Now among these opinions, the first and second are included by Epicurus, as he counts among pleasures the exemption of pain.  The third, which the Stoics propound, seems the least probable, because no matter what one might say about an animal’s desire for its being, life, health, integrity, and preservation of its body, etc., we must nevertheless clearly see that all these things were desired only because it is pleasurable to enjoy them.  Thus it is for the sake of pleasure that these things are desired.  Consequently, pleasure is the chief good, i.e., it holds the first rank among everything desirable.  And this is apparently what Aristotle meant when he says, that “pleasure is common to all living creatures, and the inseparable companion of our free and voluntary actions.  For we perceive that what is honest, is pleasurable, as well as what is practical.  Besides, pleasure is born and bred up with us from our very cradle.  Therefore it is futile to endeavor to wean ourselves from this inclination, with which our natures are naturally constituted.”

This plainly reveals two things.  First, although we commonly recognize three kinds of goods – the honest, the practical, and the pleasant – it is the pleasant, (which is nothing other than pleasure itself) that is intermixed with the others, so that it does not seem so much to be a particular type, distinct from the others, but rather a common type, or a common property which causes the others to be goods, or desirables.  So that what is honest or practical is desired only because it is pleasant and agreeable.  The other thing is that pleasure, being common to all the animals, and being planted within since tender youth, and moreover inseparable from choosing anything, it justifiably seems to be the first of all goods that are desired (primum expetibile, primum familiare; for these are the ordinary terms, primum expetitum accomodatumq; naturae.)

Epicurus therefore seems to have dealt more candidly and sincerely than all the rest, when he declared that pleasure “est primum naturae accomodatum; and that it is that, in quam tendem definimus, quatenus Animalia omnia simul ac nata sunt, sponte ipsa natura et citra ullum ratiocinium ipsam complectantur et dolorem refugiant.  Let us but listen to Torquatus in Cicero.  “Epicurus,” he says, “teaches that every animal as soon as it is born, desires pleasure as its chief good, and delights in the enjoyment of it, but hates pain, as its greatest evil; it shuns it, and avoids it as much as it is able; this it practices while it is not corrupted, when nature judges correctly and without mistake.”  There is no need for analysis and argument in these cases, or to look for causes of why pleasure is desirable, and pain to be avoided; we ourselves can easily judge this matter, as we can that fire is hot, snow is white, and honey is sweet. 

Maximus of Tyre teaches the same doctrine.  “Pleasure,” he says, “more ancient than reason or art, goes before experience, and stays not for much time.  But that violent desire we have for it, and which is coexistent with our bodies, is as the foundation of the creature’s well-being, so that if we renounce it, all that shall be born must immediately perish.  Man after he comes to years, may by experience and industry, arrive to a competent degree of knowledge, reason, and understanding, (which is so much extolled) naturally and of his own accord; but from his infancy he loves pleasure, and avoids pain, without any help or instruction, for it is pleasure that delights him, and pain that annoys him.”  If pleasure were a thing of no value, we should not bring it so early into the world with us, nor would it be the first thing necessary for our preservation.  Though from what we have said here, this is not quite enough to conclude that pleasure is man’s chief good or happiness, like Eudoxius does in Aristotle, “in all things, that which is desired, is good, so that which is chiefly desired, ought be the chief good, or that which everything desires, is chiefly desirable; therefore what everything desires, must be the chief good; but that is pleasure; therefore pleasure is that chief good.”

Let us now admire the wisdom and foresight of the great creator and author of nature, that insofar as our actions and behaviors are of themselves painful and troublesome, and these also, as Aristotle terms them, being natural, as seeing, hearing, etc, he has caused them all to be sweetened with pleasure.  The more necessary these behaviors are for the preservation of our species, the greater pleasure nature has allotted them; otherwise all creatures would neglect or forget not only the act of generation, but even eating and drinking itself, if there were not certain natural instigations that stir and move us, and by causing some kind of pain and uneasiness, mind us of the action, which the pleasure that ought to appease this pain and uneasiness, does promote and encourage, which is a manifest proof, that these sorts of pleasures are not of themselves evil, though men abuse them afterwards by intemperance, contrary to other animals.

It is not necessary to go on any further, as one does not take the term pleasure to mean sordid and debauched pleasures, extravagance, vanity, the delicacies of the table, dance, women – in a word, those things which the sophists, as Maximus observes, usually object to (styling them Sardanapali scilicet Luxus, Medica mollities, Ionicae deliciae, Siculae mensae, Sybariticae saltationes, Cornithiae meretrices, etc.), but generally all that one can, and usually does, call joy, pleasure, contentment, satisfaction, delectation, comfort, gaiety, peacefulness, quietude, serenity, security, ataraxy, painlessness, tranquility, etc. – which are nothing else than synonyms of pleasure.  It is only necessary to remember what we already noted to be one of Aristotle’s doctrines: that whatever we choose is always accompanied by pleasure.  And seeing that there are three kinds of goods according to the convention – the honest, the practical, and the pleasant – the pleasant has something in common with the rest, in that the honest and the practical also seem to be pleasant.

Hence we may infer that good and pleasant are synonyms, and that the good is good in itself, and it is an end in itself, so that all things that desire it do so because it is pleasant.  It is thereby indubitable that a good which is pleasant is desired for the pleasure it affords.  It only remains to be proven that the honest goods and the practical goods also will be desired for pleasure.

 
That practical goods are sought for the sake of pleasure

Now it is not extremely difficult to show that a practical good depends on a pleasant good, i.e., the pleasure which we receive from it.  Since it is obvious that one desires a practical good not for the sake of practicality, but as the means to something else, i.e., pleasure itself, or something relating to pleasure.

To begin with, eating, drinking, song, perfumes, and other similar things obviously relate directly to pleasure.  It may similarly be understood that various skills, like the art of cooking, hunting, painting, medicine, and surgery, all serve to deliver us from nuisances from which it is comfortable to be free.

The same goes for navigation, merchandise, and warfare – all which tend towards monetary profit, or something equivalent, by which one can obtain some pleasure that one expects.  In effect, when somebody works industriously to earn enough money to buy a house, clothes, medications, books, and other such conveniences, isn't it true that he is expecting pleasure, which he will enjoy when he has enough to retire, without any further pains or trouble – to eat when he is hungry, to drink when he is thirsty, to warm himself when he is cold, to study and to satisfy his curiosity when we he desires to do so – in sum: when he sees himself in a position to pass his life comfortably, securely, honestly, honorably?

This is the general goal of everyone: the ploughman, the perfidious innkeeper (as Horace depicts him), the soldier, the merchant, the pilot.

The solider fights, the busy tradesman cheats,
And finds a thousand tricks and choice deceits,
The heavy plough contents the laboring hind,
The merchant strives with every tide and wind;
And all this toil to get vast heaps of gold,
That they may live at ease when they are old.

It is the goal of the courtiers, and those who busy themselves with grand careers, and high offices.  They only endure so much from laboring, so much from vexation, and so much from long hours, for no other reason than to finally be able, they say, to withdraw into retirement, to pass the remainder of their life in their own content – comfortably, and agreeably.

There is not anyone among the miserly and most sordid, who does not dream of the pleasure that they will have while contemplating their trunks full of gold and silver.

A sordid churl, the jest of all the place,
Thus comforted himself for his disgrace.
The lousy rabble hiss me at the play
And grin and make the greatest farce of me.
But what care I, when I can hug at home
My strutting bags, and give myself a hum.

Not to mention those who, ignoring that nature is satisfied with little, delight in excess and spend their plunder upon luxury, lust, and so forth, all for the pleasure of indulgence.  This is what gave rise to these justified complaints of Manlius:

For Heaven is kind, with bounteous hand it grants
A fit supply for Nature’s sober wants.
She asks not much, yet men press blindly on
And heap up more, to be the more undone
By luxury they rapine’s force maintain,
What that scrapes up, flows out in luxury again,
And to be squandered, or to raise debate,
Is the great only use of an estate.

 
That honest goods are sought for the sake of pleasure

It would seem a little more difficult to prove that a bonum honestum, or “honest good” depends on pleasure, because this type of good is supposed to be desirable solely and precisely for its own sake, and not as the means to something else.  Cicero, among others, appears extremely agitated towards Epicurus for proposing a theory of honesty such as he would have us understand.  Cicero replies to Torquatus, “Your Epicurus says that he knows not what they mean – those who value man’s chief happiness only by honesty; those who say that all things are to be referred to that, without pleasure being intermixed with it.  These are empty words which he cannot understand nor conceive of what they mean by this word ‘honesty.’  For, so to speak, according to common language, we mean by ‘honest’ that which the people by their general convention term ‘praiseworthy’ and ‘honorable.’  And, he says, though it may oftentimes be more pleasing than various other pleasures, still it is desired for pleasure’s sake.  See here, he says, this great argument!  A famous philosopher, who has made so much clamor in the world and has spread his fame not only over Greece and Italy, but over barbarian lands, says that he does not understands what this ‘honesty’ means that is so often talked about, if there be no pleasure intermixed with it.”  In this manner, Cicero juxtaposes the opinion of Epicurus against these remarkable words, that “nothing is deemed honest, but what the general fashion of men recommend.”  Aristotle too presents the matter in these terms, Μηδέν έίναι τό καλόν ή άεα τό ένδοξεν, “either nothing is honest, or whatever is honest is determined by the opinion of men.”

Now, to speak firstly about this concept, or this explanation of honesty, what harm is there if we consider it applicable to men who merit praise and commendation?  The word “honest” in Latin is known to derive from the honor that it merits, and among Greeks, τό καλόν does not seem to have any other significance.   Since if you suppose that it means not only “honest,” but also “beautiful, honorable, laudable, etc.,” you will find that it is not so merely in respect to itself, but in connection to the respect of men which approve it, and allow it to be so.  Consequently it should appear “beautiful” and “honorable,” and applicable to whom could be, or must be, lauded.  The same ought be understood of the word άιχρόν, which is the opposite of καλόν; because when we interpret it as “ignoble, unpleasant, or blameworthy and shameful,” we always mean it to relate with men to whom it appears as such. 

