SENECA ON A HAPPY LIFE. 815 far with me, a general consent to the opin- | he cannot speak of another man's wickedion of a future reward, and punishment; ness, without thinking of his own; whereas which meditation raises me to the contempt a good conscience is a continual feast. of this life, in hopes of a better. But still, though we know that we have a soul, yet, what the soul is, how and from whence, we are utterly ignorant; this only we understand, that all the good and ill we do, is under the dominion of the mind; that a clear conscience states us in an inviolable peace: and that the greatest blessing in nature is that which every honest man may bestow upon himself. The body is but the clog and prisoner of the mind, tossed up and down, and persecuted with punishments, violences and diseases; but the mind itself is sacred, and eternal, and exempt from the danger of all actual impression. Those are the only certain and profitable delights, which arise from the conscience of a well-acted life: no matter for noise abroad, so long as we are quiet within: but if our passions be seditious, that's enough to keep us waking, without any other tumult. It is not the posture of the body, or the composure of the bed, that will give rest to an uneasy mind: there is an impatient sloth, that may be roused by action, and the vices of laziness must be cured by business. True happiness is not to be found in excesses of wine or of women, nor in the largest prodigalities of fortune: what she has given me, she may take away; but she shall not tear it from me; and so long as it does not grow to me, I can part with it without pain. He that would perfectly know himself, let him set aside his money, his fortune, his dignity, and examine him self naked, without being put to learn from others the knowledge of himself. Provided that we look to our consciences, no matter for opinion: let me desire well, though I hear ill. The common people take stomach, and audacity, for the marks of magnanimity and honor; and if a man be soft, and modest, they look upon him as an easy fop; but when they come once to observe the dignity of his mind, in the It is dangerous for a man too suddenly equality and firmness of his actions; and or too easily to believe himself. Wherefore that his eternal quiet is founded upon an let us examine, watch, observe and inspect internal peace, the very same people have our own hearts for we ourselves are our him in esteem and admiration. For, there greatest flatterers: we should every night is no man but approves of virtue, though call ourselves to an account, what infirmity but few pursue it; we see where it is, but have I mastered to-day? What passion opwe dare not venture to come at it; and posed? What temptation resisted? What the reason is, we over-value that which we virtue acquired? Our vices will abate of must quit to obtain it. A good conscience themselves, if they be brought every day to fears no witnesses, but a guilty conscience the shrift. Oh the blessed sleep that fol is solicitous, even in solitude. If we do lows such a diary! Oh the tranquillity, nothing but what is honest, let all the world liberty and greatness of that mind, that is a know it; but if otherwise, what does it sig-spy upon itself, and a private censor of its nify to have nobody else know it, so long as I know it myself? Miserable is he that slights that witness! Wickedness, 'tis true, may 'scape the law, but not the conscience: for a private conviction is the first and the greatest punishment of offenders; so that sin plagues itself; and the fear of vengeance pursues even those that 'scape the stroke of it. It were ill for good men that iniquity may so easily evade the law, the judge and the execution, if nature had not set up torments and gibbets in the consciences of transgressors. He that is guilty lives in perpetual terror; and while he expects to be punished, he punishes himself; and, whosoever deserves it, expects it. What if he be not detected? He is still in apprehension yet, that he may be so. His sleeps are painful and never secure; and own manners! It is my custom (says the author) every night, so soon as the candle is out, to run over the words and actions of the past day; and I let nothing 'scape me; for, why should I fear the sight of my own errors, when I can admonish and forgive myself? I was a little too hot in a dispute; my opinion might have been as well spared, for it gave offence, and did no good at all. The thing was true; but all truths are not to be spoken at all times; I would I had held my tongue, for there is no contending either with fools or our superiors. I have done ill; but it shall be so no more. If every man would but thus look into himself, it would be the better for us all. What can be more reasonable than this daily review of a life we cannot warrant for a moment? Our fute is set and the first breath we draw 316 THE HISTORY OF SOCRATES. lège de France, and acquired reputation as a Jansenist theologian. His mest popular work, the “ Histoire ancienne," published 150 years ago, has been frequently reprinted in French and in English. Its popular and world, but it has been supplanted by the works of more accurate historians.] is only the first motion towards our last; one cause depends upon another; and the course of all things public and private, is but a long connection of providential appoint-pleasing style made it widely acceptable to the reading ments. There is a great variety in our lives, but all tends to the same issue. Nature may use her own bodies as she pleases; but a good man has this consolation, that nothing perishes which he can call his own. 