For the truth of this, we may rely on Cicero himself, when he postulates that that which is “honest” must be defined insofar as it can as “that which, aside from its practicality, and without any profit, remains commendable in and of itself.” Is it not true, I say, that in the sense which “the honest” is that which is laudible, it exhibits a relationship with those who praise it, or, as Epicurus puts it, “with the common voice of the people” ?  As for the rest, who would dare say that Epicurus, in using the word “people,” or “multitude,” meant to exclude the wise, so that it did not apply to the entire population of a city or nation?  That would be a ridiculous and tritely mocking remark.

Now, in regard to what Cicero says about no practicality being perceived, Epicurus will agree that honest people expect no profit nor advantage, such as money or some other thing of that kind – but not that they do not expect no benefit whatsoever, such as praise, glory, honor, fame, approval, etc., to which Cicero himself accedes.  Since supposing that there are several rewards available to good people, he expressly ensures in his oration of Milo “that among all the rewards of virtue, glory is most bountiful;” and in another place, “that virtue does not require any reward.”

Epicurus therefore seems to have given a good description of what is honest: that which is glorious and honorable, by the convention and universal consent of all mankind.  For if at any time a glorious and sensible thing is considered to be sordid or dishonest, this thing truly can well be taken as dishonest by other people, men, or nations which have other laws, and other customs according to notions of “honest” and “dishonest” that are different, but not with regard to the same people who can accordingly be held and supposed honest with its law and with its customs.  Thus, Cicero himself sometimes gives this general description of honor: a reward of virtue which is made to somebody by the judgment of his fellow citizens (praemium virtutis judicio studioq; civium delatum ad aliquem); as if he should say that honor, and consequently, honesty, or what is glorious and honorable by reputation, depends on the judgment of citizens, or the people who make use of their own laws and customs.

But in conclusion, to say something significant in regard to how what is honest refers back to pleasure, it should be observed that this relation to pleasure does not prevent honesty from being known, in some sense, to be desired from itself, or for its own sake.  For it is desired, nulla continugente sive superveniente re, as Aristotle teaches, i.e., according to Cicero: “any foreseeable practicality being without any reward, any fruit which is such as we said to be money, or some other thing of the kind.” 

For some may desire honor, wisdom, virtue, not to gain profit, or to thereby grow richer from it, but for the honor which is afforded, for garnering understanding and wisdom, for becoming moderate in his passions; all the same because it is pleasant to be honored, wise, virtuous, and to have a serene spirit, and to be at peace.

 
Whether the desire for honor is shameful

We should observe that while it is indeed despicable to seek honor avariciously or with effrontery, or by a pretended, fake virtue, nevertheless it does not seem that one must condemn the desire for it altogether, as some suppose, but mainly that one should seek it only with pure intentions, and in proper moderation.  It is certainly not without reason that this desire be taken as natural.  For we recognize that it naturally holds sway among children and among brutes, and that there is nobody who, although he makes a pretence to have an aversion to it, does not recognize that he always likes it, and that he cannot help but desire it, or escape this infatuation.  It is not without reason there is such a high regard for it, since one usually expects it as the prize of virtue, and that there is no republic nor state which does not inspire its citizens to great actions by this expectation.  There is also this difference between a noble and high soul versus a base and mean soul: that whereas the latter seeks only gain and profit in his efforts, the former only seeks recognition.  Moreover, experience teaches us from time immemorial, that if one removes the desire for honor and glory from the public imagination, there would never be any mention made of those grand and wonderful exploits which sustain nations.

The first sort of pleasure that inspires men to pursue honor is the extreme joy that somebody hopes to experience when his fame spreads among men, so that he will become celebrated in the world.  The story of Damocles is well known, as was his expectations to feel a joy beyond words for the royal honor that was bestowed upon him.  They know about Demosthenes; this great man slyly admits that he was pleased to hear a common woman, while returning from the fountain, whispering to her companion, “there is Demosthenes,” pointing her finger at him.  And we may, without depreciating virtue, believe likewise that other illustrious men, during their walks, hear themselves named.  The people say about them in public, “There is Chappelle, the finest wit of the kingdom!  Here is Despréaux, the Horace of our age, the everlasting speaker of truths!  There is the famous Racine, who by the charming efficacy of his verses, knows, when he pleases, how to make us weep!  Here is the learned and unrivaled Lady Sabliere!”  How pleasant it is to be so taken notice of in the world for some perfection, and pointed out by eminent persons!  At pluchrum est digito monstrari et dicier hic est.  It is also known what is reported about Themistocles, that after a notable victory he observed what he had gained: that everyone, neglecting to watch the public combats, had their eyes fixed upon him, so that he said with ecstatic joy to his friends, “I gain on this day a full reward for all the toil that I have suffered for Greece.”

The other kind of pleasure which motivates men to desire honor is the enjoyment of security, more especially because he who lives wholly in perfect security finds himself empowered to do what seems to him to be good, and to enjoy the pleasures he likes, with nobody in the way.  We easily believe that security is obtained by honor, either because honor is bestowed for the sake of virtue, or because of high offices and distinctions which presuppose virtue.  If it be for virtue’s sake, it makes sense that he should be free from contempt, and the honored person does not fall into a position where he is exposed to the insults, and affronts.  And if it be for the sake of high offices and nobility, and consequently for some advantage to be expected, or for some evil that we dread, then even for this purpose one usually has very strong and firm support.  But herein we may find this difference: the honor which is bestowed because of  nobility, being more splendid, and impressing the common folk even more, one sees in it a great many who desire nobility and high offices, and very few who aspire for the sake of virtue, so that those who are promoted to nobility can grant favors to some and injure others, they can consequently secure themselves from the power of some by hope, and from the others by fear.

The benefits of moral virtue

Now in dealing with virtue itself, Aristotle and Cicero declare wonders about the delights and pleasures of knowledge and learning, which make up the first part of moral virtue.

“Nature,” says Aristotle, “the mother of all, stirs up and gives unspeakable pleasures to he who can attain an understanding of the causes of things, and study philosophy truly and with purpose. If we cannot without delight look upon the bare images of nature, it is because in casting our eyes upon them, we behold the ingenuity and skill of the painter or the engraver who made them; how much more the contemplation of nature itself, and of her admirable wisdom and contrivances, ought to fill our minds with joy and satisfaction?”

Cicero also speaks of it as no less beneficial. “The consideration,” he says, “and contemplation of nature, is the true and natural food of the soul. It is that which lifts and inspires our thoughts; for when we think upon celestial bodies, which are so great, large, and of such a vast extent, we scoff at what is here below, as lowly and insignificant.

Seneca’s words are no less remarkable: “Oh! How contemptible is man,” he says, “if he does not look beyond the mundane! We may say that then the spirit of man has attained its greatest happiness that its nature is capable of, when it has trampled down all vice, raising itself to sublime matters, and ponders the secrets of nature. It’s then, while walking among the celestial orbs, it disdains the green fields, and all the gold that the earth produces for our covetous posterity. There are above us, spacious heavens, which our souls take then possession of. When it has there arrived, it is nourished and grows, and being freed from its earthly prison, it returns to its first essence; for, it is a certain sign of its being of a divine nature, that divine objects are pleasing to it, which it looks upon not as belonging to others, but as its own.”

Here is the place to make mention of the pleasures and transports of joy and of mathematics. Plutarch relates, “that Eudoxius would have been willing to have been burnt as Phaeton was, if he could first have been admitted to approach so near the sun, that he could closely inspect its shape, greatness, and beauty.

The same author tells us that Pythagoras was so ravished with joy when he had found that famous theorem (which is the forty-seventh in Euclid’s first book), that he immediately made a solemn sacrifice.

He also says, about Archimedes, that on many occasions one was obliged to forcefully withdraw him from his deep meditations. So much did they fill him with pleasure, that he felt he was dying of joy when he had found how much brass might be mixed in the gold crown that the king had consecrated to the gods, he exited the bath transported with joy, and decried, “I have found it, I have found it!” Εΰρηκα, Εΰρηκα!

“There is nothing,” says Cicero, “more pleasant than the sweet contemplation of a wise old age. We see Gallus, your father’s friend, dying in joy, while speculating about the stars, and measuring the heavens and the earth. How many times has he surprised him from morning, until the evening, when he had undertaken to describe something of the stars? And how many a night has he found him in the evening, when he had begun from the morning? Oh what pleasure did he take to foretell the eclipses of the sun and moon!

In regards to the other liberal arts, it is known what pleasures offer the knowledge of history, antiquity, the beauty of poetry, and the grace of rhetoric. These studies were known to Cicero as “a pleasant entertainment for youth, a pastime in old age, an ornament in times of prosperity, and a sweet refuge in times of adversity.” Haec studia adolescentiam alunt, senectutem oblectant, fecundas res ornant, adversis perfugium & flotatium praebent; delectant domi, non impudiunt foris, pernoctant nobifcum, peregrinator, rufticantur. They give us pleasure at home, and do not disappoint us in the country, they sleep with us, they accompany us on our voyages, and are splendid in the fields with us; where are the pleasures of the banquets, of plays, and of women that can be compared with such sweet pleasures? Men freely spend whole days and nights in pursuit of learning, and think no pains too great to be bestowed in obtaining it; so great and exquisite is the pleasure thereof, when acquired. Omnia prepetiuntur ipsa cognitione & scientia capti, & cum maximis curis, & laboribus compensant eam quam ex discendo capiunt voluptatem.

As for the other part of virtue, which is specifically known as moral virtue, we will be obliged to speak about it more at length when we discuss its four most celebrated manifestations: prudence, fortitude, temperance, and justice.

Now, supposing that it’s an undeniable truth that there is nothing sweeter than to live life without reproach, without falling victim to crime, to live wisely and according to the principles of honesty, without failing the duties of the life, to do nobody wrong, to be good with everyone as much as it is possible. Supposing, I say, that these kinds of maxims are true, which we will also touch upon later on, I hereby make a few observations.

First, that it is not without reason that, from time immemorial, one compares virtue with a plant whose root is bitter, but whose fruits are very sweet, and that Plato, Xenophon, and several others highly commended those verses of Hesiod which affirm that virtue is acquired only by sweat and toil, and that the way to it is truly long and difficult, and tough going in the beginning – but that when one arrived at the top, there is nothing sweeter and more pleasant.

The gods through sweat and pains to virtue lead,
But long and arduous is the path we tread;
Rugged and steep when first you venture on,
But at the top arrived, with easy speed you run.

Unto which one might add this saying of Epicharmus: that the gods sell all good things to us by payment of our pains and travails.

Labore nobis cuncta,
Dii vendunt bona.

This shows us that it is necessary to readily endure the labors of acquiring virtue, as they must be followed by marvelous pleasure and comfort. It is not without reason that so much is spoken about the crossroads where pleasure and virtue so eloquently harangued Hercules, each one trying to attract him to their different paths. For this confirms the truth of those principles that we spoke about earlier, when we said that it is necessary to flee those pleasures which are followed by greater displeasures, just as it is necessary to embrace the hardships and toil which bring greater goods, and greater pleasures. Though it is supposed, I know, that Hercules rejects pleasure, i.e., a soft and indolent life, and that he followed virtue, i.e., a hard life, being full of difficulties, Maximus of Tyre has this to say: “When he was at his most extreme labors, he felt, or had in view, marvelous pleasures. You see Hercules’ extraordinary labors, but you do not see the incredible pleasures that either attend or follow them.”

Whosoever takes away pleasure from virtue, takes from it all strength and efficacy; for were it not for pleasure, men would never undertake any great matter. He who, out of zeal for virtue, willingly undergoes any trouble, this is purely for the sake of some pleasure he feels or expects. For like hoarding up some treasure, no man will prefer a pebble over a ruby, nor brass over gold, unless he is utterly destitute of all reason and understanding. So with respect to labor and trouble, no man labors merely and purely for labor’s sake; this would turn to a very sorry account; but we willingly exchange the present labors for virtue; that is, in plain English, as the Stoics term it, for pleasure; for he who speaks of virtue, speaks of delight. Virtue itself would be much neglected if at the same time it were not attended with delight. For my part, I must declare, that I run quite counter to commonly held beliefs, for I look upon pleasure to be the most beautiful, the most desirable thing in the world, and that which we ought most directly to pursue; and it is for its sake, I believe, that men so frequently expose themselves to all hazards and dangers, and even confront death itself. We are apt to give various names to the cause that first motivates us to undertake such great deeds; for instance, that which motivated Achilles to die voluntarily for Patrocles, we call friendship; that which inclined Agamemnon to enter into and carry on a war with so much diligence and fatigue, was the care of preserving his kingdom; that of Hector’s recurrent campaigning to defeat his enemies, was the desire to preserve his country. Yet, all these several terms are just other names for pleasures. Just as with the distempers of the body, the patient desiring health, not only freely submits himself to hunger and thirst, but also willingly undergoes the most virulent pains and torments of surgeons’ instruments; but if it were not for this hope, he would never endure such tortures. So in the actions of life, there is a compensation for the troubles that we undergo with pleasure, which you truly term virtue, and which I allow so. But at the same time I ask, does your mind embrace virtue, without any love for it? And if you concede this (that you have such a love) ought you not to agree also that you have a pleasure in it? Modify the words as much as you please, call it neither “pleasure” nor “delight,” but “joy” or “satisfaction” – I shall not quibble about names; I am only concerned about the thing itself, and I find that pleasure, or satisfaction, inspired Hercules to action.

The second comment I shall make is that philosophers themselves seem to have declared war on pleasure while elevating virtue. Being men of eminence, they differ from Epicurus more in word than in deed.

I might here mention something about their manners, as Lucian does, when he proclaims so aptly that if they had the ring of Gyges, or the helmet of Pluto, so that they could become invisible to all persons, they would soon give up on their sacred pains, their work, and their inconveniences, and pursue the pleasures and delights which they appear to condemn. Less flatteringly, Maximus of Tyre quips that they are like Aesop’s Shepard, who when questioned by a lion if he had seen the stag that it was pursuing, he answered “no,” indicating with his finger the place where it went; i.e., if these virtuous pretenders give up pleasure, it is only in word and in appearance. But leaving aside their manners, which by no means correspond what they preach, it is sufficient to know that Epicurus too, as they admit, holds virtue supreme, and when they get incensed when he proclaims that virtue is just a very effective means of arriving at the final end or the chief good, instead of affirming, as they do, that virtue itself is the final end, or the chief good, even, they fundamentally say just the same thing as he does, only in different terms.

Truly, this is precisely what they say. Moreover, their celebrated maxim is that “virtue alone is enough to make us happy,” or, as Cicero puts it, “to live happily, we need only be virtuous.” Now, if we rightly understand this same maxim, must we thereby recognize that virtue is not the chief good, but rather a means that contributes towards obtaining happiness? Is it not sufficient in itself, without needing any other sort of means? Consequently, might we only conclude that the happy life, or happiness, which is obtained by the means of virtue, is the chief good and the final end, because this good, or this end in itself, is not to the means to something else? To live happily – can this be anything else than living delightfully, comfortably, with pleasantness, or, to include that key synonym which shocks them so tremendously, with pleasure?

Certainly, the Stoics were less astute about it than Aristotle, who held that “pleasure is mixed into happiness,” and that “by pleasure, the contemplation or operation of happiness is increased.” Nevertheless, I do not doubt that if the happy life could be construed, or could indeed be without sweetness and pleasure, they would render it entirely desolate, and that while climbing their difficult mountain of the virtue, they undoubtedly would not suffer so many difficulties, if they did not proclaim that the summit abounded with sweetness.

Socrates himself, whose resolution and courage they covet – has he not plainly described happiness to be a pleasure which is not alloyed with repentance? And Antisthenes, the father of the Cynics and the author of that famous maxim of the Stoics that says “he would rather become an idiot than seek pleasure” – does he not yield to this in the writings of Stobeus? That being, “we ought not to seek those pleasures which come before our labors and difficulties, but those that follow.” Venandas esse eas voluptates, non quae labores aut molestias praecedunt, sed quae consequuntur.

But to demonstrate even more clearly how pleasure accompanies even the Cynical lifestyle, which the Stoics deem truly austere, yet happy, Maximus of Tyre should be heard once again, who, in speaking of Diogenes, has described it better than anyone. “What,” he says, “inspired Diogenes to retire to his tub? Was it not pleasure? For though it was also virtue that made him abide there, why must we separate his pleasure from his reasoning? Diogenes was just as pleased in his tub as Xerxes was in the City of Babylon, and in feeding upon his boiled barley and dried bread, as Smyndrides upon his dainty Dishes and exquisite fare. He was well satisfied in the sun, as Sardanapalus was in purple garments with his staff in his hand, as Alexander with his lance and with his satchel on his back, as Croesus in the midst of his treasures. And if you please to compare the pleasures of the one with those of the others, you shall find the pleasures of Diogenes to be preferred, because pain and trouble have always come from every corner to disturb the pleasures of those men who seemed to be happy. When Xerxes was overcome, he wept; Cambyses being wounded, fell into sorrow; Sardanapalus groaned in the flames. When Smyndrides was banished, he was troubled. When Croesus was prisoner, he shed tears. Alexander, being stopped in his wars, complained. But the pleasures of Diogenes were free from complaints, cries, tears, and displeasure. You may call labors and troublesome actions as types of pleasures, if you should put yourself in Diogenes’ place. But this is not fair, for if you were to do what he did, you might lament what Diogenes made his pleasure. And yet I dare affirm that never any man had a more earnest desire for pleasure than Diogenes had. He had no house; the care of a family is troublesome. He was never concerned in the government; it is an employment full of sorrows. He shunned matrimony, for he had known the infamous example of Xanthippe. He never brought up children; he understood well the difficulties. But having banished from himself all sorrow, being altogether free, without care, fear, or grief – he alone among men enjoyed all the earth as a single and common house, fully possessing the pleasures which cannot be circumscribed, and which are free and open to the entire world, and which are to be found plentifully in every place. Verum depulsa omni molestia, plenus libertate, expers solicitudinis, absque metu, citra dolorem habebat unus hominum universam rerum quasi unam domum, voluptatibus passim fruens incustoditis, patentibus, copiosis.

The third observation is that those who seem to glorify themselves, or who in effect boast of acting out of pure love for virtue without any regard to themselves or to their pleasure, nevertheless do all that they do for the sake of pleasure. Those who expose themselves to many dangers for the sake of a friend, or the safety of their country, and who even face certain death, do not do so having in mind a pleasure to be experienced after death – they do it for the pleasure of the present which enraptures them, and which animates them, when they think that what they will do will give freedom to their father and mother, their children, their friends, and other citizens, or that it will bring about some great benefit, when they are pondering how dear their memory will be to their descendants, and all of posterity; when they foresee trophies, statues, and the honors which they will not miss; when they consider that this moment of bad times, which remains to be endured, will be transformed into an immortal glory; they do it, I say, for the present pleasure which overjoys them, which inspires them, and which animates them.