'Tis a great comfort that we are only condemned to the same fate with the universe; the heavens themselves are mortal as well as our bodies; nature has made us passive, and to suffer is our lot. While we are in flesh, every man has his chain and his clog, only it is looser and lighter to one man than another; and he is more at ease that takes it up and carries it, than he that drags it. We are born to lose and to perish; to hope and to fear; to vex ourselves and others; and there is no antidote against a common calamity, but virtue; for the foundation of true joy is in the conscience. THE USE OF RICHES. SENECA. [MENANDER, & poet of Athens, was born B. c. 342 and died B. C. 291. He composed over 100 comedies, and was regarded as a master of poetry. Fragments only of his works have come down to us.] Abundance is a blessing to the wise; WHAT DUST WE ARE MADE OF. If you would know of what frail stuff you're made, BAD TEMPER. Socrates was born at Athens, in the fourth year of the seventy-seventh Olympiad. His father, Sophroniscus, was a sculptor, and his mother, Phanarete, a midwife. Hence we may observe that meanness of birth is no obstacle to true merit, in which alone solid glory and real nobility consist. It appears from the comparisons which Socrates often used in his discourses, that he was neither ashamed of his father's or mother's profes sion. He was surprised that a sculptor should employ his whole attention to mould an insensible stone into the likeness of a man, and that a man should take so little pains not to resemble an insensible stone. He would often say, that he exercised the functions of a midwife with regard to the mind, in making it bring forth all its thoughts, which was indeed the peculiar talent of Socrates. He treated subjects in so simple, natural and pure an order, that he made those with whom he disputed say what he would, and find an answer themselves to all the questions he proposed to them. He at first learned his father's trade, in which he made himself very expert. In the time of Pausanias, there was a Mercury and the Graces to be seen at Athens of his work. manship; and it is to be presumed, these statues would not have found place among those of the greatest masters in the art, if they had not been thought worthy of it. Criton is reported to have taken him out of his father's shop. from the admiration of his fine genius, and the opinion that it was inconsistent for a young man capable of the greatest things, to continue perpetually em ployed upon stone with a chisel in his hand. He was a disciple of Archelaus, who con ceived a great affection for him. Archelaus had been pupil to Anaxagoras, a very celebrated philosopher. His first study was physic, the works of nature, and the movement of the heavens, stars, and planets, according to the custom of those times, wherein only that part of philosophy was known, and Xenophon assures us of his being very learned in it. But after having found by his [CHARLES ROLLIN, a French historical writer, born at own experience, how difficult, abstruse, inParis, 1661, died 1741. He became professor in the Col-tricate, and at the same time how little use Of all bad things, by which mankind are curst, THE HISTORY OF SOCRATES. THE HISTORY OF SOCRATES. ful that kind of learning was to the generality of mankind, he was the first, according to Cicero, who conceived the thought of bringing down philosophy from heaven, to place it in cities, and introduce it into private houses; humanizing it, to use that expression, and rendering it more familiar, more useful in common life, more within the reach of man's capacity, and applying solely to what might make them more rational, just, and virtuous. He found there was a kind of folly in devoting the whole vivacity of his mind, and employing all his time, in inquiries merely curious, involved in impene trable darkness, and absolutely incapable of contributing to human happiness; while he neglected to inform himself in the ordinary duties of life, and in learning what is conformable or opposite to piety, justice, and probity: in what fortitude, temperance and wisdom consist; and what is the end of all government, what the rules of it, and what qualities are necessary for commanding and ruling well? We shall see in the sequel the use he made of this study. It was so far from preventing him from discharging the duties of a good citizen, that it was the means of making him more observant of them. He bore arms, as did all the people of Athens; but with more pure and elevated motives. He made many campaigns, was present in many actions, and always distinguished himself by his valor and fortitude. He was seen towards the end of his life, giving in the senate, of which he was a member, the most shining proofs of his zeal for justice, without being intimidated by the greatest present dangers. He had accustomed himself early to a sober, severe, laborious life; without which it seldom happens that men are capable of discharging the greatest