This is understood by he who ventures towards certain death, because there is still hope to escape from it. One need only refer to the story that Torquatus tells about one of his ancestors. “It is true,” he says, “that he tore the necklace from the clutches of his enemy, but to save himself from being killed. He ran a great risk, but it was before the eyes of the whole army. What did he get from it? Honor and esteem – the strongest guarantees of security in life.” Likewise, Seneca says, “Upon the performance of any great and glorious action, there immediately arises an extraordinary joy and delight; we reap no advantage after death, yet the very thoughts of the action that we are about to commit please us; for when a generous man ponders the reward of his death, namely, the liberty of his country, the deliverance of those for whom he sacrifices his life, he attains a great deal of pleasure, and enjoys the rewards of running the risk. And he who feels that joy, which happens at the last moment of the action, runs on to death without any demur – content and satisfied in the goodness, piety, and holiness of the action.”

The same must say those severe fathers who have punished their own children with death. Although they seem to deprive themselves of great pleasures (an objection which Cicero repeatedly raises to Torquatus as well) who by dealing a blow of the axe to their sons, prefers the right of the empire to nature, and to paternal love, because those who come to such extremes know that the nature of their children is such that it is either better for them, or for their children themselves, that they die rather than live; because they would only live in perpetual displeasure, and that their eternal infamy would haunt them. Therefore, since they believe that it is better, they also believe that it is more agreeable to avert the aggravation of an infamous future by a present pain, and to purge, so to speak, that which was done in disgrace by some great and illustrious action, rather than to sink themselves into an abyss of misfortune. Take notice also of how the same Torquatus responds: “He sentenced his own son to death—if from no motive, then I am sorry to be the descendant of anyone so savage and inhuman; but if his purpose was, by inflicting pain upon himself, to establish his authority as a commander and to tighten the reins of discipline during a very serious war by holding over his army the fear of punishment, then his action aimed at ensuring the safety of his fellow citizens, upon which he knew his own depended.”

On self-love

What generally applies to virtue can also be said of piety towards God, since it seems that there cannot be sincere piety if God is not purely and properly loved for himself, or because he is infinitely good, and if he is not loved and worshipped because he is infinitely excellent. So he who worships – does he not look after himself at all, or consider his rewards, or his pleasure? For my part, God forbid that I intend to depreciate the piety of anyone. For there are some who not only argue that it is necessary to love God in this way, and who not only believe, therefore, that it is possible, but in sanctioning the doctrine, and countering the objection, they assert and believe that they do. Assuredly, I don’t envy them, nor shall I contradict them. Far from it, I approve and revere their happiness and their grace, and particularly that Heaven rewards them; for it should be believed that it is a divine and extraordinary gift that a man can prevail upon himself to love and worship God in this manner.

But here we are discussing piety, and generally about the virtue arising from nature, in which man does all that he does with some self-regard. Might it not be said that God, in such a manner, is accustomed to the infirmity of our nature? Having scarcely any passage in the Holy Scriptures which authorizes and expresses their doctrine, are not there yet a great many of those who approve of loving God greatly, because he forgave them for their many sins or because he has graced them with so many favors? Are there not those who love him for the hope promised to them in Heaven, who perform various acts of charity, suffering persecution, keeping the faith, etc., because of the kingdom prepared for them since the creation of the world, for the abundant rewards which wait for them in Heaven, for the crown of justice that God promised to those who love him? Would one dare, I say, to entertain this notion, and to infer from all these passages that nothing hinders those who do not have in view these everlasting delights which must one day come to those who have loved God, and who have worshipped him?

I certainly would not provoke anyone’s conscience, nor dare I ask what would they do if, after God had been worshipped and loved, he took no care of those who had loved and worshipped him, and if, in such a case, he neither granted them any reward, nor gave them any hopes of anything to be expected in all eternity. I dare not ask them, for my part, what they would do, or whether they would love or worship him less. I only want them to consider this proposition: if they love and worship him because it is very pleasant to love and serve him in this manner, and if they therefore believe that it is very pleasant and very grateful to be thus disposed towards God, purely and absolutely for his sake, and without any regard for themselves. Since he who tells us that “his yoke is easy,” to inspire us to love him with all our heart, with all our soul, with all our understanding, and all our strength – certainly he did not neglect this sweetness and pleasure.

But here it should be said in passing that all of this strengthens and confirms the reason by which one proves, according to the opinion of Epicurus, that pleasure is the chief good, or the final end, being desired for itself, so that all other things are desirable for its sake. Now let us review another reason, which is derived from a comparison between pleasure and pain (which is its opposite). Torquatus speaks thus,

Let us imagine a man living in the continuous enjoyment of numerous and vivid pleasures alike of body and of mind, undisturbed either by the presence or by the prospect of pain: what possible state of existence could we describe as being more excellent or more desirable? One so situated must possess in the first place a strength of mind that is proof against all fear of death or of pain; he will know that death means complete unconsciousness, and that pain is generally light if long and short if strong, so that its intensity is compensated by brief duration and its continuance by diminishing severity. Let such a man moreover have no dread of any supernatural power; let him never suffer the pleasures of the past to fade away, but constantly renew their enjoyment in recollection—and his lot will be one which will not admit of further improvement. Suppose on the other hand a person crushed beneath the heaviest load of mental and of bodily anguish to which humanity is liable. Grant him no hope of ultimate relief in view; also give him no pleasure either present or in prospect. Can one describe or imagine a more pitiable state? If then, a life full of pain is the thing most to be avoided, it follows that to live in pain is the highest evil; and this position implies that a life of pleasure ultimate good. In fact the mind possesses nothing in itself upon which it can rest as final. Every fear, every sorrow can be traced back to pain; there is not other thing besides pain which is of its own nature capable of causing either anxiety or distress.

To which Cicero later counters,

I do not venture to say whom – virtue herself shall speak for me, and she will not hesitate to rank Marcus Regulus higher than this typically happy man, as you would call him. Regulus, of his own free will and under no compulsion except that of a promise given to an enemy, returned from his native land to Carthage; yet virtue proclaims that when he had done so, he was happier while tormented with sleeplessness and hunger than Thorius carousing on his couch of roses. Regulus had fought great wars, had twice been consul, had celebrated a triumph; yet all his earlier exploits he counted less great and glorious than that final disaster, which he chose to undergo for the sake of honor and of self-respect; a pitiable end, as it seems to us who hear of it, but full of pleasure for him who endured it. It is not merriment and wantonness, nor laughter or jesting, the comrade of frivolity, that make men happy; those are happy, often in sadness, whose wills are strong and true.

On the false virtue and the false happiness of Regulus

Now let us note something about these compared examples before we return to the eloquence of Cicero. Although one should not even slightly endorse Thorius and his overly decadent lifestyle, which Epicurus would never approve of, it nevertheless seems quite difficult to conceive that Regulus was indeed happier than Thorius. Actually, I perceive a great showiness and pompous rhetoric, which follows a tradition of exaggerating the much-praised virtue of Regulus. However, by examining his story with objectivity, and to carefully consider the full range of circumstances, things are not what they seem.

Polybius informs us that Regulus, having commanded auspiciously in the war against the Carthaginians and concerned that another consul, he would be sent from Rome to replace him, should steal away the honor of his brave exploits, he negotiated with the Carthaginians for peace. But the conditions that he proposed to their deputies were so harsh, that they preferred to risk everything. Choosing for their general Xanthippus the Lacedaemonian, they confronted Regulus in a battle, won the victory, and took him prisoner with five hundred others with whom he was fleeing. “An undoubted indication,” says the same Polybius, “of the fickleness of Fortune, and of the little trust we should put in her flattering smiles, seeing that he, who but a little before, could not be moved to pity, and had no compassion of the afflicted, was soon after obliged to cast himself at their feet and to beg for his life.” Polyaenus adds further that Regulus swore to the Carthaginians that if they would allow him to depart, he would persuade the Romans to make peace with them, and if he could not do so, he would return back to Carthage. But he advised the Senate to the contrary, discovering the weakness of the enemy, the means whereby they might destroy them; and that their Carthaginian prisoners were young and stout captains, whereas he was decrepit and old. “This he whispered,” says Appian, “to the chief of the Romans.” Cicero says “His opinion so much prevailed, that they kept back the prisoners; there was no peace made, and he retuned to Carthage.

It is true that his departure was done in a strange manner; because Horace says that while leaving he fixed his gaze upon the ground like a criminal, and that he callously put aside his wife, and their small children who cried for him, not permitting them to even embrace him for the last time.

His wife’s chaste kiss, his prattling boys,
The former partners of his joys;
Now grown a slave, thrown down by fate,
And lessened from his former state;
He shunned with manly modesty,
And on the Earth he cast his stubborn eye;
While thus by strange advice, he sought
And fixed the wavering Senate’s vote.
Then through his weeping friends he ran
In haste, a glorious banished man.
What cords and wheels, what racks and chains,
What lingering tortures for his pains,
The barbarian is hangmen made, he knew,
And heightening fame told more than true.
Yet his wife and boys removed,
His hindering friends, and all he loved
And through the crowd he made his way
That wept and begged a longer stay,
As free as if when term was done
And suit’s at end, he left the town;
And did from business and cares retreat,
To the cool pleasures of a country seat.

Nevertheless, we must observe what Tuditanus relates, that when he advised them to make no exchange of the prisoners, he informed them that the Carthaginians had given him a slow poison, such that he could only live until the exchange was made, afterwards he was to waste away and die.

We may also take notice of that which is to be found among the fragments of Diodorus Siculus. “Now, who will not disapprove of the pride and vanity of Attilus Regulus, who, not being able to support himself under such great prosperity, which seemed to him like a heavy burden, deprived himself of the reward of general applause, and brought his own country into eminent danger? For when he might have concluded an honorable and advantageous peace to the people of Rome, and obtained the glory of a remarkable clemency and renown, he arrogantly insulted the afflicted, and required such harsh and unreasonable terms of peace, that he not only drew upon himself God’s displeasure, but stimulated the conquered to such an implacable hatred, that he renewed their courage and they ventured to fight afresh. By his fault, the affairs were changed in such a manner that he and his whole army were routed; thirty thousand of them being slain in the field, and fifteen thousand taken prisoner with him, etc.”

From this, one must surmise that Regulus figured that he could never repair the blunder he had committed, and that he would henceforth pass his days in Rome with a reputation as an imprudent and arrogant man. He thus preferred to be turned over to Carthage, preferring the peril (which he apparently did not dread too much because of the Carthaginian prisoners who would remain within the hands of the Romans) over an unquestionable infamy and also a life that he foresaw as short and languishing, because of the poison that the Carthaginians had given him.

Be that as it may, when Regulus, not having accomplished anything in Rome, turned himself over to Carthage, and by doing so kept his word, doubtless he cannot be too much esteemed; but when he dissuaded the Senate from what he had promised to persuade them to do, how can that pass as a laudable thing, since it was an obvious perjury? If he had contented himself with the plain delivery of his message, without aiming to persuade or dissuade, that would seem tolerable, but to openly break the sacred laws of oaths, how can that be excused?

“And when he did it in secret,” as Appian indicates, “in fear that the ambassadors who came with him might catch wind of it – that in itself increases the suspicion and aggravates the crime.” Would you appeal to the pretext of the safety and the glory of the Republic? Indeed it is necessary to help one’s country by good advice, and fortitude, and courage – but not by wicked pretenses and treachery. One must not, in order to be good citizen, fail to be a good man.”

Would you say, as Euripides would, that he only swore it with his tongue, and not with his heart? (Illum jurasse Lingua, Mentem gessisse injuratam.) But this is only to seek a cover-up for perjury. For, as Cicero puts it, “it is not a perjury to swear falsely, perjury is not performing what the oath signifies, according to the common meaning of words.”

In effect, if no one had any scruples about meaning one thing while saying another, this would be admitting that it is indeed permissible to lie and to mislead those who listen to our words, or those who question us; this would render us suspicious of everyone, and thus would make a strange confusion in the transaction of human affairs. Will you say that it is allowed, because the Carthaginians had not themselves kept their word as they had given it? But if you were a wicked man, I am not obliged for that reason to be a dishonest man – otherwise, what difference would there be between me and you? One ought to deal with treacherous people with precaution, or by sheer force; but it is not permissible to deal with anyone by distorting one’s word. As the old saying goes, “one should either not make promises, or keep them.” Thus it seems that the Carthaginians inflicted horrible tortures upon him because he acted against the word that he had given to them – he dissuaded the Romans against making peace, and the exchange of the prisoners. Indeed, as Tubero reports, “the noblest Carthaginian prisoners were put into the hands of Regulus’ children, who made them die by the same tortures as Regulus suffered.” But would you please consider, I ask you, did Regulus have a reason to prefer the slaughter of these prisoners to the well-being of the five hundred Roman soldiers who had been taken with him, and for the sake of his “magnificent” virtue, cruelly perished with him in Carthage?

But to return to our point regarding happiness, I would still eagerly demand that it be explained to me in all seriousness how the happiness of Regulus could be greater than that of Thorius, when Regulus was tormented in a manner that the astute Tubero relates to us. “They kept him a long time,” he says, “in dismal dark dungeons; then they cut off his eyelids, and when the sun shone brightest, they brought him forth and exposed him to the sunbeams, forcing him to hold his eyes in that direction, knowing it was not possible for him to shut them. Cicero informs us that he was bound in a contraption, and that after they had cut off his eyelids, they destroyed him while watching. Seneca describes this device as a tub stuck through with nails, in which he was enclosed. Sylvius presents us with this description:

With threatening rows they armed the sloping wood,
And torturing nails at equal distance stood.
Thus robbed of sleep, by never sleeping pain,
He grows his own tormentor, and in vain
Flexes his limbs by turning to relieve,
While only varied wounds the varied postures give.

But you might say that Thorius embraced pleasure with unbecoming delicacy, and that Regulus, for the safety of the Republic, preferred his tortures and to suffer them courageously. First of all, Thorius was neither so unfit, nor so voluptuous; when the safety of the Republic required it, he went to war, and he himself ultimately died with weapons in hand, fighting for the Republic in the battlefield, as Cicero himself indicates.

Moreover, although it is a great consolation in the midst of torture to feel a pure and clear conscience, and to see that one suffers for the safety of many, to preserve the honor of dignity, and of honesty, nevertheless it does not seem that one is happier for that – happier than living life honestly, doing wrong to nobody, endeavoring to do good with as many as we can, and fulfilling the duty a good man, and a good citizen, so that one lives his life agreeably, with much pleasure, and little pain or sorrow.

Lastly, if somebody was in this frame of mind, that he was entirely ready to expose himself to such danger just described, to suffer all possible toils and to expose his own life and blood without shirking the dignity of his duty, and stable employment, and that he found himself in such a position that he had to choose between the two ways of life that Torquatus illustrates, so that he must pick one or the other of the two without doing wrong by his duty; who could it be, I ask you, among those who so extremely curse pleasure and who so much commend pain – who would suppose that he would opt for the latter, and willingly embrace it?

As for the rest, it seems that it would be suitable here to reiterate more keenly, and a little more at length, what was already mentioned before: that pain is the chief evil, since that was the antecedent premise, which by the rule of opposites, it follows that pleasure is the chief good.

By the same reason which it was proven that pleasure is the primary good that one naturally follows (primum familiare seu accommodatum), and thus it is the chief good, it was also proven that pain is the primary evil that one naturally flees (primum alienum se incommodans), and thus the chief evil. As nature has imprinted upon all animals a natural love for pleasure, it has at the same time imprinted upon them a natural hatred of pain.

So let us now observe a few things. The first is that by the term “pain” one does not include just what are called the pains of the body, but also those pains which are known as the troubles of the mind, particularly as they are harsher and more aggravating than those of the body, as we explained earlier. Secondly, as it was said that virtue and honesty have within them something to cause great pleasures, likewise one can now say that vice, or that which is scandalous and dishonest, has something within them to cause very great pains. So virtue, or honesty, is accompanied by very great goods, and vice, or what is dishonest and scandalous, is accompanied by very great evils. So among the things that one desires in order to obtain the chief good, virtue is what one must chiefly pursue, and among the things that one must shun in order to escape the chief evil, vice is what one must mainly flee. Lastly, that this belief seems to be entirely compatible with the sacred doctrines of Faith, by which we similarly believe that happiness, or the chief good, consists in the everlasting joy and delights that someday will be experienced in Heaven; and thus we believe that unhappiness, or the chief evil, consists in being someday tormented in Hell by unspeakable pain, and the heat of horrific and eternal fires.

The benefits and virtues of economic living

It is not without cause, as we’ve previously stated, that the truest and most general means of obtaining and preserving the kind of pleasure necessary for a happy life is to cultivate temperance.  By moderating our desires, cutting off what’s unnecessary and useless, and limiting ourselves to just what’s natural and necessary, we accustom ourselves to being content with getting by with little; for this is how one can preserve that comfortable peace of mind which is the main ingredient of happiness.

No one who limits himself to natural and necessary things is enormously disturbed and tormented, because these things are found everywhere and are extremely easy to obtain.  Great turmoil and mental anguish afflict only those who are not content with what is necessary and impulsively pursue what is superfluous.  And if they do not obtain them, they are violently distressed; if they do obtain them, they apprehensive about losing them; if they do lose them, they die of sorrow for it; and when they still have them, they are never satisfied with them.  They cope with their mind like the sieve of the Danaides; they never can rest, but are always roused by some new desire as if by some kind of madness, so that they seem always to undertake some new labor.

Temperance is also the sure way to obtain and preserve the pleasure of bodily comfort, which comprises the other part of happiness, for he who is satisfied with life’s necessities are not obliged to suffer immense pain and exhaustion like those who pursue vanity.  He does not do anything to undermine his health and he does not make himself vulnerable to any of those discomforts which intemperance causes.  Those who live frugally and simply are not particularly vulnerable to diseases, unlike those who eat excessively or those who consume manufactured meals, saturated with sauces by the artifice of cooks.

Epicurus plainly recognized the importance and the excellence of this modesty, or moderation, i.e., satisfaction with little, when he exclaims, “To be satisfied with necessities is to be wealthy indeed!  Poverty, in proportion to the decree of nature, is a great endowment and treasury of riches.  Now if you would be rightly informed what those proper bounds and limits are, which this law of nature prescribes, they are these: not to hunger, nor to thirst, and not to be cold.”  Non esurire, non sitire, non algere.

This is what he had experienced within himself, if we follow the testimony of Juvenal:

If any ask me what would satisfy
To make life easy, thus I would reply:
As much as keeps out hunger, thirst and cold
As much as made wise Epicurus blessed,
Who in small Gardens spacious realms possessed.

Seneca declares, “This is a commendable thing: a pleasant and contented poverty – but if it be pleasant, it is not poverty, for whosoever is satisfied with poverty, is rich.  He is not poor who enjoys but little – rather he who desires more [is poor].”  That is to say, riches themselves ought to be valued for the sake of their end, which is nothing other than joy, satisfaction, pleasure – while poverty, on the contrary, by the deprivation of this end.  So it would therefore be consistent to say that a cheerful poverty is not poverty, but great wealth; conversely, a melancholy affluence is not wealth, but great poverty.  The traveler who sings on the road in full view of bandits is, in effect, rich; poor is he who, laden with money, fears guns and swords, and trembles with fear upon seeing the shadow of a reed stirring in the moonlight.  The tradesman, while he is without money, rejoices in his song which reverberates throughout the neighborhood, and is rich; but stumbling upon a lost purse renders him impoverished, for he is stupefied by the fear and anxiety of losing it.  In sum, pray tell me which of two men at the end of their lives dies richest: he who was destitute of things one usually calls riches yet lived joyfully, or he who, profusely supplied in material goods, lived his life in anxiety and sorrow?