part of the duties of good citizens. No man could carry the contempt of riches and the love of poverty farther than he did. He thought it a divine perfection to be in want of nothing: and believed the less we are contented with, the nearer we approach to the Divinity. Seeing the pomp and show displayed by luxury in certain ceremonies, and the infinite quantity of gold and silver employed in them, "How many things," said he, congratulating himself on his condition, "do I not want!" 46 Quantis non egeo!" His father left him eighty minæ, which he lent to one of his friends who had occasion for that sum. But the affairs of that friend having taken an ill turn, he lost the 817 whole, and suffered that misfortune with such indifference and tranquillity, that he did not so much as complain of it. We and it in Xenophon's Economies, that his whole estate amounted to no more than five minæ. The richest persons of Athens were his friends, who could never prevail on him to accept a share of their wealth. When he was in want of anything he was not ashamed to declare it: "If I had money," said he one day in an assembly of his friends, “I should buy me a cloak." He did not address himself to any one in particular, but contented himself with that general informa tion. His disciples contended for the honor of making him this small present; which was being too slow, says Seneca; their own observation should have prevented both the want and the demand. He generously refused the offers and presents of Archelaus king of Macedon, who was desirous of having him at his court; adding, "that he could not go to a man who could give him more than it was in his power to return." Another philosopher does not approve this answer. "Was it making a prince a small return," says Seneca, "to undeceive him in his false ideas of grandeur and magnificence; to inspire him with a contempt for riches; to show him the righ use of them; to instruct him in the great art of reigning; in a word, to teach him how to live and how to die? But," continues Seneca, "the true reason which prevented his going to the court of that prince, was, that he did not think it consistent for him to seek a voluntary servitude, whose liberty a free city could not suffer him to enjoy." "Noluit ire voluntariam servitutem, is, cujus libertatem civitas libera ferre non potuit." The peculiar austerity of his life did not render him gloomy and morose, as was too common with the philosophers of those times. In company and conversation he was always gay and facetious, and the sole joy and spirit of the entertainment. Though he was very poor, he took a pleasure in the neatness of his person and house, and could not suffer the ridiculous affectation of Antisthenes, who always wore dirty and ragged clothes. He told him once, that through the holes of his cloak, and the rest of his tatters, abundance of vanity might be discerned. One of the most distinguishing qualities of Socrates, was a tranquillity of sor, that no accident, no loss, no injury, no ill treat 318 THE HISTORY OF SOCRATES. made, whereby, the sooner to retrieve the ruins of the republic, each citizen was to have two wives at the same time, and that Socrates took advantage of this new law. Those authors found this circumstance solely upon a passage in a treatise on nobility, ascribed to Aristotle. THE DÆMON OF SOCRATES. ment, could ever alter. Some have believed, | numbers of the Athenians, a decree was that he was by nature hasty and passionate, and that the moderation to which he had attained, was the object of his reflections and endeavors to subdue and correct himself: which would still add to his merit. Seneca tells us, that he had desired his friends to apprise him, whenever they saw him ready to fall into a passion, and that he had given them that privilege over him, which he himself took with them. Indeed the best time to call in aid against rage and anger, that have so violent and sudden a power over us, is when we are yet ourselves, and in cool blood. At the first signal, the least animadversion, he either softened his tone, or was silent. Finding himself in great emotion against a slave: "I would beat you," said he, "if I were not angry." "Caederum te nisi irascerer." Having received a box on the ear, he contented himself with only saying with a smile, ""Tis a misfortuhe not to know when to put on a helmet." Without going out of his own house, he found enough to exercise his patience t cs full extent. Xantippe, his wife, put it to the severest proofs by her capricious, passionate, and violent disposition. It seems, before he took her for his companion, that he was not ignorant of her character; and he says himself in Xenophon, "that he had expressly chosen her from the conviction, that if he should be capable of bearing her insults, there would be nobody, though ever so difficult to endure, with whom he could not live." Never was woman of so violent and capricious a spirit, and so bad a temper. There was no kind of abuse or injurious treatment which he had not to experience from her. She would sometimes be transported with such an excess of rage, as to tear off his cloak in the open street; and even one day, after having vented all the reproaches her fury could suggest, she emptied a pot upon his head; at which he only laughed and said, "That so