Cicero seems to be quite delighted with the type of virtue and moderation of temper that obliges us to live and be content with little.  For after he had upheld the examples of Socrates and Diogenes to show that the burden of poverty may be made more easy, he alludes to the words of Epicurus: “Oh, what little does nature desire, what a small matter suffices it!”  He asserts that “wisdom is often discovered under mean apparel.”  It’s as if he had undertaken to write the praises of this philosopher, for he continues his discourse in this manner, “What then?  Those glorious orators – are they more courageous and more generous than Epicurus in encountering Poverty, which troubles mankind so much?  Other philosophers seem to be as well-prepared as he was against all evils, yet there is none whom poverty does not terrify; but for his part, very little satisfies him, and none has ever discoursed about frugality better than he: for as he was altogether averse to whatever might cause the desire of riches, lust, ambition, sumptuous expenses or debauchery…  Why should he take care to obtain them, or be eager to pursue them?  What!  Shall Anacharsis the Scythian be able to despise riches, …, and shall our philosophers not be able to do likewise?”

Here are the contents of one of this Scythian’s letters:

Instead of rich and glorious apparel, I use the simple habit of our country; for shoes: the bottoms of my feet well hardened.  The ground is my bed, hunger is my sauce.  I live upon milk, cheese and meat.  Therefore if you come to see me, you will find a man very quiet, and as for the presents which you have been pleased to honor me, give them to your fellow citizens, or offer them to the immortal gods.

All the philosophers of every school, excepting those of whom whose brutal nature has shunned reason, have been of this persuasion.  When Socrates, at a public rejoicing, saw much gold and silver carried about and exposed to public view, cried aloud, “How many things there are, which I don’t at all desire!”  When Xenocrates understood that the ambassadors of Alexander had brought him fifty talents, which was a considerable sum of money at that time in Athens, he invited the ambassadors to supper in the Academy, and caused them to be entertained with things moderate and convenient, free from luxury and excess.  The next day they desired him to ask them whom upon should they bestow that money they had brought to him?  “What?” he asked, “Did you not take notice yesterday by the supper that I gave you, that I have no need of money?”  But when he perceived that his refusal gave them offense he accepted some thirty minae, so that he might not seem to despise the King’s liberality.  As for Diogenes the Cynic, he treated him more unreservedly, for when Alexander asked him what he stood in need of, answered, “at present I need nothing, but that you would not interpose yourself between me and the sunshine.”  This Cynic was wont to prefer his own happiness to that of the King of Persia and to boast how much his life and his fortune was more blessed than this monarch’s – he for his part wanting nothing, whereas the other could never have enough. He desired none of those pleasures, which ultimately never satisfied the King anyway; he was content with his own, which the King could never be.

This that I have mentioned concerning Diogenes reminds me what Seneca and Maximus of Tyre have written.  The former has showed:

… that great estates are often troublesome and the cause of sorrow and mischief; that the rich suffer not more easily the loss of goods than the poor; that it is far more tolerable not to acquire something than to lose it.  So those whom Fortune never favored seem to be happier than those whom it has forsaken.

After he had demonstrated this at large, he then proceeds:

This is what Diogenes, that great soul, understood, when he put himself into such a condition that nothing could be taken from him.  “Call this poverty, destitution, or give whatever disdainful title you please to this tranquility, I shall believe that Diogenes is not happy if you can find anybody else from whom nothing can be taken.  Truly if any question the happiness of Diogenes, he may as well question the condition of the immortal gods, and whether they are les happy, because they have not possessions subject to the capricious changes of fortune, and which can be taken away.

As for Maximum of Tyre, he puts it this way, regarding whether the Cynical life was to be preferred to any other:

Diogenes was neither an Attic nor a Dorian, nor tutored in the schools of Salon or Lycurgus, for neither places nor laws communicate virtue.  He was born in the town of Synope, at the bottom of Pontus Euxinus.  When he had consulted Apollo, he forsook all the occasions of grief and trouble, he delivered himself from his fetters, and like a wise and free bird, passed through the world without fearing the tyrants, without binding himself to any particular laws, without applying himself to the administration of public affairs, without being troubled in the education of children, without being encumbered by matrimony, without toiling himself with the cultivating of the ground, without engaging himself in the carrying out of war, without trafficking merchandise by sea or land; for he laughed at all these sorts of men, and at their several stations of life as we commonly laugh at children who we observe so intent to play with trifles, until they often fight and hurt one another.

He led the life of an independent, being free from fears and anxieties.  In winter seasons he did not by long fatiguing journeys approach the Babylonians, nor in the summer the Medes; but according to the season, and from the Isthmus, according to the season, and from the Isthmus to Attica again.  His royal palaces were the temples, the colleges, and the sacred woods.  His riches very large and secure, and not being circumscribed, were not easily subject to ambushes, they being the whole earth with all the fruits it bore, and the fountains that it affords, more excellent than the wines of Lesbos and Chios.  He habituated himself also to all sorts of weather as lions do, and would not avoid the changing of the seasons, appointed by Jupiter; neither did he consider any means to secure himself from them; but accustomed himself in such a manner to all seasons, by this kind of living, so that he secured this health and strength, without any assistance from medicine, without experiencing the sharpness of the scalpel or cautery, without imploring the help of Chiron, or of Esculapius or Asclepiades, and without submitting to the prophecies of soothsayers, or to magical and superstitious purifications, or to the vanity of conjurations.  At the same time that all Greece was in arms and uproar, and all the neighboring nations were at war with one another, he alone experienced it as if it were a truce with all the earth, and having overcome fighting, was without arms in the midst of armed men.  Nay, even the basest of men, the tyrants and his very slanderers, had a respect for him and would not in the least hurt him, though he reproved them, objecting and lampooning their actions before their very eyes, which is a very safe and very convenient way of reproach – reminding men of peace and reason.

We may at this point add what Seneca reports as coming from the school of Epicurus: “those who happily enjoy luxury are those who do not have a need for it, and he among them who is in the least need of riches, enjoys them the most.”  For as luxury consists mainly in the ostentation of riches; he who believes he has not need of them, and who, consequently, does not fear losing them, can assuredly make a very pleasant use of them – more especially since he who does need riches are apprehensive about losing them, as apprehension and anxiety do not allow one to enjoy what he has.  He goes on to say:

The miserable wretch passionately desires to increase his stockpiles more and more, and while he is blinded with greed, he forgets to enjoy them.  He examines his receipts, prepares his accounts, goes to the exchange, turns over his calendar, and to be a rich man he becomes a creditor.  We shall be rich with much greater satisfaction when we understand that to be poor is not as mischievous as we suppose.

How charming was Socrates, when contemplating the great quantity and diversity of things in the marketplace, he was able to exclaim, “How many things there are, which I don’t at all desire!”  Likewise, somebody who perhaps gains possession of all these things and contemplates his houses, his pieces of furniture, his servants, his table, his clothing, and so on – he is entirely well-to-do and may yet be able to say, “Indeed I have all that, but I could live just as well without the things I do not absolutely need.  I could sleep comfortably in a less magnificent house, and less well-appointed; I could easily get by without such a great number of servants, these exquisite meals, and these magnificent clothes.”  If anyone, I say, maintains this attitude, he is surely able to enjoy his prosperity most agreeably.  He shall understand that he can, very comfortably, do without an infinity of things, for the possessiveness which is engendered by them greatly dispel a peaceful life.  He shall be all the more prepared to bear their loss gracefully, if some misfortune might plunder him.  He shall understand that these things are not absolutely necessary.  He shall likewise distance himself from the many pains, labors, and troubles that are usually suffered in order to increase them, realizing that he cannot enjoy truer and purer pleasure with greater wealth, though he can enjoy the same pleasure with less.  That which he might amass further would be of no benefit to him – but only to ungrateful heirs, spendthrifts, sycophants, or robbers; and to obtain it he would have to give up relaxation, and cast himself in a sea of problems, pains, and sorrows.

Here we may also observe that Seneca had good reason to recount this other maxim of Epicurus, that “If any man having all the necessities of life thinks himself not rich enough, then even if he were the lord of the entire world, he would still be miserable.”  For if anyone of modest means does not believe that he is able to live as happily as those who he perceives to be more eminent, and more splendid than him, then surely if he was entirely as fortunate as them, or even more so, he would not become any happier for it – rather, he would always be just as unhappy.  He would never be satisfied because of the restless nature of his passion, and his covetousness, which, once they have surpassed the bounds prescribed by nature, become immeasurable, and he may never find the ability to fulfill them.

Regarding Epicurus’ other celebrated maxim, “what is necessary to nature, is easy to acquire, and if something is difficult, it is not necessary” – this is a maxim which Stobeus and others borrowed from Epicurus and put into similar words.  “Let thanks be returned to kind Nature, which has so arranged everything that what is necessary is easily obtained, and what is difficult, is not necessary.”  Cicero is of the same opinion, when he makes Epicurus say, “That he judged that Nature alone was sufficient to make a wise man rich, and that natural riches are easy to be gotten, for Nature is content with little.”  And Seneca says that, “According to the judgment of Epicurus, not to hunger, not to thirst, not to feel cold, are the limits that nature prescribes to itself; that to satisfy hunger and thirst, there is no need of dwelling in luxurious palaces, nor to restrain ourselves with supercilious and sullen severity, nor to venture on the ocean, nor to follow armies.  That which nature requires is easily obtained, and obvious to all the world.  Sweat is the price of superfluities, which make the magistrates attend courts, the generals their tents, and the pilots their ships in the midst of the dangerous and tempestuous seas.”

It’s the greatest wealth to live content
With little, such the greatest joy resent
And bounteous Fortune still affords supply
Sufficient for a thrifty luxury. 