much thunder must needs produce a shower." Some ancient authors write, that Socrates married a second wife, named Uryrto, who was the grand-daughter of Aristides the Just; and that he suffered exceedingly from them both, who were continually quarreling with each other, and never agreed but in loading him with reproaches, and doing him all the injury they could invent. They pretend, that during the Peloponnesian war, after the pestilence had swept off great Our knowledge of Socrates would be defective if we knew nothing of the genius, which, he said, had assisted him with its counsel and protection in the greatest part of his actions. It is not agreed among authors what his genius was commonly called. "The Dæmon of Socrates," from the Greek word Aapovov, which signifies something of a divine nature, conceived as a secret voice, a sign, or such an inspiration as diviners are supposed to have had. This genius diverted him from the execution of his designs when they were prejudicial to him, without ever inducing him to act any thing; "Esse divinum quoddam, quod Socrates demonium appellát, cui semper ipse paruetit, nunquam impellenti, sæpe revocanti." Plutarch, in his treatise, entitled "Of the Genius of Socrates," repeats the different opinions of the ancients upon the existence and nature of this genius. I shall confine myself to that one which seems the most natural and reasonable, though he does not lay much stress upon it. We know that the divinity has a clear and unerring knowledge of futurity; that man cannot penetrate into its darkness, but_by uncertain and confused conjectures; that those who succeed best in that research, are they who by a more exact and studied comparison of the different causes capable of influencing future events, distinguish, with greater force and perspicuity, what will be the result and issue of the conflict of those different causes, in conducting to the success or miscarriage of an effect or enterprise. This foresight and discernment has some. thing divine in it, exalts us above the rest of mankind, assimilates us to the divinity, and makes us participate in some measure in his councils and designs by giving us an insight and prescience, to a certain degree, of what he has ordained concerning the fu ture. Socrates had a just and penetrating judgment, joined with the most consummate prudence. He might call this judgment and prudence, Aauovov, "something di EPIGRAMS OF MARTIAL. vine," using indeed a kind of equivocation | unfortunate expedition to Sicily. He attribuin the expression, without attributing to him- ted it to his dæmon, and declared it to be self, however, the merit of his wisdom in the inspiration of that spirit. A wise man, conjecturing upon the future. The Abbé who sees an affair ill concerted, and conducFraguier comes very near the same opinion ted with passion, may easily prophesy upon in the dissertation he has left us upon this the event of it, without the aid of a dæmon's subject, in the Memoirs of the Academy of inspiration. Belles-Lettres. The effect, or rather function of this genius, was to stop and prevent his acting, without ever inducing him to act. He received also the same impulse, when his friends were about to engage in any bad affair, and communicated it to them, and several instances are related, wherein they found themselves very unfortunate from not having believed him. Now, what other signification can be given to this than that, under mysterious terms, it implies a mind which by its own lights, and the knowledge of mankind, has attained a sort of insight into futurity? And if Socrates had not intended to lessen in his own person the merit of unerring judgment, by attributing to it a kind of instinct, if at the bottom he had desired any thing to be understood, besides the general aid of the divine wisdom, which speaks in every man by the voice of reason, would he have escaped, says Xenophon, the censure of arrogance and falsehood? "God has always prevented me from speaking to you," says he to Alcibiades, "while the weakness of your age would have rendered my discourses ineffectual to you. But I conceive I may now enter into dispute with you, as an ambitious young man, to whom the laws open a way to the Is it not here evidignity of the republic." dent, that prudence prevented Socrates from treating Alcibiades seriously, at a time when grave and severe conversation would have created in him a disgust, of which perhaps he might never have got the better? And when, in his dialogue upon the commonwealth, Socrates ascribes his avoiding public business to inspiration from above, does he mean any thing more than what he says in his apology, "that a just and good man who intermeddles with the government in a corrupt state, is not long without perishing?" If, when he appeared before the judges who were to condemn him, that divine voice was not heard to prevent him, as it was usually upon dangerous occasions, the reason is, that he did not deem it a misfortune for him to die, especially at his age, and in his circumstances. It is well known what his prognostication had been long before, upon the CHARLES ROLLIN. EPIGRAMS OF MARTIAL. [M. VALERIUS MARTIALIS, a famous epigrammatic They poet, born in Spain, A. D. 43, but removed to Rome at XII. ON REGULUS. On Tibur's road to where Alcides towers, |