It is true that there exist men who, through their tyranny or cruelty, deprive innocent people from life’s necessities.  Others, by some accident or through their own foolishness, may also fall into a condition which those necessities go amiss.  But as for Mother Nature, she is surely no niggard with regard to men – she who is the mother nurse of all creatures!  And if she did subject them to hunger, she also gave them her fruits, her herbs, and her grains to appease it; if she subjected them to thirst, she also provided them with water in total abundance.  If the weather is cold, or if it is hot, she also made them sufficiently thick-skinned to endure these assaults, as experienced with the skin on the face.  And if she made the parts of the body more tender and delicate, she also afforded them the shade of trees, caves and other refreshments; and for warmth, she provides the sun, fire, the wool of sheep, and so many other helpful things.

She has also given us as much foresight and prudence, like the ant, so that we may provide ourselves with things that are necessary for the future – though many times we despise the example of that small creature, who, after winter approaches, never leaves his little cave, but in a wise and prudent manner, as Horace knew, subsists calmly through winter with what it had piled up during the summer.

Quae simul inversum contristat Aquarius annum,
Non usquam prorepit, et illis utitur ante,
Quaesitis Sapiens… 

For when we see the greater part the populace working incessantly to acquire possessions, one might suppose that they may have forgotten what they’re for, and that they might be born to no other purpose than to accumulate things.  Considering those who live within a civilized society, could you find any who are unable to meet the needs of hunger, thirst, and the various onslaughts of weather?

Even if one has a sumptuous table, fine wines, superb outfits, a splendid house, precious vases, well-behaved and smartly dressed servants, and so on and so forth, these are not things which we must give thanks to kind Nature, as with things that are absolutely necessary.  The use of things which are easy to obtain is certainly no less pleasant than those which are so difficult to come by, and it is a mistake to believe that only a rich person can savor pleasure and joy.

Nanc neque divitibus contigunt gaudia solis.

But we will speak later about this.  Here it will suffice to note this fine passage of Seneca which addresses the subject marvelously.

Whatever serves the good, God, the common father of all men, has put it in our hand.  He has not expected that we should desire it; he has freely bestowed it upon us of his own accord.  The things that are able to hurt us, he has hid away far from us – so we may only blame ourselves when, in spite of Nature, we have endeavored to fetch them out of the very bowels of the earth.  We have cast ourselves blindfold into sensual pleasures, which are the source of all evils.  We have suffered ourselves to be carried away with ambition, glory, and vanity.  What advice therefore can I now give you?  Nothing new, for they are not new only, for which we seek a remedy.  The first thing that we should do is to look into ourselves, and to carefully distinguish necessities from superfluities.  Necessities abound in every place, while that which is superfluous confers trouble and aggravation in the procuring of it.  Don’t think that you have any great cause to flatter yourselves if you have rejected supple couches, rich jewels, and costly and stately furniture.  You will have occasion to marvel at yourselves when you have contemned necessities.  It is no great matter to be able to submit, without this great and royal state, without having feasted on the brains of peacocks, the wings of pheasants, nor the other extravagancies of luxury which require us to favor some species of animals, and despise the rest.  I shall value you when you will not despise a piece of dry bread, when you shall be persuaded that the herbs grow not only in time of need for the benefit of animals, but for men also, and when you shall have learned that the fruits of trees are sufficient to satisfy you.

“Oh miserable blindness of mankind!” says Lucretius.  “Don’t we see plainly that nature prescribes nothing that we should strive for other than freedom from pain and peace of mind?  To be content with little, without these needless delicacies, we should spend our lives quietly and pleasantly.”

O miseras hominum mentes, etc.
Qualibus in tenebris vitae quantisq; periclis,
Degitur hoc aevi, quodcumque’st.  Nonne videre
Nil aliud sibi naturam latrare, nisiut, cum
Corpore sejunctus dolor absit, mente fruatur,
Jucundo sensucura semota metuq;
Ergo coropoream ad naturam pauca videmus,
Esse opus omnino, quae demant quemq; dolorem
Delicias quoque uti nullus substernere possint,
Gratius interdum neque natura ipsa requirit.

“The diet,” says Epicurus according to Cicero, “which is the most natural – such as broth, bread, cheese, pure water – affords as much pleasure and more health to the body than the most costly dishes and richest wines.”  And in Stobeus, he speaks in this manner: “My body is abundantly delighted with bread and water, and I renounce the pleasures that proceed from magnificent tables.”  Elian says, “If I may have wholesome bread and clear water, I think myself as happy as Jupiter himself.”  And in Seneca, he speaks thus, “We must return to the law of nature; her riches are ready provided, and offered to all the world; for whatever we stand in need of, it is either freely exposed, or very easily obtained.  Nature requires bread and water, no person becomes hereby the poorer, and he who confines his desires within these limits may secure his own happiness.  Look to the true wealth – learn to be satisfied with little and speak out courageously: ‘Let us have water, let us have bread! These are the necessary sustainers of life, and then we may vie with the gods for happiness.’”

If you do not spend the nights reveling in chambers lit by gilded torches and resounding with music, you may at least recline gently upon the grass, at the edge of a brook, in the shade of a large tree, and, without all these great luxuries, have a little picnic, diverting yourself comfortably in the season which invites us to it – when Spring papers the ground with flowers.

Si non aurea sunt juvenum simulacra per ades,
Lampadas igniferas minibus retinentia dextris,
Lumina nocturnes epulis, ut suppeditentur
Nec domus argento fulget, auroq; renidet,
Nec citharis reboant laqueata, aurataq; Templa
Attamen inter se prostrate in gramine molli,
Propter aquae rivum sub ramis arboris altae,
Non magnis opibus jucunde corpora currant;
Praesertim cum tempestas arridet, et anni
Tempora conspergunt viridantes floribus herbas. 

To break a fever, is it better to lie in a painted and gilded room under an embroidered quilt rather than in a plain bed under an ordinary bedcover? 

Truly we may have cause to doubt that an Apricius gets more pleasure from his exquisite and splendid meals than a laborer gets from simple and ordinary ones.  For he who is always full usually lacks a savory appetite, while he who is almost always hungry finds all that he eats excellent; so as the one finds his pheasant and turbot bland, the other finds that his nuts and onions taste marvelous.  Surely only those who rarely experience hunger or thirst cannot be persuaded that a common man may also eat like a prince, though he may be delayed from being seated at his small and humble table until an hour after the prince sits at his splendid table.  If men could but once understand these truths, they will recognize how useless it is to labor so much to acquire immense riches to satisfy their gluttony; for they may, without all this toil, obtain the same pleasures wholesomely and shamelessly.  This is what our poet must have had in mind when he implores us to shun grandeur, being certain that one can, in a small house, live happier than kings and bigwigs in their palaces.

… fuge magna, licet sub paupere tecto
Reges, et Regum vita praecurrere amicos.

But let us learn from Porphyry how thoroughly Epicurus lived a simple and frugal life, proclaiming that he could also go to the extent of total abstinence from meat:

We have established what the common people do not believe: that the Epicureans themselves, who hold pleasure to be their end, are for the most part content, since the days of their chieftain, with fruits, vegetables, and broth; and that their philosophy mainly tends to teach nothing more than that nature is satisfied with little, that the plainest food and the easiest to attain satisfies our wants plentifully, and that what is over and above only indulge our insatiable appetites, which is neither in itself necessary, nor can be justified as useful, without which might cause the ruin of the whole.  Rather, it springs from vain and foolish beliefs, which prejudice us.

They say also that a philosopher ought to be convinced that nothing important shall be lacking to him the remainder of his days.  Now there is nothing better able to convince him of this than to believe, by his own experience, that he only has need of very little, and that these things are common and easy to be gotten, while that which is over and above is needless, having to do with nothing but luxury and excess, which are only acquired with a great deal of pain and difficulty.  So that all the benefit and pleasure that might abound from them, do not compensate for the labor and toil undergone in the obtaining of them, and our continual care to preserve them.  Besides, when the thoughts of death approach, we easily forsake little things, or such as are of a mean value and common.

They say moreover that the consumption of meat compromises our health, because our health is preserved by those very things which recover it when we have lost it.  It is recovered by a light diet and abstinence from meat, and is therefore preserved by the same means.  But it is no wonder that the public believes that consumption of meat is necessary for our health, for they are persuaded that all the pleasures which are in motion and gratifying are healthy – the pleasures of love included, which are never good for anything, and often very harmful.

Horace had also well-recognized the advantages brought by a sober and frugal life, when he says that there is nothing which contributes to health better than that of drinking and eating little, and to be satisfied with the simplest meals and beverages, and to be persuaded of the truth of this, one only need to recall a small, simple and meager supper that one has already eaten; whereas when one gorges oneself with all kinds of foodstuffs, some are converted into bile and others into gas, which causes flatulence and indigestion in the stomach.

Aciippe nunc victus tenuis quae quantaque secum
Afferat…
… imprimis valeas bene; am variae res
Ut noceant homini, credas memor illuis efea
Quae simplex olim tibi cesserit: at simul assis
Miscueris elixa, simul conchulia turdis;
Dulcia se in bilem vertent, stomachoque tumultum
Lenta feret pituita.  Vides ut pallidus omnes
Caena desurgat dubia…

We must certainly be astonished that men, who are capable of intelligence and reason, have so little regard for the manner of their diet.  Compared to all other things, they pay the least attention to it. 

First of all, we should postpone eating until the proper time; hunger itself signals the hour of this necessity.  Hunger is the purest seasoning, and also the sweetest and most pleasant.

Secondly, eating a simple and frugal meal replenishes the strength of the body and invigorates the mind, which need not expect the diversity, abundance, mixture, and alteration of food presented on splendid tables.  As for those gourmands who indulge their gluttonous and fleeting pleasures by gorging the body and dulling the mind – if fevers, gout, and other maladies do not strike them right away, the causes of these evils remain hidden in the body, having been carried to its parts by the contaminated blood which was poisoned by what they ate.

Thirdly, after hunger is appeased and one leaves the table, he who has eaten well and modestly leaves knowing that he has done nothing to compromise his health, which is safeguarded by his moderation.  He doesn’t miss experiencing the pleasure of gorging gourmands, more especially when the pleasure is already gone, leaving only the apprehension for bad consequences.  He is not liable, unlike those who stuff the stomach with meats and sauces, and may already be repentant, or suspects that he will soon regret it, and that he will suffer, if not soon, then at least some day, the sorrow for his gluttony.

Fourthly, it is indeed wise to avoid subjecting the body to an appetite for short-term pleasures, which are the cause of so many grueling and protracted diseases that are only cured through subjection to various medicines, purgings, vomiting, and bleeding.  They ruin the body, even though they can be easily avoided simply by abstinence so that one is not obliged to exclaim, like Lysimachus after surrendering to the Getae to allay his thirst and that of his entire army, “Oh gods!  So much I have lost, merely for one fleeting pleasure!”

Fifthly, with the exception of hereditary diseases (which, if they cannot be completely cured, can at least be treated) the general cause of all other diseases is drinking and eating unhealthily or excessively.  Though stress, heat, cold, and other such causes can generate diseases, it usually happens because they set afloat the excessive humors which were previously produced in our bodies by excess wine and self-abuse.  It might also be noted that during the great plague which infected all of Attica, that none other than Socrates, by virtue of his extraordinary restricted diet, was untouched by it, and we are not unacquainted with one in our days who by similar means was saved from a great epidemic.  I might also mention, though not by name, a person of great eminence, who being severely tormented by gout, was persuaded somewhat by my advice to live a year very abstemiously and not to eat hardly any meat (in the manner of the Indians who are healthy and vigorous without it).  He is now delivered from all his discomforts, just as long before him the senator Rogatianus was, whom Porphyry speaks about in The Life of Plotinus.  So how true it is that a light diet is the main remedy to avoid diseases, or to cure them!

Sixthly, that for each person who is sick from malnutrition, there are twenty who are sick from repletion; such is why Theognides had good reason to say that gluttony has put an end to many more than hunger.

Perplures quam direa fames, satias male perdit,
Qui justo cupiunt amplius esse sibi.

And Horace, following Epicurus, tells us “that an abstemious man, or who drinks and eats little, is always vigorous, and always ready to go to work; whereas wine makes the body heavy, and clouds the mind, and sinks the divine soul to the very ground.

… quin corpus onustum
Hesternis vitiis, aninum quoque praegravat una,
Atque affigit humo divinae particulam aura:
Alter ubi dicto citius curate sopori
Membra dedit, vegetus praescripta ad munera surgit.

One can similarly add that he who eagerly pursues the pleasure of the palate loses the pleasure that could otherwise be found by accustoming oneself to living abstemiously and simply.  However, one may occasionally have a feast without impropriety.  This is sometimes permissible for well-mannered people, and recognized by our poet, when a formal celebration invites us to rejoice, effectively restoring our strength weakened by fasting or old age.

Sive diem festum rediens advexerit annus,
Sive recreare volet tenuatum corpus; ubique
Accedent anni, et tractari mollies aetas
Imbecilla volet…

We ought not to make that particular pleasure of the palate our objective; rather, we ought to consider its gratification as supplementary.  An abstemious and frugal life is as good as any.  Besides, a wise man is expected, as much as the circumstances of his life allow, to live in accordance with consistent principles.  I say “as much as circumstances allow,” because life, being what it is, creates situations when it is difficult to exactly maintain the standards of one’s ideals.  Nevertheless, it is not extremely difficult to follow them very closely, provided that one has as much integrity and resolution as true wisdom and virtue require.  But if one is so weak that he is carried away with overindulgence at the slightest temptation, it is an obvious sign that wisdom and virtue are not rooted very deeply into his soul.

Indeed, if on occasion we find ourselves obliged to attend a banquet, when it may seem impolite to refuse anything offered to us, this is mainly where discipline should be shown – and fortitude.  And if a civil excuse and honesty is not enough, we should then be exempt from dusopia – that ridiculous sensitivity to shame condemned by the Greeks.  Following the advice of Plutarch, one ought to speak clearly and courageously to one’s host, just as Creon did in one of his tragedies: “it is better that you should be angry with me today, than I be unwell tomorrow, having obeyed you.”

Te praestat infesum, Hospes, esse nunc mihi
Quam si obsequutus deinde graviter ingemam.

“For to cast ourselves,” he says, “into a fit of colic, or into some extreme agony, merely to avoid being looked down upon as a buffoon, or as impolite, is to become both a buffoon and a madman – and shows no understanding about how we ought to behave ourselves among men when it comes to eating and drinking.”

We must not here forget that excellent saying of Epicurus, which says that “a modest and frugal life, unto which we have by long use habituated ourselves, makes us invulnerable to the assaults of fortune.”

And as Horace says, “Who will be more able to trust himself and his own strength in the face of accidents and other misfortunes which might happen?  He who has accustomed himself to vast requirements, a superb appetite, and luxury, or he who is content with little, and foreseeing the future wisely, will have made provisions during times of peace for what is necessary in war?  Let fortune go after this man and take from him all that she can – how much can she deprive him of what is necessary?”

                                                 … Uter-ne
Ad casus dubios fidet sibi certius, hic qui
Pluribus assuerit mentem, corpusque superbum,
An qui contentus parvo, metuensque future,
In pace, ut Sapiens aptarit idonea bello?
Soeviat, atque novos moveat fortunna tumultus,
Quantum heinc imminnuet?  …

Nor are we to forget what [according to Seneca] Epicurus boasts of, “That his daily food did not quite amount to one pound, and that of Metrodorus weighed but just a pound.”  Nor should we omit that excellent advice which Seneca delivered so well:

You do not perhaps believe that a meager quantity of food is enough to satisfy nature?  There is, and to spare!  For there is pleasure – not a light and transitory pleasure that we must replenish every moment, but a more fixed and lasting pleasure without interruption.  For a draught of water and a piece of barley bread are things not very pleasant to the taste, but then it is a great pleasure that we can confine ourselves to that which misfortune cannot deprive us of.  The allowance of a prison is more sumptuous and plentiful, and a convict who is kept in chains, condemned to death, subsists with a small pittance.  What an honor it is to willingly settle for that which is not dreaded by those who are reduced to the lowest state! By this means we shall preempt the treachery of fortune, and halt all her prospects.  For what power can fortune have over he who disowns those things which she rejoices in giving and taking away, and is satisfied with that which doesn’t depend on her, thinking it too miserable to stoop to her proud empire?

I’ll here cite what Xenophon tells us of Socrates.  “He lived upon so small a pittance, that there was no handicraftsman, if he took never so little pains, but might get more than was needful to nourish him.”  That which has been already said of Anacharsis, “that he sent back the money offered him, because he needed it not to supply his slender expenses.”  And it is reported of Epaminondas that he sent back the king’s ambassadors with the gold they had brought; and when he had treated them to a plain dinner, he told them, “Go and give an account to your master of this dinner, so that he may understand that a man content with this is not to be bought with money.”

I could, I say, add several more famous examples showing that he who is satisfied with few things, which even poverty may afford, has no cause to fear the iniquity of fortune, nor neediness.  But let us simply finish with what Bion says so well in the writings of Theletes the Pythagorean.  Here are his words:

If things in nature could speak like we do, would they not, if I may say so, accost us in this manner:  “Why do you argue with me, oh man?  Are you for my sake deprived of the advantages of temperance, of justice, or fortitude?  Are you afraid that things needful will be wanting to you?  Why, are not the highways full of herbs and the fountains running over with water?  Don’t I afford you, all over the earth, beds to lie down upon and leaves to cover you?  Why can’t you rejoice with me?   Haven’t you seen Gradiaphyrtus, a beggar, singing pleasantly, when he eats his meal?  Have not I provided sauce for you without the least expense or care, i.e., hunger?  And is it not true that he who is hungry relishes his meal robustly, without the help of any artificial incentive, just as he who is thirsty drinks large draughts of pure water with great desire and pleasure?  Do you think that men are hungry for a cake or thirsty for snow?  And are not these the things that the extravagance and the decadence of spoiled men require?

 
A description of the Diogenes of India

In connection with this whole topic, it would seem that I better not omit what I know concerning the lifestyle of the Eastern Indians.  This may show that all these fine ideas which we have just discussed are not purely philosophical speculations, but that there are whole populations which lead such a frugal life, and who are also satisfied with little, either for drinking, eating, or clothing, as are the Cynics, Stoics, and Epicureans.

There is in the Indies a number of fakirs, or religious idolaters, which, like Diogenes, go about in the nude, and like him, has only for shoes the hardened soles of their feet.  For a hat, they wear their long braided and oiled hair, trussed up atop their heads; to ornate their fingers, they grow their nails sometimes more than half the length of the small finger; for a house, the galleries of their temples; their bed is comprised from a few inches of ashes, though when they go on a pilgrimage they bring along a tiger-skin or leopard-skin rug to lay upon the ground.  Their drink is pure water, and their food, when it is supplied by means of alms: a pound of kichery, which is certain a mixture of rice and of two or three kinds of lentils, the whole cooked with water and salt, and topped with a bit of brown butter.

The lifestyle of the Brahmans, or Brahmins, hardly differs from that of the fakirs either in quantity or quality, because the basic and main meal is always kichery – never meat, and never any other beverage than water.  The same goes for most merchants, who are called banyans; however prosperous they may become, their food is neither more abundant, nor more delicious than that of the Brahmans, and yet they live at least as peacefully, happily, and as contentedly as us, and much healthier – they are at least as strong and vigorous as we are.